At ten a.m. on Saturday, my phone buzzed.

The message from Tristan read:

I’d thrown some things in a bag the previous night, anticipating his text. No part of me wanted to keep Tristan waiting, which was a purely selfish impulse. Because the truth was that I was the one who couldn’t wait.

I grabbed the bag and dashed out of my room.

Marcus’ door was closed, which meant that he was either still asleep or already gone for the day. Either way, I was relieved not to have to remind him where I was going, in case he’d changed his mind and decided it wasn’t such a great idea after all.

When I pushed the building’s front door open, a red convertible was waiting for me on the street beyond. The sight of Tristan leaning back against it, arms crossed, drew a loud laugh out of my chest.

“Oh, man! My hair will love this,” I told him as I ran a hand through the thick brown strands that fell about my shoulders.

“Excellent. I love the idea of that mane of yours getting messed,” he replied, strolling over to climb into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t kiss me, of course. For all our quick moments of intimacy, our lips had still never met. God forbid that we should try to turn this volatile emotional stew of ours into an actual adult relationship.

I slipped into the passenger’s seat, aware of my bare knees and exposed thighs as my skirt slipped up, but grateful to have shaved diligently the previous night.

Tristan was aware of my bare skin too, apparently. Once he’d pulled the car into traffic, he reached a hand over and slipped it between my thighs, sending a pulse straight to my clit. Fuck, it felt good to be touched so unapologetically. His unflinching possessiveness over my body was the sexiest characteristic I’d ever seen in a man.

It was also the most dangerous.

“Forgive me,” he said, staring straight ahead from behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. “I can’t resist touching this beautiful skin of yours.”

“You flatter me.”

“No flattery involved. It’s pure selfishness on my part. I want to get my mouth on you again, and this is the next best thing.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’ll take it.”

We drove for some time, chatting a little about topics like my childhood, the town where my sister and I were raised. I kept the details limited. As I’d told Marcus, I didn’t know Tristan well enough yet to recount any details about my sister, or other tales of my sordid past.

I also neglected to tell him when I’d left home, or why. Much as I was tempted to tell him about the emotional turmoil of my former life, I needed to keep a few secrets from him, at least until he’d revealed one or two of his own.

To his credit, he didn’t push. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my life. So I painted an idyllic picture of my youth, of the days before my father died. It actually felt kind of nice to talk about the last time I could remember being truly happy.

“What exactly is our destination?” I asked after a time, wanting to change the subject before things grew too intense. “All I can really tell was that we’re headed due north.”

“First, a small airfield,” he said. “Then somewhere quite far away.”

I tightened at the words. An airfield meant a plane. I hadn’t woken up this morning expecting to fly. Planes terrified me almost as much as Tristan did.

“Wait, what? I didn’t bring a passport,” I said. “You didn’t mention that we were going to…” Paris? London? Where the hell was he actually taking me?

“You won’t need it,” he told me. “We’re remaining inside the United States.”

I had to admit, my interest was seriously piqued. “Okay, but you’re still not going to tell me anything?”

He shook his head. “Don’t want to spoil it.”

I tried not to guess and ruin it for myself, even though I wasn’t good at spontaneity. Particularly when it came to finding myself stuck somewhere with no means of escape.

But this kind of surprise? This I could probably get used to, with a little practice.

“I’m not sure what we’re going to do once we get to our mystery destination,” I said, “but I don’t have a lot of clothes with me. I sort of pictured us romping around outside, maybe going for dinner…”

“Whatever you brought will be fine,” he said, digging his fingers into my thigh just enough to remind me what we’d probably be doing later on. “Though to be honest, I’d prefer you in nothing at all.”

“That can probably be arranged,” I replied, though I regretted it immediately. We were still in limbo, Tristan and I. I didn’t know what this was—this weird, potentially destructive relationship of ours. Were we lovers?

Boyfriend and girlfriend?

Hell, no. Definitely not that. The title of boyfriend was far too innocent-sounding for a man like Tristan. He was too experienced, too savvy and sensual a man to warrant one shred of naiveté. The most I could probably hope for was to make him my temporary lover.

“What were you like as a kid?” I asked after a momentary silence, trying once again to steer the subject away from what was going on in my head.

He turned and grinned at me for a moment before turning his eyes back to the road. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

“I would, actually.”

“I was fairly happy,” he replied with a quick shrug. “Right up until…” But with those words, he stopped talking, his jaw setting in a sudden frown like I’d hit a nerve that stung him to the core.

Interesting. It seemed I was’t the only person in this car with a past.

“Until?”

“Until I wasn’t,” he said. “Don’t ask me anything more. Not now.”

“All right,” I said, turning to stare out the window at the property we were passing. It hurt to be shut down so abruptly. But it made me angry too—more at myself than at him. What had I been thinking when I’d said yes to this weekend? I’d willingly climbed into a car with a man who was all walls and coldness, and now I was about to get onto a plane with him. I should have known that this would be a difficult outing, at best.

At worst? It would be a nightmare.

I supposed I should have asked him to turn us around, to take me home. This whole thing was probably a mistake. One of us would end the weekend hurt, and I was willing to bet all my meager savings that it wouldn’t be Tristan.

But I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t ask him to abort our foolhardy mission.

Maybe it was curiosity that made me determined to see it through. Or maybe it was masochism.

Or stupidity.

Whatever it was, it was pulling me in. Chaining me to Tristan, heart first, like someone who’d become enslaved by my own lust.

The truth was, I wanted him to care about me. I wanted him to need me, to crave my affection.

Just as I was beginning to crave his.