His fingers spasmed. His body weight landed on mine. “Get it over with?”

“Yes. I want you to fuck me then leave me alone.”

A slight groan fell from his lips. “You can’t say things like that on an empty street.”

“Why not? I would’ve thought empty would be preferable to busy. No one is here to watch.”

He shook his head, dark hair dancing over his forehead. “Busy means I’m forced to keep my hands to myself.” He yanked me close, dropping his fingers from my neck to my breast while his left arm looped around my waist.

The soft thud of the bag holding the sex toy samples landed on the sidewalk as his hand massaged my flesh, his thumb and finger pinching my nipple. “An empty street means I could turn you around, hoist up your skirt, and sink inside you without being seen.”

I shivered.

It sounded so wrong.

It sounded so good.

Forcing myself to remain sane, I looked up at the buildings all around us. The faint glow of families and the shadows of activities moved subtly above. “We’d be seen, regardless if we saw them or not.”

He followed my gaze, his throat exposed as his head tipped up. His fingers twitched on my breast. “You’re right.”

His touch fell away as he took a step back. “Pity.”

Collecting the bag again, he slipped back into a prowl, dragging me with him.

* * * * *

“You live here?”

He nodded as he pulled a key from his pocket.

“As in the whole building?” I looked up at the mini skyscraper with its high sash windows and faded duck-egg blue exterior.

“It needs work, but that’s why I bought it.” He unlocked the ancient doorknob and pulled me into a foyer with art deco tiles, a square chandelier, and peeling wallpaper. The ceiling soared at least four stories above us with a double width staircase curling up in a spiral to multiple floors.

“Wow.”

He let me go, moving toward the wall where the flick of a bronze light switch magically graced the place with illumination. The soft click woke up countless light bulbs, glittering with dust and weathered with time.

“Like I said, a work in progress.” Once again, he captured my wrist, carting me up the stairs. He didn’t give me a chance to marvel at the original craftsmanship or question how long he’d been the owner.

It was as if the building didn’t exist to him. As if the only thing that mattered to him was me.

I didn’t speak as we made our way up and up. He didn’t stop on floor two or three or four. He kept tugging me higher until we entered floor ten or eleven and unlocked yet another door in the dingy moth-nibbled hallway.

It was like stepping into a different world.

We’d headed through a time capsule and entered a resplendent suite of art deco charm, 1930’s decoration, and immaculate presentation.

My mouth fell open as I drifted forward. “This—this is incredible.”

“Of course, it is. It’s mine.” He locked the door behind him then strode through the space. “Just like you.” His jaw tightened beneath his five o’clock shadow. “I only own incredible things.”

My heart lurched rather than my body.

Was that an odd compliment? A nod that he did care for me beyond physical gratification?

Don’t be absurd. Your heart is wrong. It’s on a sabbatical, researching myths on love and finding no solid proof it exists.

Penn was everything poems and fables promised. If it wasn’t for the brooding anger or taut protection he sheltered behind, of course.

If only I could make him swallow a truth serum and tear out answers—reveal just how shallow or deep he ran.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I expected him to fit in with this space, to feel at home and move freely, yet something didn’t sit right. He kicked off his shoes and padded barefoot over polished mosaic wood floors, but something was missing. He wasn’t at ease. He moved as if this was as foreign and new to him as it was to me.

Why is that?

“How long ago did you move in?” I kicked off my heels, placing them by the kitchen island.

Penn smiled. “You’re asking questions?”

“Is that against the rules?”

He paused; something flickered over his face that I couldn’t decipher. “Some aren’t. Others are.”

The crypticness gave me a headache. “So you can’t tell me how long you’ve lived here?”

“You overheard part of what I told your father at the Weeping Willow. I’ve moved back to town recently. So if you believe that, then you’ll believe that this is a new purchase.”

“Why do I need to believe something if it’s true?”

He didn’t reply.

I pushed with another question. “You said your benefactor was sick. That you returned for him. Is he okay?”

A softness flowed over him—something so unexpected and endearing to see. Whoever his benefactor was, he cared for him a lot more than he would admit. “He’s fine now. It was a rare form of blood cancer. They have it under control.”

“That’s good.”

“It is.”

The conversation stalled. Awkwardness settled like a third wheel. I felt responsible. Before, our silence had been potent with desire. Now, it hung heavy with confusion.

Why did I care about him, this building, and whoever his mystery benefactor was?

I’m here for one thing only.

Same thing as he was.