I’m trying really hard not to scream and run, and I can’t take my eyes off the black duffel Zach just slung over his shoulder.

When he stands to the side, I slide out, holding onto the door handle to take the giant step to the ground. I reach back in for my purse, but his big hand falls on my shoulder to stop me.

“You won’t need that,” he says.

I glance at his hand, feel its weight, its power, and it takes me a moment to turn and face him.

“I’ll lock the car, and I’ve got the key code right here. That Miranda’s efficient, isn’t she?”

I can’t speak, but I don’t think he’s expecting an answer. He slams the door shut, locks it, and heads up to the house. I look at him, at his powerful back, thick, strong legs, and I look around me. We’re all alone out here, in the middle of nowhere. Devon may know where I am, but that’s not going to do me a whole lot of good. Not if Zach decides to hurt me. Not until after it’s too late.

He said he wouldn’t hurt me though. I have to believe that. And I was being honest when I said I was glad he was alive. He’s here for answers, but what happened that night, it wasn’t supposed to go down that way. My own brother betrayed me. Does he know that, though? Or does he think I was part of the conspiracy?

But maybe he’s not here for answers at all. Maybe he’s here to collect? Because that night, the auction turned into something different than it was meant to be, than I thought it would be. And maybe he’s here to collect on what he bought that night.

“Coming?” he asks without looking back.

I follow his path to the front door. The owner of the property died about a year ago and the house has been on the market that long. His kids, all adults now, inherited it, and don’t want to lower the price, but they’re asking too much considering the location and the condition of the place.

When I climb the porch steps, Zach has already punched in the code to open the lockbox, and he’s retrieved the key. He slides it into the lock and a moment later, pushes the door open.

“You really should send a cleaning crew out here,” he says as he steps in and holds the door open for me. “It’s not going to sell for half the asking price looking like this.”

I take a deep breath as I stand on the threshold.

“Eve,” he says.

I know once I enter the house, he can do whatever he wants to me.

No. That’s not true.

He can easily grab me and drag me in, even if I don’t willingly take that step.

“I’m losing patience,” he adds when I still don’t move.

I take a deep breath and step inside. He closes the door behind me.

He’s right. We should send a cleaner to the house.

Turning his back, he walks through the downstairs rooms: large kitchen, living room, a study and a spacious dining room. He chooses the dining room to set down his duffel bag. Most of the furniture has been sold off, but there are a few pieces remaining—an old sideboard and two chairs. He chooses a straight-back wooden chair and sets it in the middle of the room then turns to me.

“Show me around.”

“What?”

“The house. Show me the house.”

“Is that…I don’t understand. That’s why you’re here?”

“Don’t be stupid, Eve.”

I don’t understand what he wants, but I turn and begin to take him on a tour through the house. This is good, it will give me time to think, and it’s familiar. Something I can control. But that control feels like a reprieve. And I know it’s temporary.

“The room has been partially renovated, but the original…” I hear myself talking, but I’m on autopilot. All I can feel is him following behind me, too close for comfort. I’m not sure if he’s listening to a word I’m saying. All I can think about is him here with me. Us, in this house, alone. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off his body and even as warm as it is in the house, I have goosebumps all along my arms.

As we climb the stairs, when I place one hand on the banister, he does the same, his hand touching mine for a moment before I pull away.

“Am I making you nervous?” he asks from so near, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“No,” I say weakly, but just as I take the next step, the old, rotting wood gives way and I let out a surprised scream, throwing my arms out in front of me to break my fall.

But they never touch down because, like lightning, Zach’s arm wraps around my middle and pulls me backward into him. I’m breathing hard, and he’s holding me against his chest. His arm is wrapped tightly around me and even after he’s steadied me, he doesn’t let me go.

I can feel his body behind mine, the muscles of his chest, the power in his big arms. He’s warm, his breath tickling my neck, and I remember that last night. Remember the look on his face when Armen, my own brother, did something I still can’t believe he did. When he betrayed me. I remember looking over the room crowded with men, dangerous men, most with scarves covering half their faces. Remember the guns slung over their shoulders.

Remember the absolute absence of women.

I don’t know how I found Zach among the men. Maybe it was his blue eyes. Maybe it was the difference inside them compared to the lecherous, savage leers of the others. Even with half his face concealed beneath the scarf, I’d found him and locked my eyes on his. It’s what had kept me upright.

When my brother started the bidding, the others—all those men—they’d gone insane. Like hungry animals coming upon their first meal.

And I was that meal.

I’d seen the surprise in Zach’s eyes at this turn of events. I wonder now if that was the moment he knew something had gone wrong. Wonder if he hadn’t been busy trying to save me, if he would have been prepared for what happened next.

“The house is old, Eve. You need to be careful,” he says from behind me, interrupting the memory. He hasn’t let me go yet though, and I turn my face a little so I can see him from the corner of one eye.

“Thank you,” I say.

He releases me and it takes me a minute to compose myself, adjusting my skirt, my hand trembling as I reach out to grip the railing. I’m dripping with sweat now but it’s not the heat of the house causing it. It’s him.

“There are three bedrooms upstairs,” I carry on, telling myself he can’t hear how my voice is shaking.

He follows me through each one of the bedrooms as well as the bathroom and when we’re done upstairs, I begin to head down, paying extra attention on each step. Some part of me wants him to hold me again, to forgive me. I can’t understand why that need is so powerful. But there’s another part too, and that part is afraid. Afraid of him. Of what he thinks I’ve done. What his state of mind is. Why he’s here under an alias.

Once we’re back in the dining room, he goes to his duffel bag and unzips it. I stand there awkwardly and hug my arms around my middle, glancing once at the front door just a few feet away. He doesn’t seem to be worried I’ll try to run. I guess he knows he can catch me anyway.

“Have a seat,” he says as he turns his back to me. He takes out two thick, worn folders from the duffel.

My legs are leaden as I move toward the chair he set out earlier and obey, sitting down, trying to force myself to look at him.

He faces me, and he must feel my discomfort. But instead he lets silence hang between us for what seems like an eternity, just standing there, leaning against the sideboard, arms folded across his chest, watching me.

“I didn’t do my homework with you,” he says, finally. “But even if I had, I don’t think I would have heeded the warnings.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who you are. What you want. Why you turned on your own brother and became an informant for the US military. Why you then betrayed us.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t betray you. I didn’t mean to.”

“Tell that to the six men who lost their lives because of you.”

“I—”

“I would have believed you were innocent if you’d died that night,” he says. “I thought when Armen pulled you up onto that block, when he ripped off your clothes—I thought he’d betrayed you.”

I feel my face heat at the memory. I’d stood there naked, or nearly so, with more than two dozen men to see me like that. My brother had done that to me. My own brother.

But hadn’t I betrayed him too?

And then there was Malik. He’d been playing us all along.

“But when I found out you were alive—alive and well—in the States, living under an alias, a new life? Well, you can imagine I have a hard time believing it wasn’t all a setup to get me and my men out of the way.”

I have no response for him. How can I make him believe anything I say anyway? He’s right, the evidence to the contrary is here, right before his eyes. Me. Eve Adams. Alive and well.

He studies me. “Was this your payoff?” he asks, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a passport. He opens it to the first page. It’s mine. “I really didn’t realize you wanted to come to the States. You were that good.”

“Where did you get that?”

“Your underwear drawer. I like the lace, by the way.” He shifts his attention to the passport and begins reading the information there. “El-Amin is better than Adams, though.” He glances up at me. “I mean, Adams? Where’s the intrigue? And you, Eve, are a woman with intrigue.”

“That’s mine.” I get to my feet, but he ignores me.

“The El-Amin name was well known throughout the Middle East. Here, you’re a nobody.”

“Give it to me.”

“Born in Idaho.” He sniggers. “Now that’s a stretch.”

I lunge at him, wanting to snatch my passport out of his hands, but he catches me, holding me just out of reach as he continues to read.

“Twenty-two. Your birthday’s coming up, if that’s the real date?”

“Give me that!”

He shifts his gaze to me and for a moment, I go still. But then he waves the passport up high in the air.

“Are you going to take it from me?” he asks.

I jump to do just that, but he’s holding it just out of reach and he’s still got one of my arms in his viselike grip.

“You have no right to it,” I say.

“It’s not even a good one, really,” he says, his attention back on the little blue book.

“What?”

“Is it hard to keep the accent out of your voice? Day in and day out? To pretend you’re someone you’re not?”

“What about you? Michael Beckham?”

He tucks the passport back into his pocket, takes hold of my other arm and draws me to him so my chest is touching his and he’s squeezing both arms. His eyes burn into mine and his face is hard again.

He’s serious.

Dead serious.

“Six of my men died that night.”

My eyes warm with tears.

“Six lives lost. Some with families of their own. Young kids. One soldier had never even seen his baby girl.”

“I didn’t mean to…” I start, but trail off, unsure what to say.

“But you did,” he finishes my sentence.

“I never intended—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what you intended!”

After his roar, there’s a moment of utter stillness. Then the first tear slides down my cheek and all of a sudden, it’s like all the anger, the aggression, the noise of the moment before, stops. It’s suspended as he watches that single drop progress down my face and disappear. He searches my eyes as if he’s trying to find the truth.

“I bought you that night,” he says, his voice low, even more dangerous than when he yelled. Suddenly, everything about him is different, like he’s someone else. Like something dark just crept into this room and slithered into his body, his head. Something powerful and alive and deadly.

His gaze sweeps down to my breasts. Shame heats my blood and I feel my face burn red, and when he meets my stare again, his eyes are on fire.

Zach doesn’t let me go but he watches me closely, and under his scrutiny, I feel like I’ll collapse. Like my knees will give out if he lets me go. Slowly, very slowly, I watch him take control again, subdue that savage beast inside him. The wild one. The one I remember glimpsing before.

The one that frightened me.

Excited me.

Made me want.

“When your brother put you on that block, that was the distraction, wasn’t it? Did you agree to be stripped naked?”

It takes me a minute. I’m not following him, but then I get it. He thinks I was in on it. That it was my plan.

I shake my head. “No.”

“He stood you naked in front of a roomful of men. He offered your body to the highest bidder.”

“Stop,” I say, feeling my face crumple.

“He was about to sell your virginity.”

I just shake my head no.

“Were you willing to go that far?”

“I—”

“Did you know? Was it part of the plan?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker,” he says, sadness seeping into the beautiful blue of his eyes momentarily before accusation sets in, darkening them, stealing their brightness.

I look to my feet, to the dusty old floor we’re standing on. I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me like this and I don’t want to—no, I can’t— take the accusation in his eyes. “It wasn’t my plan,” I say weakly. “I swear, Zach, I didn’t know he’d do that.”

It takes me a long time to face him and when I do, I know he doesn’t believe me.

“I fell for your innocent act before,” he says flatly.

“I swear—”

“Then how the fuck are you alive?”

He gives me a hard shake.

“You’re hurting me!”

But he talks over me like he’s not listening at all. “How?” he says and his grip tightens. “Tell me how!”

“Please!”

His lips stretch into a narrow line and his throat works to swallow, but he doesn’t let up. Instead, he slams my back against the wall and I scream. “Tell me!” It’s a roar that demands an answer, one I don’t have.

Something happens then. A thought. I know it’s not true—I know him—I know he would never do that. But it gets the best of me and I think about the auction. About the fact that, like the others, he bid. On me. On my body. My virginity.

“Let me go.”

He doesn’t.

I struggle against him, but it’s useless. He can do whatever he wants to me. Anything at all. I don’t stand a chance against him physically.

“Please!” Still, nothing. “Are you here to collect? Is that it?” I ask. My voice is loud, hysterical—or on the edge of hysteria. I can’t help it. I’m scared. He’s unhinged, he’s not the man I remember—the one always in control. Always in charge. Determined.

No, he’s still that last one. Determined. Very much so.

It’s that determination that scared the hell out of me.

“Is that what you want?” I ask again. “The thing you think you bought?” I have to say the words, but it makes me want to vomit. “My body?”

I don’t know if it’s spelling it out like that or the tears streaming down my cheeks, but he blinks twice and a moment later, releases me and turns away. He’s leaning against the sideboard and I can hear him breathing hard. His heart must be going a hundred miles a minute.

“Six men died because they trusted me.” His back is still to me and his voice sounds different, hard still, but blacker. Guilt-ridden.

I don’t have anything to say. It’s not an apology he wants. It’s revenge. But it’s not me he should be seeking it from.

He starts to gather up the folders he’d taken out of that duffel bag and puts everything away. I stand there watching him, watching his back as he works. He’s in pain, I see it. I feel it. And I want to touch him, lay a hand on his shoulder and tell him it wasn’t his fault. That there’s only one man to blame, and it’s not him. But I can’t.

He zips the duffel. “Let’s go.” Without looking at me, he slings the bag onto his shoulder and walks toward the front door.

Is that it? He’s finished with me? I don’t understand, and I’m still standing there when he’s opened the front door.

“Eve,” he calls.

His deep voice reverberates through me, making me shudder. I shake my head once, confused, but I follow him out of the house. He locks it behind us and this time, he doesn’t wait by the passenger side door, but climbs into the driver’s seat and he’s already started the truck by the time I climb in. He’s driving back to the city, but he’s not heading to the office.

“Where are we going?” I finally ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, in fact, he only answers once he’s pulled into the parking lot of a bar that’s open before lunchtime. He parks, kills the engine and turns to me. “I need a drink,” he says.

He pulls the keys out of the ignition, opens the door and gets out. He’s messed up, I can see it. He’s not the man who sat so confidently in the conference room this morning. Maybe he didn’t expect what happened today to go down like it did. Maybe he just expected to ask his questions, demand answers, maybe punish me for my role.

“Zach?” I say when he turns away. It’s like he’s forgotten I’m still sitting there.

He faces me, but he’s a thousand miles away.

“Are you…okay?”

He snorts at that, pausing for a second, and he almost replies, but decides not to. Instead he walks away, closing the driver’s side door, leaving me alone in his truck. I watch him disappear into the rundown bar and I sit there for a minute, confused, then open the glove compartment and take out my phone. I’m about twenty minutes from the office. I arrange for a ride with Uber, not sure if he’s going to come out and drag me into the bar or what. But nothing happens as I gather my things and climb out, and when the Uber driver gets there, I get into his car. Zach doesn’t reappear, and I’m soon back at the office.

I make an excuse to Devon that Michael didn’t feel well and have to catch myself when I almost call him Zach and not Michael. Devon’s disappointed and I’m not sure why I lied to protect Zach, but I did. I spend the rest of the day in a daze trying to figure out what the hell happened. He still has my passport, but I have a feeling today won’t be the last time I’ll see him.

* * *

I have a dinner meeting that night and am anxious throughout. Seeing Zach Amado alive, the way I did, the way he came back, is messing with me. He’s unpredictable and I don’t know what to expect, what he’ll do. But I’m also curious about him and as much as I know the best—safest—thing for me to do would be to see him gone, I don’t want him to go. I want to talk to him. I want to explain. I don’t want him to hate me, but I know that’s selfish. I didn’t know what would happen that night. It wasn’t my intention for his men to get hurt. To die.

That doesn’t mean anything, and you know it.

I do. Because they did die.

I thought they’d capture Malik. I thought I could free my brother.

“Eve?”

I blink. It’s Devon.

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m not quite myself today.”

“I can wrap up here, why don’t you go home and get some rest?” he says, excusing me from the dinner meeting.

“If you don’t mind, I would appreciate that.”

“Go. Check in with me tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Devon.”

I’m anxious when I arrive home, but don’t see the truck anywhere on my street. I’m not sure if it’s disappointment or relief I feel. It’s dark as I walk up the drive and get inside. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, honestly, but the house is empty. He isn’t here. Did I think he would be? Did I want him to be?

It’s hot inside, the windows have been closed up all day, but I don’t like running the AC—it’s too dry as it is here—so I open the windows instead. Denver cools down in the evenings anyway, but this summer has been weird. Global warming, I guess.

The house is small, just a single bedroom, a reasonably-sized living room and a kitchen with a breakfast nook. I like it though. I like small and cozy, and the backyard is great. Completely private. I rent the place from Devon, actually. It’s how I met him and eventually got the job at the office.

In the bedroom, I strip off my suit and hang it up, then make my way into the bathroom for a cool shower. My hair is so thick, I have to wash it at night for it to be dry by morning. I’m not about to blowdry it in this heat and don’t like spending time on styling it anyway.

Once I’m done, I switch off the water and push the curtain aside to grab a towel off the rack. I squeeze the moisture from my hair, wrap the towel around my body and step into the hallway.

A gasp catches in my throat when I do, and I stop dead in my tracks. He’s here. He’s sitting in the middle of my couch, legs spread wide, one arm resting over the back of the sofa, the other holding a beer. I hadn’t switched on any lamps, so I only see him from the light of the bathroom and I can’t quite make out his eyes.

“How did you get in here?”

He reaches out to switch on a lamp. It’s dim though, and casts an eerie glow on his face. He only answers me after taking a long drag of beer. “Front door.”

“I locked it.” I know it’s stupid as I say it. He’s been inside before. He’s been coming and going for I don’t know how long. He took my passport. He’s been through my things.

“I already told you that you need better locks.” He drains his beer and sets the empty bottle down on the coffee table before standing.

I swallow as he rises to his full height, everything looking almost comically miniature around him. He’s too big for this house and when he moves around the coffee table, I think he’s going to stub his shin, but he sidesteps it. He moves quietly, stealthily. It’s the military training he’s had. He was taught to move like a ghost. His eyes are set on me as he makes his way down the hallway. I clutch the towel tight to my chest and take a step backward, but my back hits the wall. He only stops when he’s a few inches from me.

“Have you been drinking all day?” I ask, craning my neck to look up at him. He’s a foot taller than me and I’m not wearing shoes, so I feel even smaller. More vulnerable.

He searches my face, then his eyes drop to my chest, moving up to my mouth before returning to meet my stare.

“You look good. The same.”

He’s drunk. He has to be. “What are you doing here?”

He looks me over again, and he’s too close. But when I try to scoot away, he puts one hand on the wall beside my head so I can’t.

“We have unfinished business,” he says. He doesn’t slur his words. He’s so big that maybe he just doesn’t get drunk no matter how much he drinks. His eyes have a look inside them that unnerves me. That makes my belly feel funny. Makes me very aware the only thing between us is the towel I’m holding. All it would take would be one tug from him, and…

“Zach?” I say, before I go down that road.

“Eve,” he replies, his voice a deep contrast to mine.

We stay like that a little longer, neither of us saying another word. He leans in closer, too close, our faces almost touching.

“You better go put some clothes on,” he says in a low rumble, but makes no move to release me from the cage he’s made with his body. I just stare up at him, my heart pounding so hard, I can hear the blood and adrenaline pumping through me.

Then, as quietly as he’d crowded me, he steps back. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding, and I notice he’s not wearing the dress shirt he had on earlier. He’s wearing a black T-shirt which he’s pulling over his head. I stand there watching, my mouth dry. He doesn’t make a move to shield himself from me. My gaze travels over his torso, thick and muscular, one half of him tattooed, the other…

Oh my God, the other half.

His skin, it’s badly damaged. Monstrous, almost. Burned flesh healed into bumpy, hideous scar tissue.

I remember what he asked me earlier today. If I knew what it felt like to have fire lick your skin. If I had ever smelled human flesh burn. How much pain had he been in? How had he survived at all?

As if he’s given me all he’s willing to share, he walks into the bathroom.

And…I gasp in shock at what I see there. My stomach turns. My hand moves to cover my mouth.

I didn’t think anything could be worse than what I saw on the front of his body, but what’s on his back makes the front pale in comparison. Partially burned flesh gives way to tattoos. More of them. Words this time. Words inked in a neat script.

Names.

Names I know.

He switches on the shower and when he turns to face me, he looks stone-cold sober.

“You going to join me?” he asks in that rumble of his, reaching to unbutton his pants.

My eyes drop to his hand as he unzips and I quickly shake myself out of it. Force my gaze back up to his.

He gives me a grin. No, it’s more of a smirk. Then he raises his eyebrows as if still waiting for an answer. I quickly turn away and practically run to my bedroom, hearing his laughter behind me before I slam the bedroom door shut and stand with my forehead leaning against it, trying to catch my breath.

His back. What I saw there, it’s a graveyard. The names of his men, those who died that night. Six rows of ink immortalizing his friends.

All those names.

All those lives.

My heart is racing and I think I’m going to be sick, but I force myself to take deep breaths in. Tell myself to calm down. I knew the past would catch up with me, didn’t I? All along, didn’t I know it? Here it is. In my house. Having a shower.

Hurrying, I put on my pajamas—a pair of shorts and a tank top which seem entirely inappropriate now that he’s here. But before I can think, I hear the shower switch off.

There’s no lock on my bedroom door, but even if there were, he’d probably have the key. I consider calling the police. Calling Devon. But my cell phone is in the living room and besides, how would I explain this?

“Knock-knock,” Zach says just before opening the bedroom door.

I stare at him like a deer in headlights, frozen to the spot, not sure what to say, to do. Not sure about anything at all.

His hair is wet and all he’s wearing is a towel slung low on his hips. He’s dripping water on the hardwood floors, but I know he doesn’t care.

He looks me over, but his expression doesn’t change and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“What do you want with me?” I ask stupidly.

He walks into the room and I instinctively back up when he approaches me. One side of his mouth curves upward and when he stops, he’s so close that water drips off his hair and onto my shoulder. What I see in his eyes makes my mouth go dry.

Desire. Want. Need. Lust. All those things are there, and some part of me shares those things. Those feelings.

Only there’s one difference.

In his eyes, fear is absent. And I do feel afraid. This man whom I once trusted with my life scares the crap out of me right now.

“I bought you,” he whispers.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. And the sound of blood pumping through my veins, pulsing inside my ears, is almost louder than his words.

“To save you from all those men.”

I don’t know if I’m disappointed by that.

“I wanted to kill him when he stripped you,” he continues.

I’m breathing again, short and choppy. His chest touches mine with every inhale he takes, and I can smell alcohol on his breath.

“If he hadn’t pulled you up on that stage, everything would have been different. We would have attacked.”

I know that. I know.

“But he did, and I failed to give the signal. And then there was the explosion and I thought you died anyway.”

“Zach—” I reach out a hand and touch his face, but he gives a shake of his head. My hand drops when he steps back and when he looks at me again, his eyes have gone hard.

“Get on the bed, Eve.”

I shrink backward, not sure I’ve heard correctly.

“Don’t stand there like you don’t hear me. Get on the goddamned bed.”

I’m trembling as I slide along the wall and to the bed. My hand shakes when I reach out to find the headboard. My belly heaves like I’m on a roller coaster. Never taking my eyes off him, I sit, hearing the familiar creak of the old box spring.

“Lie down.” He’s watching me, but he hasn’t moved any closer.

“Why?” I ask and my voice breaks. Every hair on my body is standing on end.

“Because I’m fucking drunk and I need to get some sleep.”

I wait.

He understands my hesitation, what I’m thinking.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to collect on that night,” he says.

I exhale.

“Not now,” he adds.

I swallow, unable to speak. He’s staying here. With me. In my bed. It goes without saying. I draw back the blankets and lie down, my eyes never leaving his.

“I know you sleep on the other side, Eve.”

God. He’s been here when I was sleeping?

I scoot to my side and he nods, then takes a step toward the bed, sits, lies down. His weight has me rolling toward him—the mattress is old and I never bought a new one. He stretches out and turns to me before I have a chance to pull away so we’re lying on our sides, eye to eye for the first time. Neither of us speaks. I look at his face. Rugged, good-looking. Rough. Like he’s been through hell and back. And I guess he has.

“How did you survive?” I ask in a quiet voice.

“Local doctor found me. Carried me to his home. Took care of me. Hid me.”

For the first time, I reach out a hand and touch the scar on his face, the one that splits his eyebrow in half, then put my hand on his shoulder, on the bumpy skin. He tenses, but a moment later relaxes, and he doesn’t even blink. He lets me feel it, lets me run my fingertips over scar tissue, but when I reach his hand, he abruptly catches my wrist.

I gasp and we lie there for a minute, my heart racing, his eyes dark and intense. He then rolls me over so my back is to him and draws me into his chest. He’s still got my wrist and he keeps hold of it, his arm heavy across my middle. I feel him at my back then—feel his hardness—and I realize he’s naked. He’d only had on a towel and it must have fallen away because now he’s naked behind me. His thick cock is pressing against my ass, my lower back.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers huskily, his voice hoarse. “I told you I won’t collect. Not tonight.”