Elio slows the vehicle and turns off on a small unmarked road before town. I wonder where we’re going, but I don’t ask because I’m pretty sure it’s to his place. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, he’ll find a reason to drive me home, and I don’t want that. I don’t know where we go from here, but all the feelings I’ve harbored for him in the past are still present, and they’re still just as overwhelming as they ever were.

He pulls up to a small, slate gray house. The porch light is on. There are flowers in the garden beds, and discarded toys litter the lawn. I smooth my hands over my dress, but I don’t look at him. I’m afraid he’ll see the desperation in my eyes and take me home. Worse still, I’m afraid he won’t, and we’ll wind up doing something stupid that we can’t come back from. “Where are we?”

“Home.”

I close my eyes and attempt to tamp down the thrill that runs through me at hearing that word coming from his lips. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you haven’t eaten, and I haven’t eaten, and I’m not ready to take you back to your apartment.”

“Elio . . .”

“Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, my stomach growls. I consider telling him I’m not, but what’s the point in lying? Miscommunication hasn’t done either of us any good so far. “I could eat.”

He grins and unbuckles his belt, opening the car door and climbing out while I sit perfectly still in my seat and try to remember how to breathe. Elio opens Coco’s door and lifts her from her car seat, carrying her toward the house. Eventually, I vacate the vehicle and hurry behind him up the porch stairs.

Once inside, Elio whispers that I should make myself at home while he takes Coco up to bed.

I glance around the foyer and move farther into his home. His furniture is an odd mix of rustic woods and vintage hipster, and there are books absolutely everywhere. It’s like a library for the dastardly hip, yet I still see him in every furnishing, every painting on the wall and every knickknack on the TV stand.

I stroll around the room and peruse the shelves, picking up a copy of The Brothers Karamazov. My heart trips all over itself. He took it home. He keeps the copy I bought him here in his house. I flick through the yellowed, dog-eared pages and then bring the book to my nose, smelling ink and paper, and all the reasons Elio prefers books over a Kindle.

This is how he finds me, in his living room with my nose inhaling the book like a pothead smells cannabis.

“I was just . . . um . . .”

“Smelling Dostoyevsky?”

“I was seeing if you were right. If you really can’t improve on perfection.”

“And what did you decide?”

“That you’re pretty smart.”

Elio’s smile is smug as he takes the book from my hands. He leans against the bookshelf, penning me in. “Romy?”

“Yes,” I say with conviction, because I would do anything he asked.

“Yes?” he asks with a quizzical expression.

“Whatever it is, yes.”

“What if I said I want to show you my big . . .”

My breath catches.

Elio licks his lips, and he grins. “Kitchen.”

I frown and whack him on the arm as his deep, throaty laughter fills the room around us. He pulls me close and hugs me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head as his laughter shakes his body. “Come on. Clearly you’re too hangry to see how hilarious I am.”

I roll my eyes and reluctantly follow him into the kitchen.

He’s right; it is big. Huge, in fact. It’s rustic, with exposed beams and acid-polished concrete floors. There’s a large dining table made from what looks like reclaimed barn beams, with long bench seats on either side just beyond the kitchen island, and more counter space than I’ve ever seen. The lighting is low and dim. It’s the kind of kitchen you could make love in, and I’m not entirely sure he didn’t bring me in here for just that when I glance back and find him watching me.

I inhale sharply. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. It is big.”

Elio’s mouth tips up in a smile. He mutters something that sounds like, “And getting bigger by the second,” but I may have just imagined that.

“Okay. What are you in the mood for?”

You. “What are you good at?”

“Everything,” he says with an eyebrow raised.

I don’t doubt that at all. Not one bit. “Then make me whatever you like.”

With another salacious grin, Elio gets to work grabbing ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry. “Take a seat,” he says when he turns and almost collides with me in front of the sink.

“You don’t want me to help?”

“No, I want to cook for you. All I want you to do is watch, and then when I serve it up to you, I want you to make those little noises you make when you’re eating muffins at the shop.”

I balk, embarrassed. “I don’t make little noises.”

“Yes, you do. It’s downright distracting.”

I duck my head to avoid meeting his eyes as a smile teases my lips.

Watching Elio cook is the equivalent of watching a shirtless Jason Momoa work out. He moves like a dream. He’s fluid, confident and graceful, though no less masculine. It’s mesmerizing, and I’m amazed at how quickly he throws a meal together using just two pans.

I haven’t had long enough to really get my creeper on when Elio collects a little of the sauce from the simmering pan and offers me the spoon. I wrap my fingers around his wrist to steady his hand and watch him as I taste it. Garlic rolls over my tongue, burned butter, lemon, and thyme. It’s simple, yet the flavors work so well together. I close my eyes and moan. When I open them again, he’s watching me closely.

“God, I’ve missed pasta.”

“You shouldn’t deprive yourself of the things you want, Romy.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No. It’s not good for the soul.”

I let out a humorless laugh and take the glass of wine he offers, gulping it back before I do something stupid like try and kiss him.

Elio fills two bowls with pasta and hands one to me. I follow him to the couch, and he grabs the remote and turns the gas fireplace on, bathing the room in a rich golden glow. He sits across from me, setting his bowl of pasta down on the table along with his wine. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

“What? Do I have something in my teeth?”

“Just my heart,” he murmurs.

It’s so quiet I’m not sure I hear him right. “What?”

“Romy, I don’t know where we go from here. I don’t know how you feel about kids, about Coco, and having us both in your life but—”

“You don’t know?”

He shakes his head.

I smile coyly, embarrassed that I have to spell it out for him. “I’m crazy about you, Elio.”

He smiles, but it’s short-lived. “Coco and I are a package deal. She’s my whole world, and I won’t let anyone hurt her.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m crazy about her too.”

He stares down at his swollen hand, bushing his fingers over the bruised knuckles. “I need you to be sure. I need you to be 100 percent certain that you really want that, because the last thing she needs is another woman she loves leaving her. I won’t put her through that again.”

“I would never do that to her.”

“You can’t know that.”

I set my pasta down. I really want to eat it, but I want to kiss this man more.

I get up and walk over to him, then stand between him and the coffee table. He leans forward, his finger tracing the bare flesh of my thigh just above my knee. I break out in goose bumps as he leans in and presses his lips to my skin. I close my eyes and slide my hands into his thick hair. His hands glide up my thigh beneath my skirt to the waistband of my panties, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. I’ve lost a lot of weight, fast, but on the inside, I’m still the girl who wasn’t good enough. The girl with stretch marks and cellulite. The girl who Marc humiliated with barbed words and passive-aggressive insults that I’ve heard before, too many times to count.

“Wait,” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . um. Are you sure? I mean, I’m no prize pig.” Really, Romy? God, what is the matter with you?

“Romy, you’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.”

I smile, but the voice inside my head tells me he’s just being nice, that he doesn’t really mean it. How can he?

Elio frowns. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .”

“Jesus, my brother really fucked with your head, didn’t he?”

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t just him.”

“Who else do I have to beat the shit out of?”

“Um . . . well, let’s see . . .” I trail off with a sigh. “There’s my parents, and my ex Jeremy, all of society, and then there’s . . . me. So . . . that could take a while.”

“You’re right. Why don’t I just prove it to you?”

“Prove it to me how?”

An immoral smile tips the corner of his mouth. “By showing you.”

He runs his hands around to my ass and grabs my cheeks, squeezing hard. I gasp, startled by the ferocity. He hooks his fingers in my panties and slides them down my legs. They fall to my ankles and I step out of them.

Elio pulls me closer and lifts the hem of my dress. It’s made of a soft jersey so of course, it doesn’t stay, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him once his head is under there and his hot breath washes over my thighs.

He doesn’t touch me, but teases instead with his warm breath. It’s too much, too cruel, too arousing. He slides his hands between my legs and separates my thighs. My breath catches in the back of my throat as he finally brings his mouth to my hot, aching flesh. It’s nothing more than the sweetest of kisses right over the hood of my clit, but he deepens the kiss, parting me with his tongue. My ability to breathe, to think, to protest and beg is gone, and I pull my skirt out of the way so I can see him and drive my hands into his hair, bringing him closer.

When I’m weak in the knees and desperate to come, he pulls away. He looks up at me with those dark eyes, and I lick my lips.

Elio opens his mouth to speak. “We shouldn’t—”

“Do this? You’re right. That would be a big mistake because you’re um . . . you’re Marc’s brother, and he and I . . . that is . . . we’re . . . broken up. Or I planned on breaking up with him right after dinner—”

“Romy, I was going to say we shouldn’t do this here where Coco can find us.”

“Oh.” I exhale loudly.

Elio’s brow creases. “You think we shouldn’t do this?”

“No, that’s not it at all. I just meant if you think we shouldn’t do it, then I understand and I . . . I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“You really are,” he says, standing so that I’m forced to take a step back. He doesn’t let me go far though. Instead, he takes my face in his hands and leans down to kiss me.

It’s not an open-mouthed kiss, but a soft meeting of our lips. I can taste myself on him, and it’s as shocking as it is enticing. He deepens the kiss until his tongue is slipping inside to tangle with my own. We take several stumbling steps back, knocking the bowls of pasta off the coffee table. I break from his lips and turn to look at the mess, but Elio captures my mouth again with his own and threads his hands through my hair. I kiss him back, wanting more, needing more.

When he pulls away, I whimper. God help me, I actually whimper like a sad puppy.

Elio laughs. I turn about ten different shades of red. He takes my hand and leads me toward the stairs. I follow, unable to let go as we reach the end of the hall.

He pushes the door to our left, his bedroom, but something shiny in the room on the right catches my eye. It’s a silver picture frame glinting in the half-light. I take a step forward. My heart races as my gaze flits over the floral duvet, the fluffy pink cushions, the Parisian artwork and the feminine touches all throughout the room. My eyes settle on the makeup resting on the vanity. I swallow hard.

Elio is living with another woman.

Just when I’m about to turn and confront him, strong arms wrap around my waist and he leans in and whispers, “Sophia’s room.”

All the air leaves me in a rush, and I relax back against his chest as he nibbles the sensitive flesh of my neck.

Elio turns with me in his arms, and leads us into his bedroom. It’s as mishmashed as the rest of his house. Hipster meets Hemingway recluse. There’s a huge four-poster bed in the center of the room with a red plaid flannel coverlet and rich teakwood walls. It looks like the set of every romance novel I’ve ever read, yet it’s even more perfect, because this isn’t a romance novel: it’s real life. And Elio is all I’ve wanted since I first laid eyes on him. This moment is all I’ve ever wanted, and it’s finally here. I have to repress the urge to squeal in excitement.

I let go of Elio’s hand and step around him, inspecting his room. There’s a stack of paperwork on the desk in the corner, a cowhide chair with a Mexican woven blanket thrown over it, and a huge fireplace with an empty mantle. I stare at the artwork on the wall. Elio lets out a low chuckle, and I turn to see what’s so funny.

“When you’re done inspecting my room, do you think you might want to come get naked and roll around my bed with me?”

Again, I blush. I’ve got to do something about that. “That’s what you want to do? Just roll around?”

“You’re right. That was the wrong choice of words. I’d like to fuck you, Romy,” he says with a serious face, though he grins when my eyes bug out. “I just thought I’d soften the blow.”

My heart beats double time as I say, “Don’t . . . don’t soften it.”

“No?”

I shake my head emphatically. “No.”

“Good, because nothing about my feelings for you are soft. In fact, you’re making it very hard.”

I glance at his crotch, and he’s right. He’s straining against his jeans.

I take a step forward and he takes several toward me until he catches me up and kisses me stupid. We stumble through the room, our tongues tousling, hands grasping at clothing, at body parts, bumping into things in an effort to get closer. I tip my head back as Elio kisses my throat to my collarbone and dips his head beneath the neckline of my dress, pushing my bra aside, cupping my breast and taking my nipple into his mouth. I slide my fingers into his hair as a moan escapes me. His beard tickles my sensitive flesh, and I want to feel it all over my body. I want his kisses and sweet caresses everywhere.

Elio grabs the hem of my dress and lifts it. My heart swells with fear, with pride for all of my hard work, and with nervous excitement. He lifts the fabric over my head and lets it fall to the ground. Then he steps back, and I cringe and close my eyes, afraid he won’t like what he sees. Weight loss takes a toll on your body, and I’m far from perfect.

“Jesus, Romy.”

I squint one eye open because the reverence in his tone confuses me. “Jesus, what?”

He yanks off his shirt and I’m suddenly praising the gods too, and then I get it, because his hands and mouth are on me. They need me as much as I need them.

He walks us toward the bed, and we fall backward onto the mattress. Elio quickly rolls us so that he’s hovering over me. I stare into those incredible eyes and feel a strange sense of courage overwhelm me. I slide my hand down his hard pectorals and abs, along the line of that sharp V leading into his pants. A groan comes from him, and my hands work the button on his jeans. Once I have his fly open, I slip my hand inside and find him rock hard and completely commando. My palm brushes the silky tip and his whole body stiffens. I use the opportunity to take hold of his shaft and stroke it with a firm hand. Elio closes his eyes and bites his lip as his whole body strains against me. I work my fist faster around him, but he groans and pulls away. “Wait, wait, Romy.”

I don’t wait. I’ve waited too long already. “What?”

“Stop. I need you to stop.”

My heart sinks. Oh.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but my throat is choked with embarrassment. Did I move too fast?

“It’s been a while.” He kisses my forehead, and l tamp down the urge to touch him again because I see he’s struggling with this. “You’re the first woman I’ve been with since Coco’s mom.”

“Oh.” My eyes widen. “I’m the first woman you’ve slept with in four years?”

He grimaces. “Is that a turnoff? That’s a turnoff, right?”

“No, no it’s not.” I screw up my nose in disbelief. “Four years, really? How is that possible? You’re hot.”

He chuckles. “It’s hard to find someone who’ll have sex with you when you have a kid.”

“Really?” I’ve seen the way he is with his daughter, even before I knew Coco was his. Elio’s dedication to her is heart-warming and honestly, ridiculously hot.

“Okay, that’s not true. You’re the first woman I’ve wanted to fuck.” There’s that word again sending shivers down my spine and a thrill through my lady parts, and now I have no idea what the hell else he just said because I can’t stop thinking about him wanting to fuck me.

“I want to have sex with you,” I blurt out, a little bit lost in his eyes.

“And here I thought you were half-naked in my bed because you wanted me to teach you how to cook.”

I laugh. “Nope. I’m just here to hit it and quit it.”

“Really? What makes you think I’ll let you leave?” Kicking his shoes to the side, he pushes his jeans the rest of the way off. Elio settles his weight between my legs, his erection a hot and heavy weight against the thin fabric of my panties. He pivots his hips, and I groan. “What makes you think you’ll want to leave after I’m done with you?”

He’s right; I doubt I’ll ever want to leave, especially when it feels so good to be in his arms.

Elio leans up on his elbow and slides a hand down my body, pushing aside my panties until we’re skin on skin and his fingertips trace delicate patterns over my slick flesh. He delves lower, easing a finger inside me. I inhale, contract my inner muscles around him, and allow my head to roll to the side. The rest of my body is taut like a bowstring, on edge with need.

“Please, Elio. I need you inside me.”

A small smile tips his lips as he adds another finger and continues to fuck me with his hand. “No.”

“Please?” I beg, sounding anything but myself.

“Not until you come for me.”

“No, I can’t . . .” My hands reach for him, taking his cock and stroking it with a ferocity that matches his own. “Please. I need you.”

He groans, his eyes falling closed as he ceases his own ministrations and gets lost in mine. “Fuck.”

A beat later, he’s gone from the bed and fumbling through his nightstand. He pulls out a foil packet, and tears it open with his teeth. I smile at that, at seeing him so eager, so desperate to be inside me.

He rolls the condom down his thick shaft and crawls across the bed toward me. He wedges himself between my legs, but doesn’t climb on top. Instead, he kneels on the mattress and slowly pushes into me. The angle doesn’t allow for him to thrust too deep, but he grabs his cock with his hand as he pushes inside, caressing us both. I toy with my nipples as he thrusts into me, his eyes watching my fingers pluck the taut buds.

“Jesus Christ, Romy. You’re so fucking hot.”

“I need you closer,” I beg. Elio slides his hand under my ass and pulls us both upright, so I’m straddling his waist, my legs wrapped around his hips, my fingers laced together behind his shoulders. He holds me tight as we rock into one another. We breathe one another’s breath, staving off orgasm until the rocking becomes too much. Heat builds in my core, and I tumble headfirst into ecstasy. I lose myself to his lips on my neck, his full cock coming inside me, and his arms circling my body, holding me as if I were the most precious thing on earth.

Sated, we stay like that for a long time—kissing, touching, exploring one another with our hands and lips, as if we have all the time in the world.

Eventually, Elio falls back on the bed. He discards the condom, tossing it in the trash, then pulls me on top of him. I link my hands with his, and he brings them to his lips before kissing all the way up my arm to my clavicle. “You were kidding about that quitting it part, right?”

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?” His expression is serious.

“On what you’re cooking for breakfast.”

Elio presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Anything that will make you stay.”

“Pancakes, bacon, pastry. Anything with carbs,” I say, grinning like a fool because for the first time in weeks, I don’t have someone breathing down my neck telling me I’m not allowed to eat this or that. After all, weren’t Sundays invented for vices?

“Done.”

I laugh as his breath washes over my neck. “For the record, I would have stayed for boxed cereal.”

“And I would have made every recipe in my arsenal to keep you here.”

I smile and tilt my head so that his lips meet mine. The kiss quickly turns from soft and sensual to an all-out blaze, igniting our desire for one another. Once again, our hands and lips are everywhere, and there is no place in the world I would rather be.