I gave my reflection a critical study. I was pretty, and vain enough to appreciate that fact.

I was also not so vain that I was going to stand in the bathroom and primp while my fiancé waited in the bedroom for me.

Fiancé.

I was getting married.

Reaching up, I touched the necklace—it had started to glow in that way it did sometimes. I’d probably never understand what that meant. Just like I’d never understand entirely why or how I’d ended up in 1962.

I’d probably never get back home, and I was coming to terms with that.

I missed my parents more than anything. Honestly, other than my parents and uncle, I didn’t really miss anything. I didn’t even miss Caitlyn. I’d come to recognize what a toxic friendship that had been, and it was one I didn’t need.

I had what I needed, here.

The diamond ring caught the light, splintered it out in a thousand small bursts, and I smiled. Reaching for my brush, I smoothed my hair down one last time and then opened the door, ready to knock Glenn’s socks off.

Only…he wasn’t in the bedroom, neither him or his socks.

Huffing out a breath, I started for the bed but stopped a few feet away. I needed to get that diary out and leave it somewhere so I’d remember to give it to Florence the next time I went to see her. She needed to have it back.

I dug it out of my purse and lay it on the nightstand.

A muscled forearm slid around my waist, a chilled bottle of champagne clamped in his hand. I yelped when it touched me, my skin protected only by the silky, sheer negligee.

“That’s cold!”

He kissed my neck. “I’ll warm you up.” The other arm came around my upper body, holding two crystal flutes. “I thought we should have another toast.”

“You want to get me drunk,” I teased him, turning in his arms. He kissed me, quick and fast.

“I want to celebrate,” he said.

He popped the champagne open with ease and poured me a glass, then another for himself. I’d only taken one sip before he came back to me, still holding his own glass. The bottle was on the dresser now, and I savored another sip as he slid his free arm around my waist.

“Dance with me,” he murmured.

“There’s no music.”

“We don’t need it.”

We didn’t, either. We danced there, in the bedroom, Glenn wearing just a pair of trousers and me in my sexy little bit of silk and lace. We drank champagne and kissed and teased each other until any chill I’d felt was chased away.

“I love you,” Glenn said against my mouth as his hands moved over me, blazing through the silk.

“I love you too.” Curling my arms around his neck, I strained to get closer.

I couldn’t get close enough, though.

Never close enough.

He groaned in appreciation as I wiggled against him, then he picked me up. A moment later, he laid me on the bed and came down over me, his mouth gliding down my neck to my breasts. The frothy lace was no true barrier, and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking deep and hard. His hands dragged the long skirt of the negligee up, and I arched my hips to help before reaching to free him from his trousers.

When he thrust inside me, I moaned out his name, so glad that we’d moved past condoms in the past couple weeks. There was nothing like the feeling of skin against skin as he drove deep.

I was already wet, aching, hovering on the brink of climax from the taunting, teasing foreplay that had been our dance.

But he wouldn’t let me come, purposefully keeping his strokes slow and steady, his weight braced over me as he held my gaze. The fire inside me smoldered, constantly threatening to burst into flame, but constantly being kept at bay.

“Watch me,” he ordered, voice rough and husky.

Like I could do anything else.

I rocked up to meet him, wrapped my legs around his waist, trying to hold him within me, trying to move him to give me that last little push I needed, but it did no good.

He shuddered as he moved even deeper than before, and I felt his cock pulse, thickening inside me. It pressed against that spot inside me, and I gasped.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

He moved harder, faster…finally.

Raking my nails across his back and shoulders, then down his arms, I caught hold of his biceps and dug my nails in. “Please…oh…Glenn!”

I could feel it, that heady ecstasy about to explode and overwhelm me—overwhelm us both.

“Do that again,” he muttered when I convulsively tightened around him.

I couldn’t control it, but as he drove into me over and over, hitting a place deep that made me see sparks, my muscles rippled and clenched. Each time I did, his cock pulsed, sending more waves of sensation washing over me...and that made my muscles tighten around him, gripping harder.

It was an unending cycle of pleasure, and caught up in the torrent of it, I lost track of where he ended and I began.

And that didn’t matter.

As the climax slammed into me, he groaned my name and I felt him begin to come, emptying inside me, filling me. I clung to him and he to me, our bodies trembling and twitching as we rode out our pleasure together.

Sometime later, we laid in each other’s arms, neither one of us speaking. Sleep was a heavy weight, drawing closer and closer, but I pushed it back for a few more minutes, eyes focused on the lamp on the table. I hadn’t turned it off. Now I was too tired, too content.

The light glinted off the gilt lettering on the diary I’d gotten from Florence’s dressing room. I’d taken it to avoid it falling into some reporter’s hands once news of her suicide attempt hit the papers. Smiling, I thought about the day I’d first found it, how I’d ended up back here.

Glenn smoothed a hand down my hip, drawing me back to the present.

“I don’t want a long engagement,” he said, voice drowsy.

“Me, neither. I want to be Maya Jackson as soon as possible.”

“Good.”

An uncomfortable sensation pressed in on my belly and I groaned, easing away from him. “I have to…Too much champagne.”

While I was in the bathroom, I grabbed the dress shirt I’d stolen from Glenn nearly a month ago to use as my regular sleep shirt.

He was waiting for me, eyes drowsy, one arm reaching out. I slid in and settled down, the light from the lamp still gleaming. But that was fine. If it was on, I could stare at Glenn.

And he was staring at me, smiling.

I guessed the lamp didn’t bother him either.

Sleep pressed in closer.

He said something. I could see his lips moving.

But sleep gave one final, demanding tug. And I was gone, lost to dreams.

* * *

That stupid lamp.

That was the one clear thought in my head.

A light, bright and harsh was shining in my eyes, forcing me to wake up when that was the last thing I wanted.

I tried to turn away from it and bury my face in Glenn’s neck.

But there was no soft bed under me.

There was no soft anything under me—and when I swept out a hand, I didn’t find Glenn.

All I encountered was hard, cold stone.

Shivering, I sat up.

“Maya!”

The sound of that voice, familiar as the sound of my own, made me cringe, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

That bright light continued to beat down on me, but now I knew it wasn’t the lamp.

Reaching up, I went to rub at my eyes.

Something smacked against my cheek.

I looked down and saw the locket, the gold once more dull and dusty.

No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.

“Maya, are you okay?”

I looked around the dressing room.

Florence’s dressing room.

I wanted to scream, cry.

I was no longer in 1962.

I was back.

* * *