Alex takes me, not to my condo, but the two blocks to the US Grant. I barely notice the journey—voices, car horns, crosswalks, sunny sky. All of my energy is devoted to functions like blinking, breathing, and putting one foot in front of the other. The warm, strong hand in mine feels like the center of the universe.

We enter the lobby and the sounds of the city are vacuumed away. Alex is greeted several times on the way to the elevator. He nods to each person but doesn’t speak. The ride to the presidential suite is simultaneously brief and dragging.

He guides me down the short hallway and inside, past the kitchen and into the living room. Lucy stands up quickly from the couch. “I wasn’t expecting you back so…” She trails off. I can feel the pressure of her gaze on my face, but I continue staring blankly at a seam in the walnut floors.

Alex says something and Lucy replies. He tugs me across the salon, up the stairs, through a small, elegant foyer, and into a bedroom. Thick, soft carpet is beneath my feet. Opposite the massive bed, floor to ceiling windows present a crisp morning cityscape.

This is where he sleeps.

His hands are heavy on my shoulders. “Have you eaten?”

I blink. “What?”

“When was the last time you ate?” His voice is a measured tone reserved, I think, for children and the elderly.

It occurs to me that I might be in shock.

“Yesterday,” I say faintly.

He sighs. “Look at me, Thea.” It’s the dark tone—my eyes snap immediately to his face. His lips curve. “Now listen. You’re going to take a hot shower. When you’re done, you’re going to eat the food I bring you. Then you’re going to sleep.”

I smirk tiredly. “Bossy.”

His eyes darken. “You have no idea. Get moving, or I’m going to strip you and force you into the shower myself. I guarantee you don’t want that.”

Yes, I do.

“Okay,” I whisper instead.

He gives me a gentle push and I move lethargically around the bed. There’s a soft click as the outer door closes. I enter the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind me. If Alex wanders in, so be it. He’s already seen me naked in ways far more exposing than bare skin. It’s reckless, dangerous… I don’t care.

The bathroom is, of course, sumptuous: shining fixtures, marble counters, raised bowl sinks. A gorgeously tiled walk-in shower commands the far wall. Adjacent to it sits an equally appealing soaking tub. I almost veer toward the tub, but remember Alex’s instruction.

Right now, following direction is the easier, softer way. Personal choices mean personal thoughts, and personal thoughts mean Margaret.

Margaret…

I turn on the shower, which immediately provides steaming water through a pivoting rainfall showerhead. The fixture is so expensive I’ve only seen via catalog.

My skin protests, sore and sensitive, as I step out of my heels, tug off my slacks, and unbutton my blouse. Bra and underwear join the pile on the floor. Steam rolls from the shower in thick waves, fogging the mirrors and dampening my skin. I feel flushed, but I’m cold.

The water is too hot and not hot enough. The deluge flows over my hair and down my body, stinging and lifting goosebumps. Washing away indifference, burning through the protective barrier of shock.

My legs grow progressively weaker until I crumble to the tile. Holding my knees to my chest, I drop my head forward. Water falls thickly on the back of my neck, streaming around my face and into my gasping mouth.

I wonder if, barring intervention, I might drown here.

* * *

Lady Margaret taught me how to build armor between myself and the world. Every Saturday was a new lesson. She was a demanding master, far worse than my prior etiquette tutors. Even worse, in some ways, than my mother. Because Margaret didn’t teach from obligation or selfishness. She taught from love.

She painstakingly instructed me on how to bridge the gap between compliance and grace. She taught me the difference between acting like a lady and being one. I had known the rules but not the reasons. The motions but not the meanings.

In her soft, modulated voice, she told me stories. Always, her lessons came through stories of her own life. My very own social messiah, with an endless supply of parables. It was the only vehicle of communication that made sense to me. She knew it—she indulged it.

The rules became principles, the motions automatic. Whereas my mother saw social interactions as battles of dominance, Margaret likened them to playing a duet.

Be kind. Be thoughtful. Be precise.

The corruption of my mother’s icy reign ran deep—Margaret could only do so much. And yet, what she taught me allowed me to survive the tumultuous years of my teens. Not just survive, but thrive.

I outgrew my awkward phase. My skin cleared. My mousey hair transitioned to a rich chestnut. I became—I was—the socialite my mother always wanted. For a time, my graces even eclipsed those of Tabitha. I was the one talked about, celebrated at the seasons’ various events. I was the one sent to charm potential investors at company parties.

The sons of Money flocked to me, including Molly Hines’ boyfriend. (Hence the lasting animosity). I flirted, I danced, and I rejected them all in such a way as to spare their fragile egos. Once, I even fielded a fervent marriage proposal from a man old enough to be my grandfather. Margaret laughed for a minute straight when I told her.

For a time, I was happy with my life. Or, if not exactly happy, I was content.

It changed, as things do, when I moved to Los Angeles for college. Margaret no longer waited at the end of each week to offer counsel and rebuild my armor. Slowly, the veneer she’d helped construct began to fade. To chip and peel.

It wasn’t meant to last. Margaret knew it, even if I didn’t. In our final visit before my departure, she brought up the source of my words from the long-ago garden party. (I’d made her read Illusions with me—aloud, one chapter a week—early in our acquaintance.)

She told me the story of the clinging creatures, finishing with, “What does the creature say to his fellows? Oh yes…” She smiled, then, so beautiful and sweet, and tears glistened in her clear blue eyes. “‘The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare let go.’ ”

After, she took my hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s time to let go, Thea.”

So I’d let go…

And smashed against the rocks.

* * *

“Oh, sweetheart,” whispers Alex.

The water ceases its cascade. Soft warmth enfolds me in the form of a bath sheet. I’m lifted from the floor of the shower, cradled to Alex’s chest as he walks into the bedroom.

He sits on the bed, my wet head tucked under his chin, and strokes my back. I’m not crying anymore, though my eyes are wet and burning. A shudder pulses through my spine, the movement bringing my mouth against the smooth, warm skin of his throat. Beneath my lips, his pulse flutters and speeds.

Awareness is sudden and consuming, a flash flood of image and sensation: our positions on the bed, my state of undress, his body radiating heat through the meager barrier of cotton. A muscled forearm is beneath my thighs, my bottom cradled in his lap. My naked legs spill onto the bed beside his hip, though the rest me is tucked modestly in the towel.

My immediate hunger has nothing to do with food and everything to do with Alexander Hughes. He can take away the pain. He can make me forget.

I breathe deeply, feeding on his scent. Sweet, languorous arousal drops through me and circles back. Round and round, until my breath comes short and heavy. My hips shift of their own volition, my body seeking relief against his hard thigh.

The hand stroking my back halts. “No, Thea,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Giving in—letting go—I lick the pulse in his throat.

“Don’t,” he growls.

I lift my face, arching my neck until I can see his eyes. I know I must look like a freak-show—knotted wet hair and dripping mascara—but I’m drowning in ocean sunrise.

For me, I realize. The desire in his eyes is for me.

Gathering the towel against me, I sit up and carefully swing my legs to the floor. He sighs—disappointed or relieved, I don’t know—and helps me stand. I wobble a little and his hands steady my hips.

“There’s a robe in the bathroom,” he says mutedly. “Put it on and come downstairs to eat.” I nod, staring at the carpet. His hands leave my hips, freeing me to walk away.

I let go of the towel.

Breath hisses through his teeth. “Thea,” he snaps. “Pick up the towel.”

I meet his stare defiantly. “No.”

He uncoils from the bed to tower over me. I watch his face, which is tilted down, his gaze hungrily scanning my exposed skin. My breasts, stomach, the juncture of my thighs. His hands are in fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“This is the grief talking,” he says with strain.

I whisper, “You know it’s more than that.”

And I wait—I have let go. Maybe, if I accept the impact of the rocks, it won’t hurt as much. Maybe.

His broad shoulders relax, then coil with a new tension, one that makes me shiver in anticipation. “Too late,” he murmurs.

Fingertips whisper over my navel. I tremble, gasping. It’s the lightest touch, yet feels like molten fire. Yes. My head falls back, loose on my neck. Fingers become strong hands smoothing over my stomach, down my hips and around to cup and squeeze my ass. I moan, pressing into his touch, but his hands don’t linger. They flow up my drying back, under my arms, and close over my aching breasts. Thumbs sweep over my nipples once, twice, and they tighten eagerly.

Sultry warmth pulses through me, waves upon waves, condensing in a near-unbearable ache between my thighs.

“So responsive,” he breathes.

I open my eyes to see him watching the reactions on my face. The skin is stretched taut over his sharp jaw and high, flushed cheekbones. His eyes aren’t a sunrise anymore. They are the ocean at midnight. Fathomless dark.

I fumble with the buttons on his shirt. His hands leave my breasts to settle on my shoulders. “Get on the bed.” I barely register the command, occupied with stubborn buttons. “Now, Thea. Lie down in the center.”

I look up, afraid he means to leave. The worry reflects in my face and causes Alex’s eyes to darken further. Oh my God. A hand skims down my arm, skirts my breast, tickles the skin of my belly, and finally—finally—cups the aching space between my legs.

Those long, elegant fingers press into my wet heat as his face lowers to my neck. His tongue traces up the column of my throat, stroking in rhythm with his fingers below.

“I said it was too late,” he whispers.

A finger dips inside me, forcing a moan from my lips and my eyes to flutter closed. His other hand guides my hips, rocking me slowly against his knuckle. The pleasure compounds, sparkling and bright. He hums approval as my hips twitch restlessly.

Lips trail hot kisses to my ear. “I also said, get on the bed.”

His touch vanishes. I gasp and reel, opening my eyes to find empty space before me. Alex stands several feet away, near the foot of the bed. His eyes are on me, heavy-lidded and burning, as he slowly unbuttons his dress shirt.

“If I have to ask you again…”

I scramble onto the middle of the bed and lie back against the pillows.

“Spread your legs.”

Flushing with self-consciousness and need, I do as he says. Alex’s eyes track down my body and snag between my thighs. He wets his lips, features tightening with abject hunger. A breathy moan escapes me. I am possessed—or freed—by his desire for me. I cup my aching breasts in my hands, teasing my nipples with my thumbs and forefingers. My pelvis grinds shamelessly into the bed, seeking relief.

Alex makes a strangled noise and moves faster, whipping the shirt off his arms and yanking a white undershirt over his head. I drink in the sight of his colorful chest. In the traditional Japanese manner, his tattoos flow inward from both shoulders, down onto his pectorals to hug his nipples. Beneath, his abdomen is pale and ridged with muscle, sprinkled with dark hair that thickens in a mouthwatering downward trail.

His belt hits the floor. A small foil packet sails and lands beside my hip. At least one of us has working braincells.

“Eyes up, Ms. Sands.” His gaze captures mine and holds it. A zipper slides down. Fabric rustles as his slacks lower and are kicked off.

“Please,” I beg.

Satisfaction flares in his eyes and he nods. My eyes snap down immediately. He’s fully erect, dauntingly tall and thick. As I watch, his beautiful hand encloses the firm flesh, stroking slowly from base to tip and back down.

It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

I whimper and close my eyes.

His chuckle is soft and dark, full of promises that make me squirm. The bed dips under his weight. Fingers grip my ankles, spreading them further apart. I try to reach for him, to pull him atop me, but instead of arms, my hands find his shoulders.

My eyes blink open. Alex, on his forearms between my legs, raises a brow. “Yes?”

I push higher on the bed. “I—you don’t—”

He blows onto my sex; I bite my lip on a surprised cry. Blue eyes flash up, amused and heated. “There’s nothing you can say to keep my mouth off you.”

He doesn’t allow me a chance to test the theory. His tongue slides heavily over me and flicks my swollen clitoris. I almost come off the bed, but a tattooed arm clamps onto my stomach. As his tongue swirls, laps, and tastes, a long finger slips inside me and rubs across an unbelievably sensitive spot.

“God, Alex,” I gasp.

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps, shifting forward. His hand leaves my stomach and grips my hip, pulling me firmly into his ravenous mouth. Heat spirals through me, washing my closed eyelids with a red haze. My fingers blindly find and thread through his hair.

Blood flutters in my veins and grows heavy. Small, urgent noises escape my lips. Every stroke of his tongue sends electric pulses through my limbs. My thighs quiver, my toes curl. I’ve never felt so out of control. So completely free.

His mouth leaves me but the storm keeps moving closer—tiny lightning strikes everywhere—as his fingers stroke inside me and out.

“Come for me, Thea,” he growls.

His thumb presses expertly down as his tongue spears me. The world explodes with color, oxygen, rushing blood and throbbing ecstasy. My back arches off the bed. Wanton, enraptured screams come from deep in my throat. I unravel and rebuild, and through it all, Alex is with me, humming his approval and pleasure.

At long last, the heat of his body covers me. I drive my fingers into his hair, yanking his face to mine. With my teeth and tongue, I force his lips to part. He welcomes the assault and returns it, sucking my tongue forcefully into his mouth.

I taste myself, and him, and want more. More. I’m full but still empty. What I need, he has yet to give me.

“Please, Alex, please,” I chant, my hips urgently seeking.

His hands are in my hair, tightening. He draws my head back to drag teeth down my neck. “Please, what?” he growls.

“I need you,” I pant. “Inside me, now.”

His tongue swirls over a nipple, followed by the graze of teeth. His hips roll forward, teasing me with penetration. I fumble on the bed beside me, fingers finally landing on the condom. He bites my nipple; I spasm and drop the foil.

“I could spend hours on just your breasts,” he murmurs, nipping and sucking his way from one to the other. “Perfect pink nipples.” His teeth sink deeply into the flesh of my right breast, pushing against the border of pain before retreating with soft flicks of his tongue. “Mmm. I like my mark on you.”

I find the condom again and manage to tear it open. His head lifts, revealing a slight, wry smile. “Now who’s bossy?”

I lick my lips. “Fuck me, Alex.”

The smile disappears; the hand in my hair tightens. “Say it again,” he growls.

“Please. Please, fuck me.”

The packet is snatched from my lifted fingers. His hips lift, allowing me to sneak an arm downward. I cover his hand with mine, and together we roll the condom on. The feel of him, so thick, twitching against my palm, renews the pulse between my legs.

I can’t think, see straight, or stop writhing helplessly. He presses against my entrance, sliding easily through my wetness. My fingers find the tight, hot skin of his hips and dig in. With a hiss of breath, he slides inside me one, slow inch.

Pain lances through me and I can’t help a little whimper.

“Relax for me, sweetheart.”

“I am relaxed,” I say, but my voice is too high.

Alex looks up, eyes scanning my face. His hair is beyond mussed, sticking in every direction. His lips are swollen from my kisses. His eyes are bright and dark at once—fierce yet tender, passionate and questioning. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

Gently, he asks, “How long has it been, Thea?”

“Two years,” I whisper.

His eyes close briefly, breath whistling through his teeth. “Okay, okay.”

I tense. “What’s wrong?”

He peers at me. “I’m trying to go slow, damnit.”

The words ignite an acute, opposing desire in me. I seize his hips and wiggle upward, trying to force him deeper. I don’t care if it hurts—I need him now.

He hisses, twitching instinctively forward. “God, you’re tight.” Jaw clenched, his forehead drops to mine. “Thea, Thea… You feel so fucking good. I can’t—”

I drive my fingernails into his ass, simultaneously pulling and thrusting upward. With a strangled sound, he gives in—let’s go—and slams inside me to the hilt. The pain wrings tears from my eyes, but sensations of warmth, of fullness, immediately rise to eclipse it.

Yes. Finally. Yes.

Soft kisses rain over my mouth, my cheeks, my closed eyes. “Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

I bite his chin, hard. “Alex, I swear, if you don’t—” His mouth crashes into mine, silencing me as he draws back and thrusts deep.

Again and again, he sinks into me. Slowly at first, until I’m slick with arousal. Then faster, harder, until I’m not breathing anymore, just gasping helplessly. I’m completely at his mercy, boneless as he yanks my legs up around his hips. He finds an angle, deep and grinding, that triggers every nerve in my body.

I whisper, half-sob, his name.

His fingers curl around the back of my neck, palm against my ear and the side of my face. His gaze never drops from mine and I can’t look away—can’t keep the truth from my eyes.

How does the desert not love a storm, even knowing it might flood?

Static crackles under my skin, gaining force and distinction. Tiny explosions of sensation twitch through me, then coalesce. I whimper as a deeper, more intense orgasm erupts. Alex hisses, breath catching as my muscles quiver around him.

“God, yes,” he grinds out.

His powerful body tenses, muscles spasming beneath my hands. His eyes stay on mine. I don’t look away, don’t close my eyes for one second. I watch the perfect moment of his pleasure hit, and drink in the flush in his cheeks, the sweat on his brow, the pulse of him inside me.

“Thea,” he gasps.

I love you.

I swallow the words and kiss him instead.