The veal is every bit as delicious as Felipe promised. As are the appetizers preceding it, the recommended wine selections, and now, the perfectly prepared crème brûlée. Throughout the courses, conversation flows smoothly, without any of the usual pressure of untried acquaintances. At the core of everyone’s enjoyment is Alex, who effortlessly plies his charm and wit for our communal benefit.

Listening to him is a sensual experience for me, much like watching a prodigy on piano. Only one other person has ever impressed me as much with their social talents. But as dessert is cleared (and even Matthew looks happy as a clam), I’m forced to admit that Lady Margaret herself might have conceded defeat to Alexander Hughes.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers in my ear.

I smile, nuzzling his unshaven jaw. You’re amazing. But before the thought becomes words, Alex stiffens and the table goes quiet.

Lillian says bitingly, “No way, Damien. Walk away right now.”

My happiness freezes into an icy knot and drops down my spine. I lift my head and look across the table. Standing behind Lillian and Adam’s chairs is Damien. His gaze bounces between Alex and me, and finally settles on my face.

Standing firm under the pressure of hateful stares, he says, “Thea, I need to talk to you.”

I have to hand it to him, he’s got balls. But he always did have more guts than sense.

Matthew is half out of his chair, held down only by Grace’s grip on his forearm. “The nerve you’ve got, Young,” he snarls. “I should lay you out right here.”

Alex’s hand strokes over my shoulder. I know what he’s asking: what do you want me to do? I glance at him, aware that my expression is vacuous and my eyes a little glazed. But I can’t help it—he stole my armor and now I’m a normal girl. And Damien Young, my first love, is staring at me with some emotion I can’t pin down. Panic? Fear?

The concern in Alex’s eyes is masked by impassivity as I push back my chair.

“Thea?” rasps Lillian.

I shake my head, still staring at Alex. “Do you trust me?” I whisper.

His gaze scans my face, jaw ticking as he clenches his teeth. Finally, he nods, and his arm drops from my back.

Standing, I look into Damien’s relieved eyes. “Two minutes,” I tell him.

We walk through the restaurant, past the hostess, and outside to the sidewalk. He stays a careful three feet from me to prevent accidental touch. He knows, I dimly acknowledge. He senses my lack of armor.

Damien waits for a couple to pass us before saying, “I’m really worried about you.” His chocolate eyes are direct and earnest. If I didn't know him for a skilled liar, I might be tempted to believe him.

“This is about Alex, isn't it?” I ask tiredly. “Don’t worry, I already got your message through Tabitha.”

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly. “Well, yes, I did ask Tabitha to get ahold of you, but before that, we hadn’t seen each other in over a year.” My brows go up and I wait for him to realize what he just revealed. A slow flush moves over his cheekbones. He sighs and looks down. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Whatever you say, Damien. The only reason I’m standing here is that frankly, you aren’t a threat to me anymore. I’m over you.” He flinches and I’m almost positive it’s a manufactured reaction. I tilt my head. “You do know you’re eating in one of Alex’s restaurants?”

He sighs through his teeth. “Alex Hughes isn’t who you think he is.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Ire flashes in his eyes. “Were you seeing him after the wedding? When that Autism charity ball happened here?”

Round one: Damien Young.

“No,” I say, but fail to keep my voice steady.

His eyes narrow. “He and that model were all over each other. It was disgusting. Even his sister was pissed.”

I can’t smother an ugly spasm of jealousy and revulsion. No, he wouldn’t have. But I know it’s entirely possible. I remember his amused accusation, You left me so fucking hard that day. Two days before the event in Los Angeles.

“We weren’t together,” I repeat loudly. Firmly. Convincingly. Damien blinks, his conviction faltering.

Round two: Yours Truly.

“You deserve better,” he tries.

“Anything else?” I bite out.

“Goddamnit, Thea!” he cries, throwing up his hands. “I’m trying to protect you. I don’t want to see you hurt. I fucking love you!”

It isn’t the anger or the declaration that trips my brain into the red. It’s the self-righteousness. No more points to either of us—this just became a bloodsport. I take a step forward, my hands fisting, itching to punch him despite having never struck anyone in my life.

“You only love yourself, Damien,” I seethe. “At least Alex didn’t fuck my sister the day after asking me to marry him!”

The blood drains from Damien’s face, then floods back. His expression turns ugly. “That’s right, he didn’t,” he hisses furiously. “He took her home from a club when she was drunk, tied her up, and then fucked her.”

I sway, suddenly dizzy. “You’re lying,” I whisper.

Without warning, Damien grabs my arms, yanking me forward. My heel snags on a crack in the sidewalk, sabotaging my balance further. I hit the wall of his chest and immediately shove away, but his fingers tighten and hold me immobile. The touch of cool lips on my cheek makes me convulse.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarl. “Let go of me, Damien. You disgust me.”

The eyes I once thought were the most beautiful in the world skip over my face and settle on my lips.

He kisses me.

Light flashes. I can’t tell if it’s in my head or outside it. I bite down hard on his lip and he cries out in pain, releasing me and stumbling back.

“You bit me,” he says with soft surprise.

Heels pound down the walkway. Lillian rushes to my side, her arm moving tightly around my waist. “What the hell is going on? We heard yelling. I had to beg Alex to stay put. Are you okay?”

She was drunk… He tied her up… The words bounce between my ears like ping-pong balls.

Lillian winces a little at my expression. “I need to speak with Alex,” I say.

She swallows heavily and nods. “I’ll get him,” she says, then glares at Damien. “You’d better disappear.”

When she’s gone, I tell him, “She’s right. You need to leave now.”

“Thea, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please—”

“Stop!” I yell, then pinch the bridge of my nose and count to ten. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Thea?” asks Alex carefully.

Damien stares at me a moment longer, then spins and stalks down the sidewalk. I fleetingly wonder if he’s left a date inside, then realize I don’t give a shit.

Alex reaches for my hand and I take a step back. He stiffens, eyes scanning my face. “I heard you yelling… about what he did.”

Humiliation makes my stomach turn. “Did the whole patio hear?”

He shrugs, which I translate as yes. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I nod stiffly and stare at a nearby traffic light. Green… Yellow… Red.

He tied her up.

“Thea,” he says, quietly and fiercely. “What’s wrong?”

I choke on words, swallow, and try again, “Do you like… He said you—” I gulp air, unable to continue.

“Whatever he said, it’s probably bullshit. Just tell me and we’ll talk through it. Don’t run from me. Promise me you won’t run.”

It takes every ounce of my will, but I meet his gaze. Watching his eyes carefully, I ask, “Do you like tying women up, Alex?”

Tenderness to blue ice in a second flat.

“We’re not talking about this here.” He whips his phone from a front pocket and types a quick text message. “The limo will come back for the others.” I open my mouth. “Do not argue with me.”

I’ve never heard this tone—it’s a different level of dark.

“You did it,” I whisper with dawning horror. “You tied her up.”

Headlights approach, arching over his striking bone structure, throwing his eyes in stark relief. “You asked me to trust you, Thea. Now I’m asking you to do the same.” The limo stops beside us and he opens the back door.

“Alex,” I breathe, shaking my head.

The ice thaws and his eyes are blazing, tortured. “Please. Please, get in the car.”

God help me, I do.

We sit on either side of the backseat, not speaking, until the limo stops again. It isn’t a long trip—less than ten minutes up the coast. I recognize the area as Pacific Palisades, a highly affluent suburb of Los Angeles. The streets are wide and flat, with a border of manicured trees and grass. Sprinklers throw mist and the scent of clean, wet asphalt into the balmy air.

I follow Alex out of the limo and stand on the sidewalk while he speaks with the driver. Having reached my emotional boiling point, I gaze numbly at our destination.

The house is a palatial, three-story Colonial. White with dark trim. The yard is artfully wild, heavy with trees and contained by a white picket fence. A very expensive, handcrafted picket fence. A lovely brick walkway leads to the distant front door, sheltered by a portico with graceful white columns.

I hear the limo pull away and turn. “This is yours?” My voice, I note, sounds almost normal.

“Yes,” he says shortly, walking past me toward the house.

He has a home in Los Angeles, whispers my heart. The voice isn’t loud enough, though, to clear the murky waters of my mind.

I follow him up the walkway, careful to keep my heels from the grassy spaces between bricks. He unlocks the front door and leads me inside. For a moment, I’m surprised by the lack of stale air, then realize he likely has people tending the property.

Lights flip on, illuminating masterful architecture and beautiful design in a style I’ve come to associate with Alex Hughes: classic elegance meets sleek contemporary. Another time, I might linger over the floors, the moldings, the furniture. But right now, what I see lacks meaning. It’s just a collection of wood, fabric, and paint.

No one lives here.

Alex leads me into an adjacent sitting room. I linger on the threshold, watching as he pulls his shirt from his pants and unbuttons it over a white undershirt. His movements aren’t threatening, not those of a sexually charged man but a tired one.

He kicks off his shoes and sits on a long couch. Elbows on his knees, he drops his head to scratch fingers through his hair.

When he finally looks up, I’m still standing in the doorway. I feel insubstantial, disassociated. Awareness of my body wavers like a specter. The sensation is enhanced when his gaze passes over me like I’m not there.

In a low, raw tone, he says, “It was just my father and me with my mother, at the end. Neither of us handled it well. We’ve never been close, emotionally speaking. My mother was the bridge between us. After she died, we barely spoke about it. We never hugged or cried together, that’s for sure. He drank the grief away and I… I fucked it away.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Like father, like son.”

I don’t speak, don’t even formulate thought. The silent narrative tells me he’s not finished.

Long moments pass, then, “You already know I like control. After she died, for the first time in my life, I felt totally out of control. So I satisfied my need for it elsewhere. And yes, for a time, I enjoyed exerting ultimate control in the bedroom. Safe, consensual control. I’ve never been with someone who didn’t know exactly what was going to happen. Who didn’t—” He pauses, swallowing thickly, “Who didn’t want what I was offering. And I’ve never harmed anyone, Thea. I swear it.”

The narrative closes and thought returns, buckling the surface of temporary calm.

What he said hurts. Badly. Imagining him with those women—my sister, and however many others—is an acidic burn in my throat. I ask myself if there’s any way to hear such news gracefully. The answer, of course, is Hell no. There’s no social rulebook for this scenario. Margaret would have failed utterly to summon a relevant parable. I shudder to consider what she might have said.

“If you want to leave, I’ll call a car for you.”

I have to close my eyes at the weariness, the defeat in his voice. I feel his gaze on my face for several moments before he asks mutedly, “Or do you have some questions first?”

I blink my eyes open. “I-I don’t…” I trail off as I remember the conversation with Damien. My heart starts beating hard, reminding me that I’m real. Awake. This is happening. And I have to know: “Did you sleep with Petra last Friday?”

“What? No. We’re just friends.” No hesitation, just surprise in his voice.

I sag against the doorframe. “He lied.”

“Young,” he growls. I nod, too awash with relief to speak. There’s a long pause, then he asks in a careful tone, “Thea?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not running away.”

I take a deep breath and meet his intent gaze. A line from Illusions pops into my head: ‘We choose, ourselves, to be hurt or not to be hurt, no matter what.’

The choice is suddenly clear and my voice is steady, “No, I’m not running.”

His shoulders tense and the air between us shifts, growing charged. Blood races through my body, pushing against skin. Magnets, I muse.

“Come here, please. I need to touch you.”

His voice causes a shudder of awareness to run through me. It makes me wonder, too, about the balance of power between us. How, even after what he’s revealed, it still weighs in his favor.

But that’s the crux of it—why Alex Hughes makes me feel safe, why he draws me like a moth to a blazing grave. He is the one in control. Not of me, but of himself. He doesn’t run from who he is. He knows himself, which is what I’ve always wanted and lacked. The answer to the question, Who am I?

I’ve spent my life searching, putting one foot in front of the other, flinging myself against metaphorical rocks. The assumption being that if I worked hard enough, if I was disciplined, focused, poised enough, I would eventually earn that elusive lotus of enlightenment. I would know myself.

Only now, after all that’s happened, does it occur to me I might be wrong. That the journey is a farce. Purposeless. That, perhaps, my authenticity is a fundamental truth—gravity of the soul. No rocks. Just the current, and the mad experiment of self-discovery.

Alex watches me patiently, waiting for me to decide. He’s never wanted me to be someone I’m not. I don’t know what he can decipher of my inner dialogue, if anything. His eyes exert a different kind of gravity.

Magnetism.

Slowly, the reality of him overwhelms my momentary revelation. I don’t cling. I don’t need to because it doesn’t matter. Just another narrative. This moment is what matters.

His eyes warm. He murmurs, “There you are.”

Here. Now.

“Come and get me, Alex.”

He uncoils to standing. “Thea.” My name is whispered reverently.

I lift my brows. “Is there a bedroom in this mansion?’

He jumps over the coffee table. Before he can lunge, I spin and run, into the hallway and toward the stairs I glimpsed on our entry. I’m in heels, though, and he’s barefoot. He catches me in seconds. I squeal and laugh as he lifts me, until my breath leaves in a whoosh when my stomach hits his shoulder.

I can’t stop laughing. Wheezing, actually, as my diaphragm is compressed. “Caveman!” I admonish.

He chuckles wickedly. “Don’t lie, you’ve fantasized about this.”

I giggle. “Maybe.”

My hair is a curtain over my face, but I have a lovely view of his backside, which flexes as he takes the stairs two at a time. I slide my hands down his spine and squeeze him there, delighting in the firm muscle.

He growls, and the hand not securing my legs sneaks beneath the hem of my dress to mirror my own appraisal. His touch possesses infinitely more finesse, however, and in moments I’m panting.

Fingers stroke over my panties, drawing wetness through the silk. He mutters something—a curse?—and pulls me down the front of him until I’m wrapped, monkey-like, around his torso. He’s still walking very fast, I note.

“Are you lost?” I inquire.

He quirks a brow and veers left, through a doorway, and punches his fist lightly against the wall. Soft, recessed lights come on. I glance around but don’t really see the gorgeous master bedroom. His shins hit a solid surface and he drops me onto a luxuriously soft duvet.

I blink up at him. “I’m on birth control, the shot kind.” The words come without a conscious decision on my part, and my cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sorry, we shouldn’t—”

“You just offered me candy and now you’re taking it away?”

I swallow and stare at the tiered ceiling. “I, uh, took a bunch of blood tests last year, too. Everything came back negative. I have the papers on my desk at home.”

He crawls over me—knees outside my hips and palms by my shoulders—and frowns, attention riveted on my face. “I was tested this week in Boston. I’m clean, but the papers are in San Diego.”

I suck in air. “I believe you.”

He nods, expression softening with something like wonder. He looks down at my belly and back at my face. A queer tingle seizes my heart.

“Alex?” I breathe.

“Hmm?”

I smile. “Are we going to talk all night?”

With a lack of urgency as welcome as it is frustrating, Alex strips off my dress, underwear, and heels. As each article is removed, he explores the exposed skin with his hands. Long, hot strokes of his palms, gentle yet firm, unceasing in their progress.

He stays on his knees, denying me his mouth, but the intensity in his eyes is more sensual than a kiss. I am memorized and claimed. Every inch of me. The tender skin beneath my breasts, my navel and hipbones. My ankles, the backs of my knees, my collarbone, the inside of my elbows, wrists…

“Roll over.”

Warm and languid from his ministrations, I turn onto my stomach and stretch my arms over my head. I hear his breathing change. A moment later, his lips graze my tailbone.

I smile against the comforter. “The tattoo really does it for you, doesn't it, Mr. Hughes?”

He hums, tongue sliding lightly up my spine between hot palms. I shudder and fist fabric in my hands. I’m a wild animal held tenuously at bay by his calming touch, knowing that freedom is coming. I squirm a little and he growls.

My hair is pushed over my shoulder. I wait for his fingers to clench, to pull and dominate, but they don’t. Instead, they trail lightly down the backs of my arms, lifting goosebumps.

“Don’t move.”

His weight lifts from the bed. The sound of my harsh breathing is joined by fabric rustling. Shirt, belt, pants… When the bed dips again, I whimper in excitement.

The heat of his body radiates onto my back—close, but not touching. The urge to buck upward is overwhelming. My spine bends, hips seeking. I want him to take me like this. I need him to. But he draws back before I make contact. I keen in annoyance, then sigh as his mouth finds my neck.

“Greedy girl,” he whispers. Fingers whisper down my back and slide between my legs. I groan and he echoes the sound. “Do you know how impossible you make it for me to take my time?”

“Take time later,” I pant.

He smiles against my shoulder. “Come and get me, Thea.”

Heat dims as he rolls onto his back beside me. My sensual lethargy fades and is replaced by driving need. I push to my hands and knees and crawl atop him, then sit back until I can feel him pressing hard and hot against my inner thigh.

Alex watches me through half-lidded eyes, his hands stroking up my thighs to my hips and back down. Feeling reckless, I grab his roving hands and plant them on the bed. “Don’t move,” I say, smiling sweetly.

His eyes narrow, then close as I reach between us and take him in my hands. I stroke him slowly, first with my fingertips and then with my fist, reveling in the silky slide of skin, the way his stomach flexes when I twist a certain way. His hands are now bunched in the comforter, much as mine were minutes ago.

He’s giving me control.

In response to my smug smile, he growls, “Thea.”

“Greedy,” I whisper, but I’m not done playing. I shimmy down his body, trailing kisses as I go, until I’m exactly where I want to be.

At the first touch of my tongue, he bucks upward. It’s my turn to hum approval, but I wait to do it until he’s at the back of my throat. He makes an inarticulate noise as I slowly lift, swirl my tongue against tight nerves, and descend.

“Enough,” he whispers.

I ignore the command. Hugging the base of him with my fist, I increase my rhythm. What had been a chore with Damien is now, with Alex, unbelievably arousing. His smell and taste, every twitch of his legs, gasp of air in his lungs… my senses are permeated, tuned to a fever pitch.

Mine. He is mine.

I grind against his flexed thigh and moan as he grows fuller, even harder.

“Thea,” he barks.

I lap him softly a final time, then rise to position him at my entrance. Slowly, I work myself down, inch by inch, taking time to adjust to the incredible fullness, to the heat and intimacy of nothing between us.

By the time I’m seated fully, Alex’s jaw is clenched and sweat beads at his hairline. But he doesn’t move. “Good boy,” I murmur.

He smiles, but it has an edge. The slightest flex of his hips makes my head fall back, my breath catch. Urgency pools low in my body. Instinct screams at me to Move, Take. I rise up and slide back down. Then do it again.

Oh God.

My fingertips and toes warm as heat unfolds in waves through my limbs. Blood pulses, swells, and flutters around our joined bodies. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine and bright spots dance behind my closed eyelids. I never knew it could be like this.

The sensation is so extraordinary, so consuming, that I suddenly can’t take it anymore. I whimper, losing rhythm, but Alex is there waiting. His hands sweep up my thighs to my hips. Holding me against him, he rocks me forward, then back, my pelvis tilted in such a way… I bite my lips against a scream.

He rocks me again. Again.

“That’s right, sweetheart, let go. Fall apart for me. You’re so fucking beautiful. You have no idea. You feel so perfect. So hot and tight.”

The vibration of every word strokes inside me; he feels impossibly hard now. I grip his forearms, squeeze my thighs together, and pieces of me begin floating away. Cosmos bloom and die behind my eyes, racing faster, closer…

“Come for me, Thea.”

I unravel, screaming his name.

I’m still pulsing, half-delirious, as his arms come around me and pull me down, around, until I’m beneath him. His mouth finds mine. Demanding. Consuming. I’m drowning. (I’m breathing underwater.) I cling to him as he thrusts, hard and fast, my hands playing over the muscles in his back, fingers digging into sweat-slicked skin.

Cupping my face with his hands, Alex presses his forehead to mine. “Don’t go,” he whispers. “Stay with me.”

My heart stutters then gallops. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I drink his groan with my lips and tongue, hold him with my arms and heart as he comes undone.