But he was shaking, too, his breaths heavy, his body tense behind her. So maybe it was ordinary with Red. Maybe this was just the way things were between them.

He tightened one strong arm around her as if he could hold her steady, keep her safe from the surge of desire threatening to short-circuit her system. But he couldn’t, because he was the cause. His fingers parted her folds with heart-stopping certainty, spreading her open like she belonged to him. He delved into her wetness and growled, “God, I’m losing my fucking mind. Kiss me. No. Don’t. I’ll lose it.”

She twisted, tipped her head back, and sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. She wanted to consume him. This wasn’t quite a kiss, was it? He groaned and found her aching clit, his fingers slick with her arousal. His touch was an easy glide, barely any pressure, just electric sensation. She jerked her hips toward him but he resisted, lightly circling that swollen nub until she felt drugged with pleasure, breathless with need.

He dragged his mouth away from hers and sucked at her jaw, her throat. His usual calm had been shattered, the jagged edges glinting dangerously in the low light. “Turn around. Show me your tits. Please.”

She wanted to. So badly. Who was she? Apparently, the kind of woman who thrilled at coarse orders like that, and broke a little bit when they were followed with hoarse manners. She turned, rose up on her knees between his legs. Somehow, he kept stroking her, kept up his beautiful torture. Her hands trembled as she tore open his borrowed jacket and shoved down the front of her dress. He growled, then bent his head and used his teeth to drag down one side of her flimsy bra.

She felt cold air against her tight nipple for a moment before his warm, wet mouth enveloped her, the change a sweet shock, an almost-pain that she craved more of. Wasn’t that strange, craving pain? But this pain was different. This pain was good.

And then it was gone, replaced by tendrils of pure pleasure that coiled around her limbs, tightening with each lazy lick. He suckled her breast and circled her clit and she felt that frantic fluttering deep inside that meant she was going to come. She sank her fingers into his hair, hair that looked like fire but felt like cool silk. “Keep …” She couldn’t get the words out, but she didn’t need to. He kept. And kept.

Luckily for both of them, Chloe always came quietly. She didn’t have enough oxygen to cry out; the screams building in her chest came out as desperate gasps. Her head fell back as pure satisfaction flooded her body. Red bit her nipple gently and nudged her clit one last time, then chuckled at the strangled sound of protest she made. By the time her heart stopped ramming against her ribs, he was putting her knickers in place and tugging her bra over her breast.

“Come on,” he said softly, rearranging her dress. “You’re cold.” He zipped up the jacket for her, tapped her nose, helped her to her feet.

Was she cold? She hadn’t noticed, but she supposed she must be. She wasn’t wearing gloves. It wasn’t good for her fingers to get stiff.

As they stepped off the monument and into the light, her gaze flitted down to the hard shape ruining the line of his jeans. That didn’t look good for him, either. Pre-orgasm, her arousal had made her brave, but now she had to force her words out. “Um, Red … I don’t suppose—well, I mean, obviously you haven’t—and if you—”

“Chloe, love. Please don’t say you’ll finish me off. I’m trying really hard not to fuck you in a back alley, here.”

She bit her lip and let him take her hand, leading her toward the nearest taxi rank. The mist in the air cooled her fevered cheeks and spotted the lenses of her glasses. His strides were long, and she was starting to get exhausted, but she didn’t say anything because she was too busy overthinking. Remembering. Feeling a pulse of pleasure inside her, like an echo. Worrying, as always, because she felt so achingly close to him, but she didn’t think he felt the same. He was the one who’d said, after all, that he wouldn’t make things complicated.

When he’d whispered those words, she’d honestly thought she was okay with it. But that, obviously, had been the horny demon inside her telling lies to get what it wanted. Because now she’d come, and suddenly she was complicated again—complicated and getting dangerously attached.

Tut, tut, horny demon. Unfair.

They were almost there when Red realized she was lagging behind. Instantly, he stopped, squeezing her hand. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you tired? I can—”

“I’m fine,” she snapped. She was not fine, but it had nothing to do with his walking too fast.

He shot her a suspicious look. He was beautiful. She wanted to kiss him. They hadn’t actually done that, and she knew why she’d avoided it: because she was afraid he might taste her feelings on her tongue. Because she was tumbling headfirst into a connection that probably wasn’t as deep on his end.

She wondered why he hadn’t kissed her.

He stepped closer, cradled her jaw in his hands. “Hey, Button,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”

Her breath hitched like she might cry, which she absolutely would not do. Instead she would take a deep breath and tell him calmly that they should forget about tonight because it was already messing with her head. That he should stop holding her like something precious. That he was absolutely wonderful, honestly, he was, and that was exactly why he must never touch her again, or call her Button, or even smile at her. His smile was very handsome, handsome enough to trick her into ill-advised feelings that could not end well; better safe than sorry.

Always, she was better safe than sorry. And better left alone than left behind.

But, before she could say any of that, everything went to hell in a handbasket.

“Is that my Chloe?” The question rang through the air, slightly slurred and more than a little incredulous.

She froze. Oh, for heaven’s sake, no.

“Chloe!” the voice repeated, unmistakable now.

Disaster had struck. The end days were nigh. She already wanted to sink into the floor. She jerked back from Red until his hands fell from her cheeks, but that did absolutely nothing to help the situation. The man who seemed to be attempting a no-strings-attached affair with her was about to be subjected to one of her bonkers family members. Because men loved to meet the relatives of the women they got off on public monuments. They loved that. It was well-known.

“Darling! It’s me!”

Chloe turned. “Yes, Aunt Mary. I know.”

“Don’t be so dour!” Aunt Mary beamed. “I’m thrilled to see you out and about, my darling, I’m absolutely thrilled.”

If it weren’t for the purple lipstick, the spiky heels, and the, er, volume, Chloe might think she was standing face-to-face with her mother. Mary was Joy Matalon-Brown’s twin, and also, possibly, the reason Chloe had been born. Chloe held a private theory that her parents had bonded over the surreal experience of growing up with a mother like Gigi and a sister like Mary. Her poor, ordinary dad and sensible, highly strung mum had been thrown together by a shared experience in stress and long-suffering sighs.

“I’m pleased to see you, too, Aunt Mary.” It wasn’t exactly a lie: Chloe loved to spend time with her aunt. In a controlled environment. Under very particular circumstances. “You look nice.”