“I see.”

I eye the king-size bed in a bedroom I can see down the hall, the opulent white down comforter, the millions of fluffy pillows. I’ve been with two men in my life. One was Tad, my college sweetheart, who moved to Silicon Valley after graduation. He didn’t ask me to move with him—he needed to get a foothold on his new job and find a place to live—and I didn’t press him. We parted ways with promises of keeping in touch and flying out to see each other, but for some reason, neither of us ever did. We had a benign, comfortable relationship, and after a few months of him being gone, I found that I hardly thought of him at all. About a year ago, I looked him up online and saw that he’d recently gotten married. Then came Preston, and look how that turned out. Men keep leaving me, and I wonder if it’s something missing in me.

“You look nervous, Elena. Don’t be.”

Right. That’s like telling my pet pig to not eat cucumbers.

“If you’d rather me call you a car to take you home, I will. I just thought you and I . . . we seem to . . . have . . .” His voice trails off, as if he’s not quite sure what to say.

“No, I want to be here.”

“Good.” We look at each other for several moments, and I fidget, moving from one foot to the next.

He comes closer, setting his glass down on the end table where mine is. “May I take down your hair?” His voice is hesitant, and it comforts me to think that he really is nervous.

“Okay.”

He tugs at the upswept hair I carefully arranged before work this morning.

He sighs when it’s down, running his hands through the long strands as they fall to the middle of my back. My hair is my treasure, long and thick and lustrous, a coppery color with gold highlights. Topher is always telling me to wear it down, that it’s my best attribute, but it’s easier up or pulled back with a headband.

“Beautiful. I didn’t realize it was so long,” he murmurs.

His hand massages my scalp in a way that makes me step closer to him, my body loose and melting under the intensity of his golden eyes.

“I need you to sign some papers. Are you okay with that?”

Papers?

I blink.

His thumb tugs at my bottom lip, brushing against it softly like he did at Milano’s. “It’s just basic stuff about confidentiality, an NDA form. Because of who I am and what my ex did, I don’t take any chances. Cool?”

“You aren’t that big of a deal.”

He stills and takes a step back from me, and I immediately want him back.

“Elena, there’s something I should tell you . . .” He rubs at his face. “Shit.”

He’s wavering.

I exhale. Preston’s taking Giselle home, and even though he’ll be in his full set of pajamas and smelly socks, I’ll be the one alone tonight.

“Are you married?” I ask.

“No!”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Serial killer?”

“No, but would I admit that if I was?” He smirks.

“Do you have an STD?”

He scoffs. “Hell no. I just got my physical. Plus, I never have unprotected sex.”

Then why does he look so conflicted? Maybe it’s me. I’m not his usual.

“Then we’re good. This is what it is, right? Just sex between two lonely people.”

He releases a sigh and gives me a lingering glance. “You should never be lonely, Elena.”

My entire body softens at the sincerity—and heat—in his voice. I like his growly tone. Masculine and nothing like Preston’s. He takes my glasses off, and I stare at his lips. They’re insanely lush, full, and totally bitable, a deep indentation on the bottom. No man should have such a wicked mouth.

“Which is why we’re going to do this,” I murmur.

He seems to come to a decision and guides me to a huge modern kitchen, where he pulls a few pieces of paper out of a drawer and lays them down on the white marble countertop.

I do my best to focus on the papers, but it’s difficult when he moves behind me, his body pressed against mine as he lifts my hair to the side and brushes his lips lightly over the sensitive skin on the back of my neck.

Fire licks at me, rising higher and higher, from the brief contact. We haven’t even kissed for real yet, and I’m already incinerating from the outside in.

With a shuddering inhale, I give the papers a cursory look. A nondisclosure agreement. Gross. I’m a trustworthy person. I’d never share my dalliances with anyone. Good grief, I have my own secrets to keep! Hello, sexy lingerie.

His hands are undoing the clasp on my pearls, the soft graze of his hands against my skin making my legs weak.

“Hurry up, Elena.”

The soft words shoot straight to my core, heat pooling as I shiver. I grab the pen and scribble in a name and address.

I turn to face him, chewing on my lip. “All done.”

He wears that wild look in his eyes again when I face him, his chest rising rapidly as he takes me in from head to toe. I don’t know what he sees except that my hair spills around my shoulders, and I’m pretty sure my nipples stand at attention.

I put my hand on his chest. “First, tell me three things about you.”

His fingers unbutton the top button of my shirt. “Let me see. My middle name is Eugene, and coupled with the fact that I didn’t hit my growth spurt until sixteen, it got me beat up a lot in middle school.” He undoes the second button. “Secondly, I’m absolutely terrified of water. You’ll never see me swimming or on a beach vacation.”

He’s so athletic looking. “Why?” I breathe as he goes for the next pearl button.

He puts his face in my neck, inhaling. His lips brush at my ear. “Not telling you. Fuck, you smell good. What kind of perfume is that?”

I let out a ragged breath. Something Topher gave me. “I can’t recall, and third?”

He fingers the last button on my shirt, not quite undoing it. “You really need to know?”

I nod, my body tingling when his hand pulls at my hair, the hold making me arch my neck up. It’s a little commanding and sharp, that motion, but it only sends sizzles of electricity down my spine.

“I like my sex hard and dirty. Does that scare you?”

“As long as you don’t pull out the handcuffs.” I must be drunk because I might not mind those one little bit.

He kisses my collarbone. Barely. “And you didn’t ask for a fourth, but the truth is I may have to jack off in the bathroom before I fuck you, Elena.”

A long breath comes out of me. “Greg . . .”

He winces and drops his hands. “Don’t call me Greg.”

“Okay, Eugene.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about you.”

“My middle name is Michelle.”

He gives me a long look, his eyes darkening as I undo the last button on my shirt, picking up where he left off. I’m doing this. And the freedom of it, knowing that this man wants me, makes me bold.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs, eyes low, watching me like a wolf might watch its prey.

“I love books—the smell of them, the weight of them in my hands. Before I was a librarian, I used to edit romance books in New York.”

He holds my gaze, his mouth deliciously close to mine. “Nice. What else?”

“When I’m nervous, I spell words.” I blush.

“I make you nervous. Filing that away. What else?” he growls.

“I’ve never had an orgasm with a man.”

His eyes go to half mast. “Sweet Elena, I’m gonna take care of that first thing.”

A long exhalation leaves my chest, part exhilaration, part excitement that licks over me at the way he’s looking at me, as if he’s going to devour me bit by bit. That feeling of confidence roars. With a skilled motion, he slides my blouse off, and it falls to the floor.

He swallows, his throat bobbing as his eyes burn over every inch of me. He takes a step back, his eyes hot flames.

I might be a librarian, but my lingerie screams sex kitten.

I unzip my skirt and step out of it, kicking it to the side. It lands near the kitchen table.

And I know exactly what he sees—a three-piece pink sequin set, a bra and panties with garters featuring handmade Italian lace on the straps.

His chest rises. “Fuck me.”

Oh, I will.

I cup my full C cups, sliding my hands over the material, showing him how the sequins change from pink to silver. “There are little unicorns on my breasts when you move the fabric.” I drift my fingers over the waistband of the panties, feeling brave, oh so brave, by what I see on his face. I touch the top of my mound. “And here, when I move the sequins”—I slide the fabric resting on my small bundle of nerves—“is a little heart.” It’s funny how easy this is with him when I was never able to model for Preston any of my designs. He took one look at the mannequins and dress forms in my sewing room and left the room, chagrined, his face livid. He yelled at me and said I was going to ruin my entire family with my proclivities. I should have seen then that we weren’t the same. That he wasn’t the one.