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“It’s not you. You’re perfect, sweetheart.” He gets his second boot on. Briefly glances at me. “I’m sorry, Elodie.”

Then he’s gone. The door slams behind him and I’m alone in sheets still damp with our come, with his vague apology reverberating in my brain.

The bastard turned the best night of my life into something I’m supposed to be ashamed of.

I don’t understand what changed between three in the morning and sunrise. What could I have done in my sleep to make him look at me like leaving is the only decent choice?

Nothing.

I thought we’d stopped pretending and allowed this to happen for real.

The coffee machine I set on a timer last night clicks on in the kitchen. Cheerful. Routine.

Pulling the blanket over my head, I sob, ugly and loud, Somewhere in the middle of it the truth arrives and presses down on my chest.

Everybody warned me about this. Priya, the articles, Beau himself. All of them insinuated that, eventually, this man was going to ruin me.

Except, he didn’t break my heart somewhere down the road.

He broke it this morning.

It’s already done.

twelve

Moments Later

Her shower’s built for one small person.

This is less lovemaking than a negotiation with tile.

I’ve got Elodie backed against the tile wall with water pouring over us. One of her legs is hooked up over my forearm and my cock is buried in her for the umpteenth time. We’re moving at a snail’s pace because there’s nowhere in here to go fast. Every third stroke one of us knocks an elbow into the faucet and we both crack up.

Four days in and I simply cannot get enough of her.

The heat and grip of her pussy around me. The sounds she makes. How she’s quit being shy about telling me what she likes and how she wants it.

Elodie comes with her forehead pressed to mine. I follow her a few pumps later, holding her up against the wall, hoping my legs remember how to work.

Afterward is the part I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. I turn her around, tip her head back into the water and wash her hair, working shampoo through it with both hands while she makes a sound like a cat. She soaps me up in return, palms sliding over my chest, stomach, and lower.

She takes her time washing my cock, grinning up at me the whole while, pleased with herself. While she works on me, I place a soapy hand between her legs and return the favor. Her pussy is swollen and tender from how much sex we’ve had over the past four days. I tickle her clit. She gasps, grabs my wrist and we are both laughing again.

Being with Elodie gives me something I haven’t experienced for what seems like years.

I feel young.

Four days ago, I left this apartment like it was burning. Made it two blocks. Stood outside a bánh mì shop and pictured Elodie’s face when I gave her some lame-ass excuse. Yet again, I failed her. In one moment of fear, I diminished the entire night we spent together.

I turned around. Climbed the stairs and knocked. She opened the door with swollen eyes and her chin up, braced to hate me. I confessed I was a coward and an idiot and I was sorry. Held her while she cried. Promised I wouldn’t hurt her again.

She called me a quitter. I said she was too young for me. It became a fight. The fight became her fisting both hands in my shirt and kissing me and I haven’t left since.

We haven’t worn clothes.

Four days ago, I took the lead when it came to sex. Now she pushes me around a little. Tries things. Studies my reaction to see what I like and it takes me apart every time. I’ve spent my whole life being dominant in the bedroom. Handing Elodie the wheel so she can experience what her body can do to a man is the most erotic surrender of my life.

I can’t get enough, but today I have somewhere else to be. The spell is about to be broken.