My Fair Billionaire

Eight


Ava trudged up the stairs to her apartment with Peyton two steps behind, silently willing him to twist his ankle. Not enough to do any permanent damage. Just enough to make him have to sit down and rub it for a few minutes so she could escape him.

In spite of her demands to leave her alone, he had followed her for three blocks, neither of them saying a word. She’d thought he would give up when they reached the door behind the shop that opened onto the stairwell leading up to her apartment. But he’d stuck his foot in it before she had a chance to slam it in his face. At this point, she was too tired to argue with him. If he wanted to follow her all the way up so she could slam her apartment door in his face, then that was his prerogative.

But he was too fast for her there, as well, shoving the toe of his new Gucci loafer between door and jamb before she had a chance to make the two connect. She leaned harder on the door, trying to put enough force into it that he would have to remove his foot or risk having his toes crushed. But his shoe held firm. Damn the excellence of Italian design anyway.

“Ava, let me in,” he said, curling his fingers around the door and pushing back.

“Go. Away,” she told him. Again.

“Just talk to me for a few minutes. Please?”

She sighed wearily and eased up on the door. Peyton shouldered it harder, gaining enough ground to win access to the apartment. But he halted halfway in, clearly surprised by his success. His face was scant inches from Ava’s, and his fingertips on the door skimmed hers. Even though she was still wearing her white gloves, she could feel the warmth of his hand against hers. He was close enough for her to see how the amber of his irises was circled by a thin line of gold. Close enough for her to see a small scar on his chin that hadn’t been there in high school. Close enough for her to smell the faint scent of something cool and spicy that clung to him. Close enough for her to feel his heat mingling with her own.

Close enough for her to wish he would move closer still.

Which was why she sprang away from the door and hurried toward the kitchen. Tea, she told herself. That was what she needed. A nice, calming cup of tea. She’d hardly had a chance to taste hers in the shop. She had a particularly soothing chamomile that would be perfect. Anything to take her thoughts off wanting to be close to Peyton. No! she quickly corrected herself. Anything to take her thoughts off her lousy afternoon.

Without wasting a moment to remove her gloves or hat—barely even taking the time to shove the netting of the latter back from her face—she snatched the kettle from the stove, filled it with water and returned it to the burner as she spun the knob to turn it on. Then she busied herself with retrieving the tea canister from the cupboard and searching a drawer for the strainer. She felt Peyton’s gaze on her the entire time, so knew he had followed as far as the kitchen, but she pretended not to notice. Instead, after readying the tea and cup, she began sorting through other utensils in the drawer, trying to look as if she were searching for something else that was very important—like her peace of mind, since that had completely fled.

“Ava,” he finally said when it became clear she wouldn’t continue the conversation.

“What?” she asked, still focused on the contents of the drawer.

“Will you please talk to me?”

“Are we not talking?” she asked, not looking up. “It sounds to me as if we’re talking. If we’re not talking, then what are we doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m trying to get you to look at me so I can explain why I did what I did earlier.”

He wasn’t going to leave until they’d hashed this out. So she halted her phony search and slammed the drawer shut, turning to face him fully. “You were trying to get us thrown out of there on purpose,” she said.


“You’re right. I was,” he admitted, surprising her.

He stood in the entry to the kitchen, filling it, making the tiny space feel microscopic. During their walk, he had wrestled his necktie free of his collar and unbuttoned his jacket and the top buttons of his shirt, but he still looked uncomfortable in the garments. Truth be told, he hadn’t looked comfortable this week in any of his new clothes. He’d always looked as if he wanted to shed the skin of the animal she was trying to change him into. He looked that way now, too.

But he’d asked her to change him, she reminded herself. There was no reason for her to feel this sneaking guilt. She was trying to help him. She was. He was the one who had wrecked their afternoon today with his boorish behavior. He even admitted it.

“Why did you do it?” she asked. “We were having such a nice time.”

“No, you were having a nice time, Ava. I was turning into Mary fu—uh... Mary friggin’ Poppins.”

“But Peyton, if you want to get along in—” somehow, she managed to get the words out “—my world, then you need to know how to—”

“I don’t need to know how to take tea,” he interrupted her, fairly spitting the last two words. “Admit it, Ava. The only reason you took me to that place was to get even with me for something. For being less than a gentleman—what you consider a gentleman, anyway—at the Art Institute yesterday. Or maybe for something else this week. God knows you’re as hard to read now as you were in high school.”

Ignoring his suggestion that she’d made him go to the tearoom as a punishment—since, okay, maybe possibly perhaps there was an element of truth in that—and ignoring, too, his charge that she was hard to read since he’d never bothered to see past the superficial—she latched on to his other comment instead. “What I consider a gentleman?” she said indignantly. “News flash, Peyton—what I’m teaching you to be is what any woman in her right mind would want a man to be.”

He grinned at that. An arrogant grin very like the ones to which he’d treated her in high school. “Oh, yeah? Funny, but a lot of women who knew me before this week liked me just fine the way I was. A lot of women, Ava,” he reiterated with much emphasis. “Just fine.”

She smiled back with what she hoped was the same sort of arrogance. “Note that I said, ‘any woman in her right mind.’ I doubt you’ve known too many of those, considering the social circle—or whatever it was—you grew up in.”

She wanted to slap herself for the comment. Not just because it was so snotty, but because it wasn’t true. Right-minded people weren’t defined by their social circles. There were plenty of people in Chicago’s upper crust who were crass and insufferable, and there were plenty of people living in poverty who were the picture of dignity and decency. But that was the effect Peyton had on her—he made her want to make him feel as small as he made her feel. The same way he had in high school.

He continued to smile, but his eyes went flinty. “Yeah, but these days, I move in the same kind of circle you grew up in. And hell, Ava, at least I earned my money. That’s more than you can say for yourself. Your daddy gave you everything you ever had. And even Daddy didn’t work for what he had. He got it from his old man. Who got it from his old man. Who got it from his old man. Hell, Ava, how long has it been since anyone in your family actually worked for all the nice things they own?”

Something in her chest pinched tight at that. Not just because what he said about her father was true—although Jennings Brenner III earned pennies these days working in the prison kitchen, he’d inherited his wealth the same way countless Brenners before him had. But also because Ava still hated the reminder of the way her family used to be, and the way they’d treated people like Peyton. She hated the reminder of the way she used to be, and the way she’d treated people like Peyton. He was right about her money, too—about the money she’d had back in high school, anyway. It hadn’t been hers. She hadn’t earned any of it. At least Peyton had had a job after school and paid his own way in the world. In that regard, he’d been richer back then than she. She’d really had no right to treat him the way she had when they were kids.

The kettle began to boil, and, grateful for the distraction, she spun around to pour the hot water carefully into her cup. For long moments, she said nothing, just focused on brewing her tea. Peyton’s agitation at her silence was almost palpable. He took a few steps into the kitchen, pausing right beside her. Close enough that she could again feel his heat and inhale the savory scent of him. Close enough that she again wanted him to move closer still.

“So that’s it?” he asked.

Still fixing her attention on her cup, she replied, “So what’s it?”

“You’re not going to say anything else?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. Something about how my money is new money, so it’s not worthy of comparison to yours, being as old and moldy as it is, or something like that.”

The teenage Ava would have said exactly that. Only she would have delivered the comment in a way that made it sound even worse than Peyton did. Today’s Ava wanted no part of it. What today’s Ava did want, however...

Well. That was probably best not thought about. Not while Peyton was standing so close, looking and smelling as good as he did.

She sidestepped his question by replying, “Why would I say something like that when you’ve already said it?”

“Because I didn’t mean it.”

“Fine. You didn’t mean it.”

Instead of placating him, her agreement only seemed to irritate him more. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”

“Why do you want me to argue?”

“Stop answering my questions with a question.”

“Am I doing that?”

“Dammit, Ava, I—”

She spoke automatically, as she had all week, when she said, “Watch your language.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “No.”

That, finally, made her look up. “What?”

He smiled again, but this time it was less arrogant than it was challenging. “I said, ‘No,’” he repeated. “I’m not going to watch my language. I’m sick of watching my language.”

To prove his point, he followed that announcement with a string of profanity that made Ava wince. Then he fairly rocked back on his heels, as if waiting for her to retaliate. No, as if he was looking forward to her retaliation. As if he would relish it.

So, in retaliation, Ava went back to her tea. She dunked the strainer a few more times, removed it from the brew and set it aside. Then she lifted the cup to her lips and blew softly to cool it. When she braved a glimpse at Peyton, she could see that his annoyance had steeped into anger. She replaced her tea on the counter without tasting it. But she continued to gaze into its pale yellow depths when she spoke.

“No more arguing, Peyton. I’m tired of it, and it gets us nowhere.”

He said nothing in response, only stood with his body rigid, glaring at her. Then, gradually, he relented. She could almost feel the fight go out of him, too, as if he were just as tired of the antagonism as she was.

“If I apologize for my behavior this afternoon,” he asked, “will you come back to work for me?”


She told herself to say no and assure him that he’d learned enough to manage the rest of the way by himself. But for some reason, she said nothing.

“You said we still have a lot of work to do,” he reminded her.

She told herself to admit she’d only said that because she hadn’t wanted to end their time together. But for some reason, she said nothing.

“I mean, what if Caroline sets up a date for me and Francesca that involves seafood? I don’t know how to eat a lobster that doesn’t include slamming it on a picnic table a half dozen times.”

She told herself to tell him he should just ask the matchmaker not to send them to Catch Thirty-Five.

“Or what if she makes us go to a wine bar? You and I have barely covered wine, and that’s something you rich people always end up talking about at some point.”

She told herself to tell him he should just ask the matchmaker not to send them to Avec.

“Or, my God, dancing. I don’t know how to do any of that Arthur Murray stuff. I can’t even do that ‘Gangnam Style’ horse thing.”

Although that made her smile, Ava told herself to tell him he should just ask the matchmaker not to send them to Neo.

She told herself to tell him all those things. Then she heard herself say, “All right. I’ll teach you about seafood, wine and dancing between now and the end of next week.”

“And some other stuff, too,” he interjected.

She looked up at that and immediately wished she hadn’t. Within the passage of a few moments, he’d somehow become even more attractive than he was before. He looked...gentler. More personable. More approachable. Like the sort of man any woman in her right mind would want...

“What other stuff?” she asked, quelling the thought before it fully formed.

He seemed at a loss for a minute, then said, “I’ll make a list.”

“Okay,” she agreed reluctantly. It was only for another week. Surely she could be around him for one more week without losing her heart. Mind, she quickly corrected herself. Without losing her mind.

“Do you promise?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

It was an odd request. Why did he want her to promise? It was as if they were back to being adolescents. Why didn’t he trust her to follow through? She’d done her part this week to teach him all the things he’d asked her to help him with. It was only when he’d thrown those lessons out the window and turned into a boor that she’d walked away.

“Yes, I promise.”

“You promise to help me with everything I need help with?”

“Yes. I promise. But in return, you have to promise you’ll stop challenging me every step of the way.”

He grinned at that, but there was nothing arrogant or challenging in the gesture this time. In fact, this time, when Peyton smiled, he looked quite charming. “Oh, come on. You love it when I challenge you.”

Oh, sure. About as much as she had loved it in high school.

“Promise me,” she insisted.

He lifted his right hand, palm out, as if taking a pledge. “I promise.”

“This day’s a wash, though,” she told him. “It’s too late to get started on anything new.”

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved at the tearoom,” he said, surprising her again.

“And I’m sorry I made you go to a tearoom,” she conceded.

The remark reminded her she was still wearing her hat and gloves, and she lifted her hands to inspect the latter. She’d seen them in a vintage clothing store when she was still in college and hadn’t been able to resist them. What had possessed her to buy white gloves with more buttons than a lunar module? Oh, right. To match the white dress with more buttons than Cape Canaveral that she’d bought at a different vintage clothing store. She began the task of unfastening each of the pearly little buttons on her left glove.

“No, don’t,” Peyton said abruptly.

When she looked at him, she saw that his gaze was fixed on her two gloved hands. “Why not?”

Now his gaze flew to her face, and she couldn’t help thinking he looked guilty about something. “Uh...it’s just...um...I mean...ah...” He swallowed hard. “They just look really nice on you.”

His cheeks were tinged with the faintest bit of pink, she noted with astonishment. Was he actually blushing? Was that possible? Surely it was due to the bad lighting in the kitchen. Even so, something in his eyes made heat spark in her belly, spreading quickly outward, warming parts of her that really shouldn’t be warming at the moment.

“Thank you,” she said, the words coming out a little unevenly.

When she started to unbutton her glove once more, Peyton lifted a hand halfway to hers, looking as if he wanted to object again. She halted, eyeing him in silent question, and he dropped his hand with clear reluctance. How odd, she thought. She went back to the task, but couldn’t help noticing how he still pinned his gaze to her hands, and how a muscle in his jaw twitched as his cheeks grew ruddier. Where she normally had no trouble removing the garments, for some reason, suddenly, her hands didn’t want to cooperate. When the second button took longer to free than the first, and the third took even longer than the second, Peyton started to lift a hand toward hers again, closer this time, as if he wanted to help. And this time, he didn’t drop it.

The more his scrutiny intensified, the more awkward Ava felt, slowing her progress even more. At this rate, he and Francesca would be sending their firstborn off to college before she finished with her first glove. Finally, she surrendered, dropping her right hand to her side and extending the left toward him.

“Could you help me out?” she asked, the question coming out softly and uncertainly.

It seemed to take a moment for her question to sink in, as Peyton was still fixed so intently on her gloved hand. Even when he moved his gaze from her hand to her face, he still looked acutely distracted.

“What?” he asked, sounding distracted, too.

“My glove,” she said. “The buttons. I’m having trouble getting them undone. Do you mind?”

Color seeped into his cheeks again. “Uh, no. No, of course I don’t mind. I’ll be glad to do...ah, undo...you...I mean them. Help you. Undo them. Of course. No problem.”

He moved both of his hands to her left one, but he hesitated before making contact. Instinctively, Ava took a step forward, as if doing so would help him close the hairbreadth of space that hovered between their hands. But all that did was diminish to a hairbreadth the space between their bodies, bringing them close enough that she more keenly felt his heat and more fully enjoyed his scent.

Close enough that, this time, Peyton did move closer, completely erasing any space left between them.

As his torso bumped hers, something at Ava’s core caught fire. When he closed his hands over her glove, capturing the fourth button between his thumb and forefinger, that fire exploded, sending rockets of heat through her entire body. It was such an exquisitely tender touch, coming so unexpectedly from a man like him, so unlike anything she’d felt before.

Then she remembered that that wasn’t true. Years ago, surrounded by girlish accoutrements in the bedroom of a Gold Coast mansion, she’d felt a touch that was just as tender, just as exquisite. That night, when Peyton had curled the fingers of one hand gingerly over her shoulder and skimmed the others along her nape, the gesture had been so tentative, so gentle, it was as if he were touching a girl for the first time. Which was ridiculous, because everyone at Emerson knew he was already hugely experienced, even at seventeen. With a carefulness no teenage boy should have been able to manage, he had begun to soothe her tense muscles.


The soothing, however, had quickly escalated. His touch did more to agitate than to placate, stirring feelings in Ava she’d spent months—years, even—trying to deny. Each stroke of his fingers over her flesh had made her crave more, until her thoughts became a jumble of desire and want and need. Peyton had been no more immune to the touching than she had. Within moments, what had started as an effort to calm erupted into a demand to incite. They’d been on each other like animals, scarcely breaking apart long enough to breathe.

But they’d been kids, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the heat building in her belly—and elsewhere. They’d been at the mercy of uncontrollable adolescent hormones. They were adults now, and could contain themselves. Yes, she was still physically attracted to Peyton. She suspected he was still physically attracted to her. But they were mature enough and experienced enough to recognize the pointlessness of such an attraction when there was nothing else between them to make it last. Sex was only sex without emotion to enrich it. And she was beyond wanting to have sex with someone when there was no future in it for either of them.

Now the caress of his fingers on her hand began to sway her thinking in that regard. Maybe, just this once, sex without a future wouldn’t be such a bad thing...

Then Ava realized Peyton wasn’t unbuttoning her glove. He was, in fact, rebuttoning it.

“Peyton, what are you doing?” she asked, surprised by how breathless she sounded. Surprised by how breathless she was. “I need you to help me get my gloves off.”

He sounded a little breathless himself when he replied, “Oh, I think I like them better on.”

“But—”

She wasn’t able to complete her objection—she wasn’t even able to complete a thought—because he dipped his head to press his mouth against hers. A little gasp of surprise escaped her, and he took advantage of her open mouth to taste her more deeply. With one hand still tangled in her gloved fingers, he pulled her close with the other, opening his hand at the small of her back to hold her in place. Not that Ava necessarily wanted to go anywhere. Not just yet. This was starting to get interesting...

Instinctively, she kissed him back, curving her free hand over his shoulder, tilting her head to facilitate the embrace. When she did, her hat bumped his forehead and tipped to one side. She released his shoulder to pull out the trio of hairpins keeping it in place, but Peyton captured that hand, too, pulling both away from her body.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“But it’s in the way.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s perfect where it is.”

They were both breathing hard, their gazes locked, neither seeming to know what to do. The whole thing made no sense. Moments ago, they were arguing, and she was telling him to leave her alone. Yes, they’d ultimately arrived at an uneasy truce, but this went beyond every treaty they’d ever studied in World Civ.

Finally, she asked, “Peyton, what are we doing?”

He said nothing for a moment, only continued to hold her hands at her sides and study her face. Then he said, “Something that’s been coming for a long time, I think.”

“It can’t have been that long. You’ve only been back in Chicago for two weeks.”

“Oh, this started long before I came back to Chicago.”

That was true. It had probably started her freshman year at Emerson, the first time she’d laid eyes on the bad boy of the sophomore class. The bad boy of every class. Even before she knew what it was to want someone, she’d wanted Peyton. She just hadn’t understood how deeply that kind of wanting could run. Now—

Now she understood all too well. And now she wanted it—wanted him—even more.

Nevertheless, she resisted. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s no point in it.”

“There was no point in it sixteen years ago, either, but that didn’t stop us then.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

He smiled at that. “But we were so good together, Ava.”

“That one night we were.”

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Most people don’t get one night like that their entire lives.”

Implicit in his statement was that if they let things continue the way they had started, she and Peyton could have not just one but two nights like that. But was it enough? And wanting him more now, would it be even harder to let him go this time?

She didn’t have a chance to form an answer to either question, because Peyton lowered his head and kissed her again. He was more careful this time, tilting to avoid her hat, brushing his lips gently over hers once, twice, three times, four. With every stroke of his mouth, Ava’s heart raced more wildly, her temperature shot higher, and her thoughts melted away. The next thing she knew, she was framing Peyton’s face in her gloved hands and kissing him back with all the tenderness he was showing her.

But just as before, that deliberation quickly escalated. She pushed her hands through his hair to cup one over his nape and the other along his throat. Then both hands were skimming under his lapels to push his jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged the garment off, then moved his hands to the top of her dress, unfastening the first of its many buttons. She wanted to undo the ones on his shirt, but her gloves hindered her once more. She pulled her mouth away from his to attempt their removal again, only to have him stop her.

“I want them off so I can touch you,” she said.

“And I want them on,” he told her. He grinned in a way that was downright salacious. “At least the first time. And the little hat, too.”

Her pulse quickened at the prospect of a second—and perhaps even a third—time. Just as there had been that night when they were teenagers, even if the third time had been thanks to Peyton’s gentle touches, because she’d been too tender to accommodate him again. Touching was good. She liked touching. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed such intimacies with anyone. In a way, she supposed she hadn’t truly enjoyed them since that night with Peyton—at least not as much as she had with him. When a woman’s first time was with someone like him, it left other guys at a disadvantage.

Then the second part of his statement came clear, and she couldn’t help but smile back. “Just how long have you been thinking about this?”

“All afternoon.”

“But I’m having trouble unbuttoning anything with them on,” she told him. She hesitated to add that that was mostly because his touch made her tremble all over.

“Oh, that’s okay,” he assured her. “I can unbutton anything you—or I—want.”

He dropped his fingers to the second button on her dress and deftly slipped it free, then moved on to the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. As he went, he moved his body slowly forward, gently urging her toward the kitchen door. Then into the hallway. Then to her bedroom door. Then into her bedroom. He reached her hem just as they arrived at her bed and, with the release of the final button, he spread her dress open. Beneath it, she wore a white lace demicup bra and matching panties. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the latter and eased them down over her hips, then gently pushed her down to a sitting position on the bed.

Ava started to scoot backward to make room for him, too, but he gripped her thighs and halted her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he murmured.


He started pulling down her panties again, over her thighs and knees, kneeling to push them along her calves and over her ankles. Instead of rising again, however, he moved between her legs, pushing her thighs apart. When Ava threaded her white-gloved hands through his hair, he gripped one of her wrists to place a kiss at the center of her palm. She closed her eyes, feeling the kiss through the fabric, through her skin, down to her very core. Then she felt his mouth on her naked thigh, and she gasped, her eyes flying open. Instinctively, she tried to close her legs, but he caught one in each hand and opened her wider. Then he moved his mouth higher, and higher, and higher still, until he was tasting her in the most intimate way he could.

Pleasure pooled in her belly as he darted his tongue against her, rippling outward to send ribbons of deliciousness echoing through her. Over and over, he savored her, relished her, aroused her. Little by little, those ribbons began to coil tight. Closer and closer they drew, until she didn’t think she would be able to tolerate the chaos surging through her. Then, just when she thought she would shatter, those coils sprang free and she fell back onto the bed, arms spread wide, surrendering as one wave after another engulfed her.

Delirious, panting for breath, she somehow managed to lift her head enough to see Peyton stand. As he moved his hands to the buttons of his shirt, his grin was smug and satisfied. As much as she had enjoyed the last—how long had she been lying here? Moments? Months? An eternity?—she enjoyed watching him undress even more. He did it methodically, intently, his eyes never leaving hers, casting his shirt to the floor and then reaching for the waistband of his trousers.

He might have been a workaholic, but he clearly also took time to work out. His torso was roped with muscle and sinew, and his shoulders and biceps bunched and flexed as he jerked his belt free and lowered his zipper. Beneath, he wore a pair of silk boxers Ava had been in no way instrumental in encouraging him to buy. So either he cared more about undergarments than he did about what he wore over them, or else he wanted to impress someone. She remembered he would be meeting soon with a woman who’d been handpicked for him. And she pushed the thought away. He was with her now. That was all that mattered. For now.

When he stepped out of his boxers, he was full and ready for her. Ava caught her breath at the sight of him, so confident, so commanding, so very, very male. He lay alongside her and draped an arm over her waist, then lowered his head to hers, pushed back the netting on her hat, and kissed her deeply. She curled her fingers around his neck and pulled him closer, vying momentarily for possession of the kiss before giving herself over to him completely. He covered her breast with one hand, kneading gently. Then he followed the lace of her bra until he found the front closure, unsnapping it easily. After that, his bare hand was on her bare flesh, warm and insistent, his skin exquisitely rough.

He moved his mouth from hers, dragging kisses over her cheek, across her forehead, along her jaw. Then lower still, along her neck and collarbone, between her breasts. Then on her breast, tracing the tip of his tongue along the lower curve before opening wide over the sensitive peak. As he drew her into his mouth, he flattened his tongue against her nipple, tasting her there as intimately as he had everywhere else. Those little coils began to tighten inside her again, eliciting a groan of need.

Peyton seemed to understand, because he levered himself above her and returned his mouth to hers. As he kissed her, he entered her, long and hard and deep. Ava sighed at the feeling of completion that came over her. Never had she felt fuller or more whole. She opened her legs wider to accommodate him and he gave her a moment to adjust. Then he withdrew and bucked his hips forward again. Ava cried out at the second thrust, so perfect was the joining of their bodies. When Peyton braced himself on his forearms, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he propelled himself forward again. She lifted her hips to meet him, and together they set a rhythm that started off leisurely before building to a forceful crescendo.

They came together, both crying out at the fierceness of their release. Peyton rolled onto his back, bringing Ava with him so that she was the one on top, gazing down at him. His breathing was as rapid and ragged as her own, his skin as slick and hot with perspiration. But he smiled as he looked at her, moving a hand to the back of her head to unpin her hat and free her hair until it tumbled around them both.

He was so beautiful. So intoxicating. Such a generous, powerful lover. She’d been thinking she would be able to handle him better as an adult. She’d thought her hormones had calmed down to the point where she would be in control of herself this time. She’d thought she would be immune to the adolescent repercussions of her first time with Peyton.

Wrong. She had been so wrong. He was more potent now than he had ever been, and she was even more susceptible to him. Her control had evaporated the moment he covered her mouth with his. The repercussions this time would be nothing short of cataclysmic. Because where she had responded to Peyton before as a girl who knew nothing of love and little of the workings of her own body, now she responded to him as a woman who understood those things too well. But it wasn’t the physical consequences she might worry about in a situation like this—he had slipped on a condom before entering her. It was her heart. A part of her that was considerably more fragile.

And a part that was far more prone to breaking.