Shakespeare’s eyebrow shot up. “You should tell him that. Doesn’t seem like he got the memo.”

With a huff, I shoved the credit card into his chubby hand and wrapped his sweaty fingers around it. “Hey, Dr. Phil, get the fuck out of here.”

Shakespeare did as he was told, the door closed, and it was just Emilia and me. She held her sweater to her braless chest and sat on the table, grinning at me.

“Third base?” She bit her lower lip.

I nodded, approaching her in steps that were restrained and even. I didn’t want to pounce on her like a maniac. I mean, I did want to, but I couldn’t scare her away. Not after today.

Something had changed, whether I liked it or not. She knew my secrets. Some of them, anyway. I didn’t understand why I told her everything I did, but alarmingly, I didn’t regret it. Not one bit.

Just when I was inches from her body, watching her bare ribcage rising up and moving down to the rhythm of her heartbeats, I took a sharp right and walked to Shakespeare’s phone.

“Where are you going?” Her voice broke mid-sentence, and I suppressed a chuckle.

“I’m not eating you out to the sound of Kravinsky.”

After all, this is Emilia. The most important meal of the day.

And Kravinsky sucked ass, but I wasn’t going to argue with her over music. I switched it to “Superstar” by Sonic Youth, the song playing when I’d tried—and failed—to kiss her the first time ten years ago. When I turned around back to her, I saw in her eyes that she remembered it too.

“Apologize,” I ordered, striding in her direction once again.

“What for?” Her gaze shifted, and she looked like she was about to throw a punch at me.

“For not kissing me back when you clearly wanted to, you little liar. For fucking one of my best friends. For making that year the worst year of my life since I was nine. Apologize for not being mine when you should’ve been. Because Emilia, baby…” I tilted my head sideways. “It was always fucking us and you know it.”

“I won’t apologize unless you do too. For stealing my calc textbook. For treating me like trash…” She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. “For throwing me out of Todos Santos.”

I reached for her, placed myself between her legs, and yanked away the sweater she held to her chest. I stared straight into her eyes. “I apologize for doing all those things to you in high school, but now we’re grownups, and I think I’ve met my match. Your turn.”

“I apologize for being too fucking irresistible for you to maintain your sanity.” She rolled her eyes.

I knew how rare it was for Emilia use the F word. I loved it on her lips. I stood there staring into her face for a few seconds before I let my eyes drift down. Her breasts were better than I expected. Slightly smaller than I’d imagined, but with pinker, smaller nipples. They were truly PPPs.

Perky. Pear-shaped. Perfect.

My pulse quickened and blood rushed to my swollen cock.

“May I?” I asked. Why the fuck did I ask? When did I start asking for stuff, anyway?

“You may.”

I lowered my face to her right breast and flicked it with my tongue, tasting her tight nipple, teasing. She sighed and ran her fingers through my hair. My whole back broke into chills. I sucked on her, barely applying real pressure, as I moved my hand to her waistband. I shoved my palm in, moving my finger along her cotton panties.

“Jesus, Vic,” she murmured, clutching my head to her chest and loving every moment of it. “Jesus Christ.”

I moved to her left tit and sucked harder, and she reacted exactly as I wanted her to, moaning louder this time. That was my cue to nudge her panties to the side. My hand still tucked inside her leggings, I dipped one finger inside of her.

So tight.

So warm.

So mine.

“Emilia,” I whispered into her mouth before kissing her again. “How many times did you imagine me fingering you when you secretly watched me play football in high school?”

The music was slow and seductive, and we were completely fucking drunk.

Emilia cupped my face and stared at me, her eyes sparkling, like she was awestruck. Alcohol? Hormones? Who cared? She was vulnerable. For me.

“Please, don’t.” She moaned the words.

“Answer me,” I prompted, thrusting another finger into her. She was so soaked. I wanted to tear her stupid leggings to shreds and ride her on the table.

“All the time.” Her voice was strangled. “I thought about it all the time and hated myself for it.”

The song ended and I knew we had about five minutes more, if not less. Not nearly enough time for me to do what I wanted to do. So instead of feasting on her pussy, I fingered her faster, plunging deeper into her. She unbuckled me, slipped her hand into my briefs and squeezed the head of my cock, twirling a drop of pre-cum around it with her thumb. I groaned and devoured her mouth while she jerked me off.

Who would have thought. Emilia LeBlanc from Richmond, Virginia. So sweet. So proper. So fucking out of her mind for me, in this small tattoo shop on Broadway a couple of days before Christmas.

We were rubbing each other and moaning each other’s names into our mouths—both of us desperate to make sure it was real…

I realized I was about to come all over her Rudloph and his fucking red nose. I stopped her hand on my cock, still honing in on her throbbing clit. What the fuck was I doing? “Don’t,” I barked. “I’ll come.”

“And?” She smiled into one of our dirty, hot kisses.

“And I’d prefer not to come in your hand like a twelve-year-old,” I said. Barely.

“Ask me nicely, or I’ll continue.”

Was she fucking threatening me?

“You’re going to regret—” I started, but she started pumping faster, and I caved. Like a pussy, I gave her what she wanted. “Fine, fuck. Please.”

“Please what?” she teased, and holy hell, she was filthier than I’d imagined. Not at all the innocent little damsel in distress.

“Please…” I cleared my throat. “Don’t let me come all over your hand.”

That was the moment when Emilia LeBlanc jumped from the table with a naughty grin I’d never seen on her face before and got on her knees for me, her beautiful lavender hair in my fist, pumping my dick as she clasped the head of my cock between her lips.

“Come,” she mouthed on my cock.

And I did. Before she even finished the word.

It was stunning, the best thing I’d ever done with a woman in my entire life.

Three hours later, we walked out of the tattoo shop. She had a cherry blossom tree on her skin. It wasn’t that small. The nape of her neck was where the brown trunk stood tall, strong, with thick roots adorning her shoulder blades. Pink and purple blossoms caressed her thin, delicate neck.

And I was fucked.

So. Fucking. Fucked.

It was weird to have her in his penthouse.

Over the years, I’d brought girls to Dean’s apartment plenty of times. I took them in his kitchen, Jacuzzi, bathtub, the balcony overlooking Manhattan, and even got one flexible Juilliard dancer to do it on his very narrow, very packed wet bar. I didn’t think much of it. He did the same in my condo in LA. It was just the way we were. But when we finally got home, at close to midnight, I knew exactly where I had to take Emilia LeBlanc.

On her ex-boyfriend’s bed.

It wasn’t malicious. Not at all. She was right. This was too important to be done in a hotel or some random Starbucks. This was going to happen in a bed. She wasn’t a nameless one-night stand. She was a fantasy, and like all fantasies, she was meant to be savored, cherished, and treated with caution and respect.

Besides, Emilia didn’t know it was Dean’s bed, and I didn’t see how withholding the information from her could hurt her. It made no difference. At least to me.

She looked a little tired in the elevator, so I decided to wake her up by sucking on her neck, mere inches from the bandage covering the pink flowers. I crushed her body to the wall of the elevator and lifted her by the back of her knees, tying her legs around my waist.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked, brushing my fingers lightly over the wrapped up tattoo. She whimpered into my mouth and dragged her tongue over my lower lip but didn’t answer me. I wanted her words. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did.

I dry-fucked her, slow and lazy, through our clothes until the doors glided open, then I carried her the rest of the journey to Dean’s door while she was still wrapped around me. It was with great sadness that I had to let her go so I could unlock the door, and when I pushed it open, something occurred to me.

I’m a fucking idiot.

“Close your eyes,” I ordered. Shit. It sounded like I had a surprise planned for her, but the only thing surprising was that I was a complete and utter amateur. Goddammit.

“Why?” she questioned, sobering up a little from her alcohol-induced exhaustion.

“Because I said so,” I snapped.

“Try again. The non-jerk version this time,” she said sleepily.

Fuck, it was like behavioral boot camp with this woman. I took a deep breath. “I want it to be perfect,” I explained, almost softly.

Her eyes fluttered shut and I took her hands in mine—I fucking held her hands, another first—and led her to the master bedroom as we passed by pictures of Dean with his extended fucking family, smiling at us from every corner of the room.