XI CHASING THE STORM （ELLE）

XI

CHASING THE STORM

(ELLE)

My head is way too full right now.

How did a dinner date turn into such a night?

It wasn't even a real date!

But somehow it turned into—something.

Something that felt real.

That felt like I was getting to see the real August.

It started even before we got to the restaurant. The way he was so worried about my health, the gentle way he spoke to me. The way he stepped in to order for me so I wouldn't feel out of my depth, and actually cared enough to worry about my nutritional needs and notice my taste preferences.

I've never had a man pay attention to me like August does.

What does it say about the guys I've dated before that my fake fiancé cares more than my real past boyfriends ever did?

There's been something almost lost about August all night, a guilt clearly weighing on him—but it came out sharply when I met Marissa Sullivan.

She wasn't what I'd expected.

I thought she'd be a sharp battle-axe of a businesswoman. Not this sleek former model who wears red better than I ever could in my dreams. Seeing her like that, drunk and trying to drown something that was weighing on her—

It hurt.

I couldn't blame August for wanting to help, despite the fact that she's made him her mortal enemy.

I was actually glad to let them go without me.

It gave me a few minutes to compose myself.

Otherwise, I might've said something really dumb that would have completely ruined the vibe between August and me.

God, I want him so much.

I want him to be mine so I can hold him, run my fingers through his hair, comfort him, tell him I'd be there for him through anything that was hurting him.

Stupid?

Yes.

How did I fall for a man like this? The one man I absolutely shouldn't?

It's so bad it hurts to be near him.

Hurts because he's gravity, and I'm trying so hard to stay in place. It takes all my strength to resist the force of his pull on every part of me.

I'm not good at impulse control—or resisting temptations with blue eyes that reach down to my soul.

If there's ice cream in the fridge, I'm going to eat it for dinner, because I'm an adult and I can do what I want.

But August is the ice cream I can't have.

Not even the tiniest taste, when every minute I look at him I just want to scarf him right up in so many wicked ways it steals my breath away and leaves my heart thrumming.

Just once.

Just flipping once, I'd like to taste him.

The story of his ex-wife shattered me.

The pain August has been carrying for so long.

The guilt, the shame, the betrayal he must have felt when she turned to a cult rather than an imperfect husband who still cared as a human being and who still wanted to solve their impossible problems. Even when she tried to extort from him instead of being honest that she just wanted his love.

Holy hell.

No wonder he's so dark all the time. So heavy.

He's a far more complicated man than I realized.

I just wish I could kiss away the pain he's engraved so deeply in himself it might never rub away.

I couldn't say any of that.

I couldn't hold back my tears, either, but I could at least try to listen, to support him, to tell him he's not the monster he thinks he is or the monster others have painted him as.

I'm so glad I kept my promise, now.

And I'm glad I heard August's story from his own lips before I heard it through someone else's warped need for slimy gossip.

Settling back into normal after that felt like a farce, but it felt nice too.

August offering me a bite of his foie gras and me recoiling when I found out what foie gras actually is.

He teased me with it like a little boy threatening to put a frog down a little girl's dress, menacing me with the forkful and smirking when I squeaked and tossed my head away.

He was too happy to steal a few of my truffle fries when I offered, though, nipping them right out of my fingers.

Even if tonight was a lot, he's more relaxed, too, since getting that secret off his chest.

I like that he can be that way with me.

That I can tease him and he'll tease me right back, and tell me what a brat I'm being when I pout and insist on dessert even though we're both stuffed.

A slightly tipsy brat, too, if I'm being honest.

I may have indulged in a little too much wine. It was sweet and fizzy and it tasted good, and it helped keep my brain from getting stuck to certain questions.

Like whether or not August still has feelings for his dead wife.

The way he talked about Charisma Marshall ... he must, right?

Even if he didn't love her at the end, you see this with widowers.

The memory of their dead spouse becomes larger than life. Someone they can idolize and love as the deceased shapes every ideal in the imagination, no matter what the real person was like.

Worse, he just blames himself for Charisma's flaws.

Like he's the one who made her what she was, the person who would make the choices she did.

I don't know how to convince him otherwise.

I linger on that as I watch the city at night, twirling my fork through the remains of something called a Lunar Orbiter. It's a confection of dark chocolate ganache and vanilla meringue with macarons.

Well, the second one to be exact. I already finished mine.

This is the rest of August's. After he took one bite, he wrinkled his nose in the most adorably disgusted way and pushed it across the table for me.

But I don't have enough room in my belly to inhale a second whole plate, and the sparkling wine is settling in a little too deep. I'm thinking too hard as I watch the city rotate like we're up high in a lunar orbiter of our own, drifting gently among the stars and looking down at how peaceful the world is when you can't see all the small petty things up close.

... I think I'm trying to convince myself that August is still in love with his dead wife.

I need him to be.

Because as long as I tell myself he's in love with her, I can remind myself that he's completely off limits.

He's soft in the intimate shadows of the lounge, silently staring out the window with his legs crossed and a stem glass in one hand. He's somewhere else, and I wonder what stars he's seeing and wishing on.

Can he still wish on stars at all?

The shadows play over his face until I can pick out every small detail, from the way they kiss the space under his stark cheekbones to the way said cheekbones cut the light into a thin, gleaming sliver.

The way the sun has darkened his skin hints that he's not wholly a creature of the night or endlessly locked inside beneath corporate white lights.

That one unruly lock of hair.

His little bit of rebellion, curving over his decisive, worry-ridged forehead to tease at his right eyebrow.

What would happen in this strange air between us if I reached across the table, tucked that wild lock of hair back, and caressed his cheek?

What would he do if I kissed him again?

Wouldn't it be all right?

In public, we're meant to be intimate, to make people believe we have eyes for no one and nothing but each other.

Would he cradle my hand against his cheek, kiss my palm, let me feel the heat of his lips and the scratch of his beard?

My chest hurts.

This so isn't like me.

I always try to smile. I always look for the bright side of things.

I'm looking now, but it's so hard.

Maybe when this is over, I'll smile, because I'm realizing now that I've never actually been in love before.

In lust, sure.

But this feeling, this desperate desire for this one person, it's new.

It's definitely crazy.

Then again, this whole thing has been insane from the start.

"What are you smiling at this time?" August whispers, almost affectionately.

I blink, recoiling a little with a tiny thump of my heart.

He's very good at watching me without seeming to, and it hits me.

The entire time I've been looking at him, he's been looking at me.

I hadn't even realized I was smiling. That's how entranced I am.

But I look for a quick excuse and flick my gaze to his hair again. "I'm just wondering how much hair wax you used to try to get your hair to lie down, and it still doesn't listen."

It's not a lie.

I was thinking about that bit of hair.

August groans. There's a burr to his voice, raw and gritty, like the bubbles in the sparkling wine have gently sanded his voice down to give it the texture of crushed velvet.

He reaches up to flick the little arc of black hair aside with one blunt finger, only it sways right back to the same spot on his brow.

"It's been like this since I was a child," he grumbles. "I could use an entire tin of pomade, and in minutes it would pop right back out. It's terrible for my professional image. I look like Tom Sawyer."

I snicker. "It's cute. But if you really hate it that much, you could clip it. I have some little colored barrettes that would look adorable on you."

"You're not funny." His foul look doesn't have the usual force behind it.

"I think I am. You do too."

"Overconfident too." With a chuckle, he sets his wine down without finishing it, then leans across the table toward me. "You look like you've had enough." His gaze dips down toward the little plate of dessert. "Ready to go?"

"Mmm . . ."

I run my finger around the rim of my empty wineglass, pretending to consider it.

Honestly, I'm reluctant. I really am.

If this night has been one emotional gut punch after the next, it's also been really nice. Just a little magic and intimacy that will end when he drops me off at my door with one last kiss for the woman I'm playing for the tabloids, though I'll take it like it's for me.

But I can't hold on forever.

Still, I cling just a little bit longer, watching him. "Are you good to drive? We've polished off most of this bottle."

"You've polished it off," he points out with amusement. "I've been holding back, since I'm driving. A glass of water and I'll be fine." He arches a brow. "Will you?"

I laugh. "It's sparkling wine! Not straight whiskey. I'm just a little fuzzy. Not drunk."

"Good to know." August stands then, and with a dramatic flourish that's just playful enough to tell me he might be a tad more buzzed than he'll admit. But then he offers me his hand and says, "Shall we?"

I don't hesitate to slip my fingers into his.

His hand folds mine in pure heat, and he lifts me up with this effortless strength that makes my heart soar.

For an instant, it feels like he'll swirl me into his arms to dance, my body swaying closer to his, our eyes locking. But he lets go gracefully and slips my coat off the back of my chair, holding it open for me.

When I slip my arms into it, his chest briefly presses against my back.

I go hot and tingly.

Oof.

I need a second before I can face him again.

He stays a second longer than he needs to.

Then, holding my breath, I plaster on my smile, tuck my purse under my arm, slip my hand into his arm, and let him escort me to the elevator for one last stunning glimpse of the Seattle nightscape.

I hold on to that last view.

My last bit of magic before we're back to the mundane.

When the elevator doors open and I glance up at August, he's watching me.

The look on his face hints that he's as enthralled by me as I am by Seattle stretching to the horizon in a sea of lights like colored jewels.

No way.

I can't let myself believe that.

I'm tipsy and imagining things. That conversation climbed up in my bed.

So I glance away quickly, focusing on the icy nip of night air rushing over me, clearing my head as we step outside.

He leads me to the car, helps me inside, and slips into the driver's seat.

But when he starts the engine and pulls out into traffic, when we reach the next intersection, he doesn't turn toward Queen Anne.

I twist to look through the back window. "Um. This is a little déjà vu, but my house is that way."

"I know," August says quietly behind the wheel. "I thought you'd stay at my place tonight."

What?

I whip back to face him, every last nerve inside me seizing up in a hot flush rushing through me. I stare at him uncomprehendingly, a million things running through my head that definitely should not be.

Hot hands on my thighs, teasing them apart.

Bronzed skin against my paleness, making me feel so fragile as his fingers slide higher, higher.

His rough stubble, his mouth roaming my throat, tasting every moan that vibrates out of me as his fingers push between my legs, tease up against my—

Eleanor Jacqueline Lark, stop.

You stop that right now.

I can mentally see Gran wagging a finger at me, and she's right.

I'm being ridiculous.

August is so calm, he couldn't have meant—

Oh, but he glances at me, his brows knit sharply, before he jerks his gaze away with a guttural growl.

"I have a second bedroom," he says. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable with any implications. I simply meant for appearances. Considering the paparazzi jackasses who've caught us by surprise before, we have to assume we have a very determined reporter stalking us. Someone who would notice that we sleep apart every night. We could be saving ourselves for marriage, yes. But most won't find that plausible."

"Oh," I squeak. I hope to God I sound embarrassed and flustered and a little uncomfortable, and not disappointed.

Totally not.

Of course, of course it's a practical thing from Mr. Practicality.

After a breathless moment, I groan and smack my face into my palm.

Calm down, my heart.

"For the record, we've got to work on your delivery," I mutter. "And your planning! You never tell me what we're doing until we're in it ..."

"Sorry." August at least sounds genuinely chagrined. When I glance at him, his face is red and rigid, like he's trying to force his walls back into place. "You're right. I normally give my teams advanced notice. I should offer you the same courtesy."

"Just shoot me a text, tell me to pack a bag, let me know with more than an hour's warning what the dress code is, something."

August smiles thinly—but there's something almost sad there too. "By the time I get in the habit, we'll be breaking up."

Oh.

Oh, that's a high kick right to the feels, and those feels aren't very good.

"... yeah," I say, slouching against the door and looking outside. I find a smile somewhere because that's what I always do, even when it hurts. "I guess ... I guess we will."

August says nothing. The silence in the car is strange.

I don't know how to feel, what to think.

I'm bouncing between this bizarre sensation of being completely alone, and this weirder desperation to ease the tingling that started the moment my imagination ran away and filled me with thoughts of August's hard body between my thighs.

I shift a little in my seat, restless, trying not to be obvious about pressing my thighs together.

It's embarrassing to desperately want a man who doesn't want anything to do with you.

But I can't make it stop, even if I know I'll be sleeping alone tonight.

Somehow I'm not surprised that August owns waterfront property in one of the most expensive cities in the country.

I am surprised, though, when he pulls to a stop outside a surprisingly modest house.

It's definitely not small, but it's also not a hulking, opulent billionaire castle like I'd expect.

Instead, his house is far out on the water, with a narrow bridge of weathered planks leading over Puget Sound to a big single-story ranch-like home of connected octagonal shapes. They're surrounded by sweeping decks that offer glimpses inside through enormous windows.

It's all shades of moody grey, peaceful as mist, right down to the sloping roof of slate tiles. The faint hints of dark-amber ambient light that seep past bamboo blinds cast their light over the wood and slate, coloring them like paint on a canvas.

"Wow! Not what I expected," I whisper. "I thought you'd own a home with a bajillion rooms or at least a utilitarian condo thing. All sleek glass and titanium everywhere."

"I want a home, woman, not another office." The G80 goes quiet as August pulls up a small concealed private drive through the curbside bank of grass that looks down on a small slope of sand coursing out to the waves. "I wanted somewhere I can still hear my own thoughts and the waves under my feet."

I cast him a startled glance.

It's not like him to admit something intimate so openly, but then tonight feels like it's changed so many things. I offer him a small smile.

"Hope I can see the sunrise from the guest room," I tease.

"You can," he answers. "I chose the bedroom facing west. I have no use for sunrise unless I'm on a trip, nursing jet lag."

"August Marshall. Was that a joke?"

He says it so stuffily I know he's teasing, and I laugh, reaching over to poke his arm.

"C'mon. Give me the grand tour so I can steal your guest room and sleep off this wine."

"I thought you said you weren't drunk?"

"I'm not! But I am buzzy. Very buzzy."

He fixes me with a skeptical look. "Will I have to carry you inside?"

"You cad!" I gasp, fluttering a hand playfully to my chest. "Why, Rhett, you're being positively scandalous!"

August rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

"That's it." He pushes the driver's door open pretty forcefully before getting out, slamming the door, and stalking around the rear of the car.

I blink, twisting to watch him through the windows.

What is he—

My door jerks open.

His body presses against mine in a sharp sizzle as he leans across me and unsnaps my seat belt. His arms fold around me, trapping me before I can catch a single startled, heart-tripping breath.

Then he picks me up against his chest and lifts me out of the car with a strength so undeniable it makes me feel like I'm nothing next to the powerhouse of granite muscles locked around me.

"You, Miss O'Hara-Lark," he says tightly, turning away from the car before kicking the door shut with his heel, "are clearly more drunk than you dare let on."

Oh God.

He's doing terrible things to me as I'm being held and carried this way, enveloped in his heat and smoldering power. Especially with that dark scowl on his face as he glares toward his house and marches across the half-buried planks embedded in the sand. They lead to the little boardwalk stretching out over the waves to his home.

That scowl is just a tiny bit intimidating.

That's what makes it meltingly sexy.

But I'm torn between sighing with pleasure and laughing my butt off as I push playfully at his chest. "Me? I'm sorry, which one of us is drunk again? Who is this man calling me Miss O'Hara-Lark and carrying me around? Do you actually sprout a sense of humor when you've had a few?"

"I am not drunk," August clips. But there's a twitch at the corners of his mouth that says if I push a little more, I might actually make this dour man laugh. He steps up onto the walk, his footfalls turning hollow with the space between the wood and the water. He looks down at me. "I'm just humoring the absolute madwoman I've invited into my life. Life is easier if I just don't fight you."

I grin, slipping my arms around his neck. "On the plus side, not fighting me means plenty more good photo ops. I bet someone's getting an eyeful of headline-worthy shots right now."

His sigh this time is more aggrieved. "There is that. I suppose you know that means I'll have to kiss you at the door before carrying you across the threshold, fiancée."

"Hey."Just for that I catch a little hair at the nape of his neck and tug. "You don't have to make kissing me sound like a chore."

"Oh, that's not what I meant, and you—" He splutters. "Did you just pull my hair?"

My grin widens. "Pulling pigtails. That's what you do when you like a stubborn dumb boy, right?"

"I don't think little boys wear pigtails, Elle."

"I mean, it's the twenty-first century. Some might."

"You can stop pulling mine." Snorting, he halts on the deck, just before the front door. His scowl eases, and his dark-blue gaze searches mine. "You truly don't mind a moment of intimacy that should belong to a man you actually care for?"

If only I could be honest.

If only I could tell him I'm coming to care for him more and more every day, with every little detail I learn about him. Every kindness he shows me under that prickly exterior. Everything that makes him August, this grouchy idiot who doesn't know how good a man he actually is because he's been carrying someone else's guilt for too long.

So I just tug lightly at his hair again to bring that hint of an exasperated smile back.

"A little kiss between strangers never killed anyone," I tease, glancing over my shoulder toward the road. A few cars have passed, but I can't exactly see anyone hovering in the bushes across the street. "Doesn't it feel weird, though? Putting on an act for this unseen watcher. It's kind of creepy knowing there's someone looking at us right now. But it feels like a game too." I look back at August and lean in close to him. "We're spies," I whisper. "Trying to fool enemy agents. So we have to make it good."

August's eyes crease with amusement.

"Everything is a story with you, isn't it?" he whispers back, deliberately exaggerating the sound until I'm hard pressed not to giggle.

Even if we're playing at being in love, the game is exciting.

"Makes it more fun," I answer. "You going to kiss me, August?"

Please. Please kiss me, you lunk.

"You're the one talking."

I tell myself I'm imagining the husky, hot edge to his voice.

My smile fades.

Slipping one hand down his neck, I feel the beat of his pulse and press my fingertips to his lips. "So shut me up."

For once, I get a real smile out of him.

Soft, slow, and curving against my fingertips, like he's letting me feel how genuine and rare it is.

It melts his eyes until they're sky blue.

"Such a damn brat," he whispers.

Then, while my heart beats out of my chest, he shoves my fingers aside and bends to take my mouth with his.

It's hesitant, at first.

I can feel him questioning himself, feel him holding back, but me—I'm all impulse and fire.

I want this too badly to make it careful and performative.

Just one kiss, I tell myself.

Just one kiss, and then I'll make myself let this growing infatuation go.

I trace my fingers over his cheekbones, cradle his face in my palms, and lean up into him, turning that hesitant brush of mouths into something firmer and hotter, tilting my head until my lips fuse with his in perfect synchronicity.

Holy sparks.

For such a stern man, there's a sinful sweetness to his lips that makes my gut bottom out with the sheer sensuality of how divine it feels to kiss August Marshall.

How it feels when our mouths give and take and chase until they find the perfect collision, and everything just clicks.

And how it feels when he kisses me back.

He stiffens, a sound of surprise melting between us.

Then it's back and forth, trading the same sharp tension as the barbs we normally throw at each other. Only now they've turned from soft play into searing heat, all touch and wetness and wildness.

He kisses me so hard, so deep, like he's demanding my surrender.

Tongue slipping against my lips, darting and teasing, thrusting without giving me that full plunging feeling that would turn me inside out if he'd just do it.

His hands are hard on my body, pressing me against his chest.

I feel like he'll turn me to dust with the pressure.

His breaths are so hot, his beard dragging against my mouth. I'm close to breaking down and begging him to take me deeper. But I can't find the words, only more pleading with soft flicks of my tongue, then a single daring nip against his lower lip.

It's like flipping a switch.

His hold on me tenses, with a harsh growl exploding up his throat.

His lips turn feral, dragging against my mouth in unrelenting strokes.

His tongue plunges deeper, slipping into me hotly and tracing my mouth.

Intimate, melting, relentless.

I'm going down like a shooting star, barely able to breathe, digging my fingers into his hair and parting my lips to beg for more, more, don't stop, please.

It's like being kissed by summer lightning.

No warning before it's all flash and strike and burn.

I want him to burn me down.

And when I slide my tongue along his, arching and begging, pressing into the hardness of his body, he stops.

It's like someone's slapped him back to his senses and thrown him away.

There it is again—that almost angry look as he stares down, like I've done something to him. He's certainly done something to me when I can't stop panting.

My mouth aches with raw, fiery need.

He's breathing just as hard, his chest heaving against me.

His mouth is red, not just with my lipstick, but with the rough pressure of our lips.

Though he's giving me that look that makes my heart turn inside out with confusion and hurt and wanting ...

His hands still clutch so damn hard, digging into my flesh with delicious pressure and making me wish I was naked against him so I could feel his roughness everywhere.

I'm flipping dying.

The way he molds me against his chest forces my thighs together, and all I want to do is wrap them around him.

"I should hope," he rasps, breaking the charged silence, "that will be sufficient for any Peeping Toms."

I'm so dead.

The thorns in his voice alone rip me apart.

I almost can't speak when his voice does things it's never done to me before, and I feel like those thorns are wrapping around me now, digging in, injecting this poison of lust into my veins.

"Y-yeah," I manage, pulling my hands back to wipe at my mouth, trying to pull myself together. To keep this professional, when it's anything but. "I think it'll ... it'll be enough. You can put me down now."

A spastic jerk only pulls me closer. I almost moan when it's just making the torture worse.

Then August bends without a word to set me on my feet, and if not for the fact that I'm clutching at his shoulders, I'd tumble right to the deck with how wobbly my legs are. There's another quick look between us as the heat of his hand falls to the small of my back, spanning from hip to hip and making another hot surge rush through me to weaken my knees.

I'm combusting.

Just swimming in this liquid heat, this dark and molten tropical sea of desire.

Even though he gives me another almost harsh look, the burn in it tears at me even more.

With slow breaths, I try to steady myself, while August turns away, fishes out his keys, and pushes the glass front door open, making the blinds over the inset rattle in a whisper like rain.

When he reaches back for my hand to draw me inside the dimly lit house after him, I know it's just for anyone who's watching. Making it look like after that steamy kiss, he's leading me inside to his bedroom to finish what we started.

If only.

His hand is so coarse against mine, and that sensation consumes me as I step over the threshold behind him.

It's hard for me to drag my focus off him enough to take in the house around me. I get faint impressions of dark-polished bamboo walls, green-black slate flooring, tasteful minimalist decorations with subtle lighting thoughtfully placed to highlight an earthenware piece of pottery here, a painting there, a plant over there.

The furniture is sparse and masculine in dark fabric, well matched but also clearly full and chosen for comfort.

Hints of moonlight stream in everywhere. The whole house was designed so at least one wall is all windows facing the water, complete with those bamboo blinds for privacy.

All around us is a faint echo of the waves, captured by the open spaces and wooden walls. They make the entire house feel like it's slowly moving with the tide.

August lets go of my hand the moment we're inside—but he turns to close the door behind me, reaching over my head to press his palm against the wooden frame before pushing it shut.

It leaves him leaning over me with one arm stretched overhead, practically pinning me back against the door.

Eep.

I'm suddenly so painfully aware of how tall August is, how much larger than me he is. His shadow looms over me, and his eyes strip me raw as I fall back against the door with a gasp.

He's so deliciously ominous right now.

Dangerously sexy.

That hard glare fixed on me in the same silent accusation I still don't understand—and the mystery is thrilling.

Don't do it.

I have to fight myself when I want to be bold.

I want to feel the adrenaline of almost-fear as I reach for him and drag him down to kiss him, beg him, make him admit that this is real and that I wasn't misreading the smolder in his eyes.

I can't.

I can't.

He's still infatuated with the idea of his dead wife. He's not interested in me beyond our sham; it was just an uncontrollable physical reaction. It was just—

A lost moment.

August drops his arm and pulls back, then turns away from me and releases me from the paralyzing spell of his eyes.

So cold.

Like frostbite, stinging so deeply it burns.

"This way," he says. "I'm having one bathroom reworked and another guest room shower's out of commission this week, so there's only one other bathroom, unfortunately—the master bedroom en suite. You're welcome to use it first if you'd like to shower and sober up before bed. Assuming you prefer to wake up without a hangover."

I start to insist that I'm not drunk again, but right now I'm not sure I'd believe it, when I'm reacting to every little thing about him so powerfully, my body so sensitive and hungry.

So I keep my mouth shut and trail after him, keeping enough distance so I won't lose any sense of pride and beg him to fuck me until I can't stand it.

But I still notice the way his shoulders tense, making his shirt draw tailored tight up against his chest and down to the taper of his waist.

Or how his hands clench and unclench, big knuckles knotting into powerful ridges against his skin, silent agitation in rhythmic motion that matches my racing pulse and the wanting throb between my thighs.

He takes me through a few corridors lit with gold and cloaked in shadows.

The hallways have an almost spiral layout, branching off to the three interconnected octagons that allow every room to face the water. The last octagon is his bedroom—all windows on six sides, facing away from the shore so it's just water and sky.

Absolutely beautiful.

The room is just like August—utilitarian but elegant, decorated in warm wood tones and countering neutral greys. The walls are diagonal interlaced slats of varnished gold brown bamboo, the bed wide and pillowy with a bookshelf headboard of weathered wood.

I want to look at the books, to know what he reads late at night until he passes out at some ungodly hour. But if I get an inch closer to that bed, I'm going to do something impossible to take back.

The tension chokes me.

And it almost snuffs the life out of me as he gestures to a door on one of the two interior walls, its seams almost hidden in the paneling.

"Bathroom," he says tersely. He's not looking at me at all. Pointedly. "Everything you need should be there; feel free to use anything you like. I'll prep you a guest room. Call for me when you're done."

Come with me,I want to say. Half an hour under the steaming spray together.

Just come with me.

Before this thing between us cuts me to pieces, while you stay whole.

For once, I can't be bold.

I can't be brave.

I can't be bright.

All I do is lower my eyes and whisper, "Thanks."

He doesn't say anything.

He just turns away and walks out like I'm not even there, his steps a little too sharp, his fingers still balled in a fist.

I'm only standing there for a minute, but it feels like I'm losing hours.

I can't even tell if he's actually angry at me for something he doesn't understand—or if he's angrily trying to deny that this feeling building between us is mutual.

Whatever.

I can't think about it.

I won't let myself think about it.

So I let myself into the bathroom instead—an expansive space of black-veined granite counters, sinks in dark-matte metal, a ridiculously large mirror, bamboo walls that match the bedroom's diagonal pattern.

The floor is still that same rough slate without a single seam, tile, or crack.

It feels cooler in here somehow, misted with the scent of the tall fronded fern plants potted in the corners. There's a massive rainfall shower with seating surrounded by glass and multiple showerheads, plus a skylight letting in a hint of the moon. The bathtub is separate, an enormous sunken thing that's practically a small pool.

I'm so tempted to take a dip.

But I'm suddenly dead tired.

I just want to wash the glitter off my skin and go to sleep and try to forget where I am—stuck with a man who makes me want him so much I feel depraved.

I strip down quickly, then pile my clothes on the edge of the counter, hang my coat from the hook on the back of the door, and drop my purse on the crumpled stack of my clothing.

When I turn the water on, it takes a little fiddling to not drown myself in the deluge cascading down. I realize it's running down the sides of the walls, too, pouring from insets high up near slits of windows to create a decorative glassy sheen.

Dang.

He may not be about McMansions, but August still has plenty of that fancy billionaire flash.

I snag a towel from the laid-out stack, step in, and let myself melt under the soothing downpour. It's honestly just what I need right now—shutting my brain off to let the heat take over and make me think about nothing.

Not August.

Not the way I'm getting all up in my feelings in the most hopeless way.

Not anything except that maybe I was a little drunk.

The hot water pulls me back to my senses, calming me down.

Everything's going to be fine.

I'll say good night, curl up in the guest room, try not to wonder about the thread count on the sheets, and sleep. I'm making up all this tension in my head, imagining scenarios that are completely one sided.

Just let it go, because if I don't, if I just keep brooding ...

Well. We know what happens when I end up in migraine land, don't we?

And I don't think August wants to peel a limp squid of a girl off his shower floor with a gash across her head.

That's almost a porno setup, anyway.

The damsel in distress faints, the hunky guy comes to save her, they get hot and heavy because suddenly once she sees his rippling biceps, she's completely fine and doesn't need 911 at all.

I smirk as I scrub myself off using August's shower gel—that's what his crisp scent is—and wash my hair with a little dollop of his shampoo.

August is hot. Migraine-forgetting hot, but he's not migraine-curing hot.

I don't think he could fuck me out of one of those whoppers.

Or could he?

I kind of wouldn't mind finding out.

Surely, he wouldn't turn down a girl in medical distress, would he?

I can't help laughing, my mood clearing like the clouds after a storm.

He's also right. I've got the oddest imagination, but at least I entertain myself.

With a pleased sigh, I give myself one more rinse, then wring my hair out and wrap it up in a lush, fluffy dark-grey towel that feels just as much like heaven as the one I cinch around me from my boobs to my thighs. Loose and lazy, I step out, rolling my shoulders.

I just want to put on something clean and slee—

Oh, goddammit.

See, this is why August needs to learn how to text a girl.

I didn't pack an overnight bag. I had no idea I'd be spending the night here—even as an unwanted guest.

I eye my clothes.

Definitely not putting those panties back on.

They're ruined, considering how he had me wound up earlier.

Okay, I could put the dress back on, but my skin's still a bit damp too. That sheer fabric will cling to me and make it look like I'm naked, and sleeping in it might ruin something that expensive.

"Damn it, August," I mutter, smacking my face into my palm.

After I make sure the towel is wrapped tight and everything is fully covered, I crack the door open and peek out.

No sign of him anywhere.

"August?" I call. "Could I, um, borrow a shirt to sleep in?"

No answer.

He must still be prepping the guest room.

I duck back into the bathroom and gather up my things, clutching my clothes and coat against my chest until it's like I'm not mostly naked at all. After shouldering the bathroom door open, I step out, raising my voice to call his name again.

"Augu—oop!"

I go smashing right into him.

Face first into his chest.

Guess he heard me after all.

Everything I'm holding drops on impact. I make an undignified scramble to catch it.

Maybe that's how real life turns into an X-rated setup.

Dear God.

How I don't realize my towel's come loose and it's slipping down.

Until suddenly I'm standing there, naked and damp and shivering.

Completely exposed, with the towel and my clothes scattered around my feet.

August stands so rigidly in front of me, staring down with his eyes livid, stars of blue fire burning through the shadows.

I'm too frozen to even cover myself with my arms.

Pure mortification washes through me until I'm numb.

He must think I'm making a play for him, pulling some kind of contrived—

But no.

August's mouth tightens into a forbidding line, his jaw a knot of hard steel.

I lower my eyes, humiliation fuming through me, and just wait for him to walk away so we can pretend this didn't happen. I hear the faint scuff of his feet and brace myself for the hurt of something I didn't even offer being rejected.

But he's coming closer, not falling away.

I lift my head sharply, feeling my lungs turning to stone.

There's barely half a second to register the storm lashing in his eyes.

Then that storm crashes over me, sweeping me up in his hold and his kiss and his everything.

His rough fingers curl around my arms, jerking me against him.

His mouth captures mine like a predator, injecting me with heat.

He slams me back against the bathroom door, the wood rattling in its frame as my body presses against it—cold on one side, hot on the other, as his frame molds to mine.

I'm so lost.

But maybe I don't want to be found.

There's no way to explain how this feels.

It's like the moment when a small ship gets caught up in a violent storm, cataclysmic waves standing ten times higher, swirling with the sheer power of an ocean gone mad while the clouds and wind and rain whip the boat with one force of nature and then another.

August is the sea and the storm.

I'm defenseless, unguarded, his pressure molding every inch of me with nothing to save me from the sheer rush of his heat.

The scrape of his shirt against my breasts and nipples.

The thrust of his hips against mine.

The hardness against his slacks.

He's so thick as it prods between my legs and rips a startled gasp out of me, pushing me up on my toes with the thrill, bleeding the sound from my lips to his to be devoured.

I don't even remember dropping my arms.

But they're around his shoulders now, fingers buried in his hair, strain pouring down the backs of my calves to the tips of my toes as I stretch up to reach him, to meet him, to give every inch of myself over as I let my lips fall slack and let him take, take, take.

And God, does he take.

Growling, grasping, his harsh breaths drag against my lips.

His mouth brands me with the sweetest pressure and the savagery of his tongue.

He's already in me, every licking thrust searching, invading, touching me in impossible ways with phantom echoes deep inside.

It's like I'm riding those furious waves in imaginary thrusts that make me want the real thing so bad I can't take it.

I bite him, begging and tasting the firmness of his mouth.

He bites me right back.

Animal.

Pure animal teeth and the perfect bloom of pain.

His fingers slide up my arms, curling against my neck for that extra little spark of danger.

Then they rip the towel away from my hair and bury themselves in my damp locks with a touch so blazing he could practically steam my hair dry.

But it's nothing compared to the moment when he drags my head back by his grip, my scalp burning with pleasure-pain and the sheer dominance, opening me until I'm powerless against the onslaught of the most vicious erotic kiss I've ever had in my life.

His hands slip down with thunder spilling up his throat.

His growl vibrates through me like I'm a ringing vessel.

Molding over my back, pulling me away from the shocking coolness of the wooden door until it's just heat everywhere.

His touch melds me to his muscle inescapably until I'm wet, so wet, just from how he feels, moaning against his lips, squirming in his grip, begging for more of that touch, those long fingers spanning me, and then—

Digging into my ass.

Broad palms cupping either side, kneading me, spreading me open from behind.

Every time he drags his fingers against soft flesh, it pulls on inner muscles, drawing my pussy open, making me throb, exposing an aching emptiness that desperately needs his cock now.

"August," I whimper against his mouth, the sound dripping like honey.

All I can manage is his name.

What I really mean is Fuck me.

Fuck me before I lose my mind.

I can't take it anymore.

I've held back so much, and now I need to feel you.

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't say a word.

But his fingers gouge my ass as he claims handfuls, forcing needy sounds from my throat as the pulse at each pressure point heightens into a rhythm inside my needy pussy.

This time, his grip doesn't loosen as he lifts me up off my feet, dragging me against his body as he sucks my lower lip into his mouth and teases me with those cruel teeth.

My toes leave the ground.

My legs open wider.

I can't help myself.

I have to wrap myself around him right now.

Even as sleek and elegant as his build is, even with the sharp taper from his broad shoulders down to a narrow waist and punishing hips, he's still too wide for me.

I have to strain to wrap my thighs around him, locking my ankles against his back, and oh God, now I'm ruining his slacks because I'm so open.

That thick, angry ridge of his cock pushes against his slacks, rubbing against my dripping opening.

"Elle, fuck," he whispers.

I'm panting.

I know he can't stand the anticipation either.

He almost fucks me right through the fabric, taunting my naked flesh, soaking me as I throw myself into it, practically riding me as his hold throws me up and down in rhythm.

Tossed by the storm, I throw my head back, clinging to him and arching my back and letting myself swirl into this whirlpool of mad pleasure.

I can't stop my moans, my whimpers.

They're louder as his mouth descends on mine and then finds new targets.

My neck. He covers my racing pulse in sucking kisses and sharp bites.

My collarbones.

My breasts.

His mouth closes ravenously over my nipples, and he sucks them one at a time with such obsessive intensity they swell in seconds.

I grit my teeth, fighting for control, because all I want to do is scream.

Every draw of his mouth hits the sweet spots that make me flutter, hurling me straight to the edge.

Can you come from just this?

God, this feels so dirty, and I love it.

Arching in his grip, my breasts go tender hot with the sensation.

I grind against him while his cock pushes into me even with the fabric still in the way, this weird but wonderful sensation of wet cloth and braising heat.

Growling, he spreads me open, dipping inside like a flirting kiss, strangling every word on my lips until there's nothing left but wanting.

I want him so bad, and I can't flipping wait.

Pulling myself back, I let go of him with one hand and slide it down between us, taking a moment to savor the delicious strain of his muscles against his shirt before I find his zipper and drag it down.

His thick, musky maleness wafts out, a scent so earthy it immediately overwhelms me in the best way.

Past the slit of his boxers, I find hot flesh—if only my fingers weren't shaking so much.

August shudders against me, silent and electrified.

I regain enough control to wrap my fingers around him, telling him with my touch what I can't find the words to say.

This.

I want this inside me, hard and pounding and splitting me open.

Fuck me raw, August.

Rip me to pieces.

Without fear.

Without regret.

Without mercy.

He's so huge against my palm, all thick veins and a flared, angry head.

Just touching his cock makes me shudder, feeling his pulse thumping through his fullness. Every beat of his heart feels like a war drum.

Just gripping it makes my mouth water. I don't know if I want to taste it or ride it more.

But August makes the decision for me.

The more I touch his cock, the tenser he grows, until he rips his mouth from my aching nipple and rests his brow to my shoulder. His lungs are heaving and his hips rake me with tiny thrusts toward my hand.

He hasn't said a word.

It's almost eerie in his worn silence, yet somehow that only makes him more intense, even more enthralling.

Definitely more demanding, as he suddenly pulls me away from the bathroom door and tumbles me against the foot of the bed.

The next thing I know, I'm down on my back, my arms falling to my sides.

August looms over me, his gaze all lightning, striking and searing everywhere it touches.

He's in a fury of desire, with rage, frustration, and lust written all over his face. I don't understand, but there's not even a second to think, to question.

He catches my hands, laces our fingers together, and pins them to the bed.

He locks eyes with me.

Then that hot flesh I'd touched so greedily nudges back between my legs.

No fabric in the way this time.

Just the thick swell of his cock and the wet, pulsing flutter of folds that part for him too eagerly.

I'm already acting like his whore, and I don't care.

I'll beg, offer myself up on a plate, anything—but I don't have to.

There's just one more moment where he holds back, fire crackling between us in the silence.

Then he slams into me, so wild and hot and hard it's like he's punishing me for making him want me so bad.

I can't hold back my cry, the way I arch, pulling against his hands, but he won't let go.

He has me now.

He owns me, taking my body until I have no will, no thought, no self. Not when I'm drowning in the rough sensation of his cock plunging into me.

I don't know if I can hold it, but there's more, more, more, surging into forbidden places, touching me inside in ways that feel so good it must be wrong.

I feel like I'm doing something dirty. Filthy. Taboo.

And I'm going to need it again and again.

As he starts to pull out, I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him in.

"Not yet," I plead, finding words at last. "Just let me feel it a second longer."

August's brows darken.

He watches me with his jaw fixed in that tight, angry iron.

And he moves, a rippling shudder of power pouring down his tightly sculpted body until I can see every muscle straining against his disarrayed clothing.

A single short, savage jerk.

Burying in me so deep he's practically grinding into me, forcing into deeper depths, and then—

He hits that one perfect spot.

I scream, completely losing my flipping mind, clenching my thighs against his hips and clutching him so tight.

My fingers dig between his knuckles, and my body thrashes.

And he's still not done—not by half—because even as I lose it, he keeps perfect control over his movements, twisting and grinding his hips so that instead of pulling out of me, he just teases that spot against my inner walls until there's something deep within that shivers and trembles and quakes, this pleasure that feels so naked, stripped and exposed.

I don't know how I'm not coming already.

I don't want to yet.

I want to hold on to this, to the feeling of August lowering himself down, the feeling of him letting my hands go and wrapping his arms around me, burying his face in my throat, biting cruelly as he fills me with piston thrusts.

Slow.

Slow but violent, gathering his entire strength, pounding me so vengefully but so perfectly.

I'm nearly sobbing at how good this is, riding every deep, rolling thrust, digging my heels into his ass, completely incoherent as I make up for his silence with my cries.

Holy shit, I'm going to—I'm going crazy.

No one's cock should feel this good.

No one's cock has any business being this thick, stirring and twisting up my insides until he's remaking me, I—I—

I thought it was just me, falling apart.

But August drives in harder still.

His teeth sink into my shoulder and hold.

Still no sound, so obsessively silent, and yet he feels so intensely focused on me that it's unnerving and wonderful. This monster storms halls of pleasure, intent on looting everything from my body.

There's this wicked swelling inside me, thicker, thicker, and the warm hot jet of molten fire as he comes.

Ruined.

I'm overflowing with him, so thick and hot and filthy that I love it, want it, need it—

Oh God.

I go blind as he growls again.

Just another helpless animal in heat, a captured bunny shrieking to the moon.

I'm petrified with white-hot pleasure, crashing into myself, pouring out everywhere, coming with him.

Coming!

I think I bite him in the frenzy.

I'm not quite sure.

Because the next thing I know, darkness falls like a curtain, pulling me into an ecstasy so deep and perfect it brands me to my core.

I'm not out long.

I don't think I really passed out; it's more like I just went dark for a few seconds from sensory overload. But when I come to, August has already let me go.

I open my eyes, blinking up at the ceiling.

I'm sore everywhere, wet and sticky between my thighs.

Still shamelessly naked, sprawled on my back in a pretty awkward position, with my legs flopped over the side of his bed.

That was easily the most magnificent orgasm of my life.

And I wonder if it was a magnificent mistake.

From the corner of my eye, I see August sitting on the foot of the bed next to me, his elbows resting on his thighs as he rubs his temples. He's tucked himself away and tidied himself up a bit.

Watching him carefully, I slowly sit up, wishing more than anything I had something to shield myself with.

When I move, he lifts his head, looking at me.

It's a careful look. Guarded.

Every semblance of easy friendship we've built between us gone in one night.

It hurts.

It hurts like I'm being flayed open from heart to gut.

But before I can say anything, he asks sharply, "You on birth control?"

All I can do is nod slowly.

My lips tremble, and I press them together tightly.

I won't fall apart.

My feelings are just raw after getting fucked blind, that's all.

This was just ... it wasn't a thing.

It was confused people out for a good time giving in to reckless urges.

August only accepts my answer with a tight nod and stands.

He moves like he's walking a tightrope, tense and controlled. He crosses the room to a tall chest of drawers next to the door and yanks the second drawer open, speaking as he reaches inside.

"I'll text you a copy of my most recent STD tests. Obviously, I'm clean." Mechanical. Practical. "I'd thank you to do the same."

Anger boils up inside me, hateful words needling my tongue.

Not even "Thanks for the ass, Elle"? Maybe even "Nice pussy, now get out?" Or "Hey, hope I didn't hurt you piledriving you like a wildebeest?"

But I can't bring myself to say it.

I don't know how to deal with this.

And I don't know how to handle it when he turns back to me with a white dress shirt in hand, folded and clearly soft-worn enough that it's been retired from everyday use.

He offers me the shirt at arm's length. The storm in his eyes has gone flat, leaving nothing but his usual glacial ice.

"You can clean up in the bathroom. Turn left where the hall splits," he says. "The guest bedroom is the door on the right."

I feel like I've been punched in the heart.

I have about sixty seconds at best to get away from him.

Forget the bathroom.

I wobble to my feet and reach for the shirt, clutching it against me for some cover. I don't even have the presence of mind to go back for my dress, my purse, everything else I dropped.

I just stare down at my feet, wanting to scream at him.

We could have kept this casual, dammit.

At least he didn't have to be cruel.

But all I can manage is a small, mortified "Thanks" before I brush past him and try to walk—not run—out of his bedroom.

I make it around the curve of the hallway before I break.

First the painful sniffle, the burning tears, and then I'm pelting away with a sob until I dive into the guest bedroom, shut the door, and fling myself down on the bed.

I don't feel like getting dressed right now, so I just curl around the crumpled mess of his oversize shirt and bury my face in the pillow to muffle my cries.

Why the hell did I have to fall for a rhino dick like August Marshall?

I wish I wasn't right about sleeping alone tonight.

Not like this.

But hey, there's a bright side in this too.

Now I know for sure to never, ever get my hopes up.