His hand moves underneath my shorts and inside my panties.

He’s asleep. And I’m letting this happen.

“Baby . . . ,” he mumbles, and a finger slicks over my clit, lazy and slow. “So good . . . so fucking good.”

I bite back my gasp as delicious sensations roll over me. I try to hold it in—I try—but I shudder from the tips of my toes to my hair, the combination of the scruff on my neck to his fingers erecting a rolling desire that’s thick and sweet.

He flinches behind me, his breathing changing as he seems to come awake. I slam my eyes closed. Nope. I am not awake. I am in deep, deep sleep.

He slides his hand away, and I feel him shifting, rising up behind me, probably looking at my face and studying me. I picture his face, the chiseled jawline, the blade of his nose, those sensuous lips. I bet he’s got that stricken look. The one he wears when he wants me but doesn’t want to. Yep. He’s going to rake his hand through his hair . . .

A soft whisper comes. “Giselle?”

I fake a deep breath. Eyes shut tight.

He exhales, and I feel him moving behind me, stealthily, as he doesn’t crawl over me like I expect but goes over the back of the couch and lands with a thud on the hardwood. His footsteps pad into the kitchen, where I hear him opening the fridge and grabbing something, the fading echo of his feet as he walks down the hall to his room, then opens the door and shuts it quietly.

I jump up and dart for my bedroom. Eleven thirty. I have an hour to shower and get dressed, then drive to Daisy.

Half an hour later, I’m drying my hair when he knocks on the door of my bathroom.

“Hey,” I say as I open the door a crack.

His eyes search mine, then take in the lacy blue robe that hits at my thighs—thank you, little boutique downtown. It matched my hair. Seemed like a perfectly viable reason to buy it.

“Uh, I made coffee for you and set out some muffins we had left over. I know you have to get going.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for last night, this morning.” His gaze is hesitant.

“Anytime,” I say as I ease the door open more with my foot. He’s wearing pin-striped baby-blue tailored summer slacks with a matching jacket and a white shirt that contrasts with his tan. His belt is white-and-blue striped, his shoes brown loafers with no socks. Judging by the perfect fit of his suit, it must have cost more than my rent, and the way it hugs his shoulders makes me gulp. His dark hair is swept back, the royal-blue highlights glistening. He looks—have I died and gone to Devon heaven?—mouthwatering. Sophisticated. Sexy. An ovary explodes.

“Where are you going?” I ask, shutting out the disappointment that lingers, knowing I won’t see him today.

He shrugs, straightening the little white square in his jacket pocket. “Got to see Lawrence.”

I huff. In that?

“How did you get showered and ready and make coffee so fast?”

He pauses. “Head start. I was up before you. Didn’t I wake up first?”

“Hmm,” I say, my chest seizing as I resist the urge to give him the right answer. I reach over for my hair dryer and wave it at him. “My hair takes forever.”

“Do you need any help before you meet Mike? A few last-minute tips?” His words are light, but his face is set in granite.

“Oh yeah, Mike. The old crush. Can’t wait.” I wave at my face in a “He’s so hot” expression.

He flips around and heads inside the depths of my room. “What are you wearing? Let’s start there.”

He marches to my closet and starts pushing things aside. There’s barely anything there—a few skirts, some dresses, two pairs of jeans, and some shirts.

He yanks out a long dress. “This one.”

I sputter at the golden puppies frolicking on the velvet fabric as they chase a robin, the background a beautiful pastoral scene with tall trees and rolling hills. “That is a muumuu—for Myrtle. I forgot to give it to her. It’s five sizes too big, and it will hang on me like a shower curtain.”

“With your flip-flops,” he continues, as if I haven’t vetoed him. “Minimal makeup, no perfume.”

“Your fashion sense clearly extends to males only. We’ll blame this choice on your lack of sleep.” I brush past him, pulling the dress out of his hand, my robe parting, my cleavage drawing his gaze. After hanging the muumuu back up, I snatch two new dresses and flash them in front of me. “Ready-to-ride red or no-back black?” I swish them back and forth. “I have lingerie to match either.”

He lets out a breath.

The scarlet-colored dress hits several inches above my knee with a long slit up the back, the bodice a halter top with a plunging neckline and delicate see-through lace on the back. The black one is even shorter with a flirty skirt, skater-girl style. The torso is fitted with a scoop neck and a back that’s open and laces up.

He juts his chin at Myrtle’s. “Everyone adores puppies. He has a daughter, yes?”

I barely recall telling him that.

“Not trying to impress the kid; it’s the man.” I pull out the stilettos—three inches, black, and strappy. “Either dress goes with the shoes. Which one will make a man choke on his chicken leg?”

His jaw pops as he gives me a long look. “Black one.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s him I want to wear it for, him I want to be at my birthday lunch.

“Sold. Let’s hope he likes it.”

He moves to the bedroom door, his back to me as he mutters, “He’ll love it.”

“Are you jealous?” He can’t expect me not to meet Mike, not when he’s spelled out where we stand.

I follow him down the hall. He doesn’t reply but keeps walking and gets all the way to the front of the penthouse and snatches his keys. He pauses, gathering himself, as he rolls his neck.

He turns to me, and we stare at each other.

Everything from last night—from the club, to Cindy, to him pounding on the wall—rises up and boils like a dark cauldron of emotion, simmering and churning, thoughts I put on hold, but after him touching me on the couch and his stupid dress idea, they can’t be stopped.

“You are, and you can’t stand it.” My voice ripples with hard truth. He wants me—maybe more than just want, and the fierce girl inside me pounces. She’s had enough. She demands.

He takes a deep breath, forest-green eyes on me as he grapples for the door behind him. “I fucking hate it,” he snaps. “From Brandt to Greg to whoever the fuck that guy was last night, I’m—shit, Giselle, they don’t deserve you, and I don’t, either, but I want you, and I’m at a crossroads; it’s go left or go right . . . to you. I’m scared you’re gonna, I don’t know . . . hurt me.” He pulls in air. “I have to go.” And then he’s out the door.

All the air in the room disappears, and I fall back on the chair in the den. Just let me in, Devon. Please.

Chapter 19

GISELLE

The sun is blazing when I pull into Mama’s driveway at one on the nose in the Maserati. It’s only her Cadillac in the driveway, and I let out a deep sigh of relief. Maybe Aunt Clara was busy. Maybe Topher had something to do. Maybe it will just be me and her. With worry about the dynamic between Devon and me, I just want to sit at her house, eat, and go back home and wait for him. Just as I’m about to get out of the car, my phone rings with an unknown number. Thinking it might be one of the kids from class, I snatch it up. Final exams are next week, and they might need me.