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I don't know how he doesn't drop me. His fingers dig into my thighs, keeping me still until he's finished. Even when he's empty, he continues to roll his pelvis. Marshall is just like my fantasies; a man never satisfied, always seeking more. I love it.

He sets my heels on the ground. I lose my balance, but he catches me in a cradle of muscular arms. It's weird that it's fabric I feel across his chest; we had sex without getting undressed. I didn't even lose my panties this time, though they're around my ankle. I lean on him, my strength completely evaporated. "Marshall, I'm sorry," I say.

He tilts my chin so I have to look at him. "For what?"

"For acting like such a brat. I was just—"

"Stop." He says it so sharply I do. "I don't need any apologies from you about your feelings. Our actionsnoware what matters the most. That's always how it is."

I crinkly my forehead, trying to understand. It's almost like he's talking about something other than us. Cold wind tickles my legs, reminding me of our situation. Blushing, I tug my panties over my knees, checking around Marshall for any sign that someone saw what we did. The area is empty.

Turning, he follows my stare. "They all went inside. We should, too, before our hosts notice us missing. I told a lovely woman who wanted to buy a few paintings from a reluctant seller that I'd get back to her soon with other suggestions. Come on."

"Okay," I say, straightening my dress.

He curls something into his fist as he buttons his pants. I catch his eye; he grins. "Condom," he explains, walking towards the small trashcan near the door. "I'm not going to litter. What do you think I am, a monster?"

I smile broadly, unable to keep myself from laughing. This feels so easy. Why was I such a wreck earlier? Why had I gotten so into my own head over what was happening between Marshall and me?He's funny, and sexy, and he knows how to do ... lots of stuff.I'm beaming as I hurry to follow him.

Marshall is standing in the brightly lit entrance; I'm still out in the cold when my phone vibrates. Baffled, I tug it from my purse on impulse. It takes me a second to make sense of what's on the screen, because the conversation I had with my sister feels like it happened years ago. My heart trembles, palms so slippery with perspiration I can barely hold my phone.

Me: Do you think Marshall could hurt me?

Katy: Yes.

Chapter 11.

"Open your eyes."

Marshall instructs me from behind my shoulder. His voice is pleasantly decadent, tickling the tiny hairs on my bare neck to life. I've done as he asked since we walked down the street from his condo—kept my hands over my eyes while he held my elbow, guiding me safely, though I felt slightly foolish with the people on the sidewalk staring at me.

We hadn't walked for long. Now, pulling my fingers away, I blink at the squat brown building wedged between an alley and a busy street. I don't know what I'm looking at until he unlocks the door, pushing it open. Then I gasp.

Light streams into the massive industrial space. The room is minimally decorated with sconces pressed into brick stands at regular intervals.

To the average eye, it's unimpressive. But my heart swells the longer I stare, and when I spot the arrangement of easels, of the piled canvases and table with the art supplies I'd bought, I know what this is. "You got me a studio?" I whisper.