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“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Christ.

I’m thirty-two. Twelve years and a whole lifetime apart. No wonder she feels so... untouched.

I move toward her, and she instinctively backs up a step. My shadow falls over hers. She’s barely five-foot-six—soft curves and delicate wrists—and she’s looking up at me like I might strike her.

I tilt my head. “Have you ever kissed a man?”

Color rushes into her face, blooming red across her cheeks. She grips her rosary.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Of course not.

And here I am, parading her like a trophy I supposedly sleep next to. No wonder my brothers saw through the act in seconds. This girl is a damn nun. If anyone at the dinner gets even half a look at her, the whole charade falls apart.

I need to change that. Quickly.

I grin, letting it curl slow across my face. “Kiss me.”

The color drains from her cheeks just as fast.

She stares at me, horrified, and I take a step closer. “Don’t look so scared,” I murmur. “I won’t force you. But the quicker we finish this deal, the quicker you go back home.”

Her lips tremble. “Why do I have to?”

“Because no one’s going to believe you’re mine if you can’t even touch me without shaking.”

She looks down, fingers white around the beads of her rosary. I watch her closely, fascinated. What will she do?

After a long, shuddering breath, she closes her eyes and stands very still. Her fists curl tight at her sides.

I almost laugh.

She’s bracing like she’s about to be struck by lightning.

I take my time walking over. Her breathing is shallow now, chest rising quickly under that oversized shirt.

I press my hand to her shoulder and she jolts like I shocked her. I gently push, guiding her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed. She falls onto it with a soft thud, stiff as stone.

I lean down, hands on either side of her, caging her in. Her eyes dart up to mine. Wide. Frozen.

What the hell are you doing? My mind snarls.

But my body doesn’t listen. I lower my head until my face is inches from hers.

Then I kiss her.

Her lips are cracked, chapped from too much crying and not enough water. But they taste like sugar. Like trembling innocence and something I can’t name.

She doesn’t move at first. My mouth works against hers anyway, coaxing movement. I tilt her chin, fingers brushing the soft slope of her jaw, then trace the line to her throat.

Her breath hitches, and she lets out the smallest, most broken sound.

I pull back before I lose the last of my control.