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I gave him something I’ve only ever given one man. Regret floods my veins, but a small part of me wouldn’t take it back, even if I could. That act of intimacy sparked life into me again.

He purged the denial from my bones and dragged me into acceptance. It was cathartic to the core, but it was still the essence of losing control.

Dr. Price’s mandate lurks in the quiet shadows of my suite, and I press my thighs together, an unconscious reaction, as a thread of need tugs at me.

An itch I don’t know how to scratch. Not on my own.

The men in this tower have always had a hand in my orgasm, whether by permission, participation, or design.

But the doctor’s challenge won’t leave me alone. Tentatively, I reach underneath my nightgown and slide a hand into my panties. Closing my eyes, I test the waters with slow, featherlight strokes over my clit. Sensation whispers through me before vanishing like smoke. Frustration leaves me restless and squirming.

This is ridiculous.

Last night, Liam had no trouble lighting me up.

Unbidden, the memory unfurls. His breath, hot and damp against my inner thighs. His tongue, lazy and thorough as he licked me to madness. The way he groaned, like he was the one unraveling.

I ease a finger into my pussy, and a sharp inhale shudders through my chest. My exploration is nothing compared to the way he filled me, his expert digits plunging deep, but it’s enough to tantalize. Liam’s words slip through the haze, coaxing me further.

Give it to me.

I arch into the pleasure, hips rolling, pressure building…

Suddenly, Oliver intrudes into my headspace, his commanding presence drifting through my mind. I’m so startled by the direction of my thoughts that a soft gasp escapes before I can swallow it down. My eyes snap wide, air tangling in my throat.

My bedroom door gapes open, framing a silhouette on the threshold. Broad shoulders, straight spine, hands tucked into his pockets.

Oliver.

Wordless.

Motionless.

Haunting the edge of my desire.

I hold his stare for a beat too long, and my heart hammers in the hush of the room. Then, with a slow exhale, I roll over and give him my back, squeezing my eyes shut as heat pulsates at my core.

Minutes pass.

Astrid’s rhythmic snores continue.

The stillness hums in my ears.

But when I dare another glance, the doorway is empty.

11

Silverware scrapes plates. Fabric shifts against rustic chairs. Glances meet, then break, too many times to count. It’s another day, another meal, and I’m caught in a maddening loop that never ends.

I’d hoped to sleep off the residue of finding Oliver in my doorway last night, but it still clings to me at the breakfast table.

“That color suits you.”

His remark comes out of nowhere, and I nearly choke on my yogurt.

“What?”

“Your dress.” He tips his coffee mug toward me before taking a careful sip. “It fits you well.”