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“Because you’re the king,” she whispered. “You’re not scary.”

I pressed my lips in a straight line. “And tonight? Why did you sign up for something like this? The Titan?”

I ran my fingertips to the top of her spine, making my own road map to her shoulder. The back of my fingers slid along her arm.

“My friend thought it was an urban legend,” she explained. “And when we were approached it seemed like something we couldn’t turn down.”

“And do you still feel that way?” I asked. “Like you can’t turn it down?”

“I signed the contract.”

“That’s not what I asked.” My voice was cool and dark. “Do you want to be here, Molly Washington?”

We turned into the back of the compound. The palace gates folded open.

I looked at her more patiently than I ever had. As if I was a lion waiting for the gazelle to walk gingerly into the clearing. Was this girl willing to walk into the moonlight and expose herself to my hunger?

“It’s one night. Your night. To be with the king. It won’t happen again. The Titan does not seek return tallies. So you must decide here and now what you want.” I saw her hesitation. “Georgan will drive you home. Or you can walk inside the palace with me.” I pointed to the top floor where a row of lights illuminated a set of windows. “See that block of rooms?”

“Yes.” Her eyes followed my index finger.

“Those are the king’s rooms. My rooms.”

“There are so many. The whole floor is yours?”

“Yes, but that one with the view of the ocean—that one, love is where I’ll take off all your clothes.” I pressed my finger along the hollow of her throat.

Her pulse beat rapidly.

“I’ll take you to my bed,” I promised.

I heard her inhale quickly.

Damn it. I was hard. My cock ached for her here and now. Had I ever wanted a woman so badly?

The car slowed as we approached the tunnel to the private entrance.

My patience had run out.

“What is your decision? Are you going home, or do you want one night with the king?”

6

Molly

I had never known the silence inside a car could be so deafening. My ears rang. My heart pounded irregularly. I could practically hear the blood rush between my ears.

This morning I was working on my dissertation. I used notecards to sort the broader topics. They were scattered on the floor. I wore pajama pants and a tank top. My hair was twirled in a bun with a pencil crammed in the middle to hold the heaviest pieces in place.

Brooklyn walked in, carrying a carton of lo mein noodles. “You have destroyed our living room.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I’ll clean it up after I get the rest of this section nailed down.”

“Let’s go get coffee,” she suggested.

“I can’t. I don’t have time. Look at this disaster.” I covered my eyes with my palms.

She tugged on my arm. “The notecards will be here when we get back. You need some fresh air. And preferably a change of clothes that isn’t pajamas or yoga pants.” She looked over my wardrobe disapprovingly.