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“You want more?” he asks.

I widen my knees a little. “Hawke…”

I pull off my shirt, bringing his other hand to my breast and turning my head to hover my mouth over his.

“Baby…” he breathes.

“Are you hard for me?” I roll my ass into him, feeling it.

“Yeah…”

“Am I fun?” I taunt.

“Mmmm…”

I whip around, plant a hand on the side of his neck, and shove him down to the couch, coming down and straddling him. I sit up, his eyes on my tits. “Then I hope you can’t stop getting hard in your jeans,” I tell him. “When you take your little, pink blonde to the movies, but can’t stop thinking about how much fun I was in the hot back seat of your car.” I roll my hips on him. “You’ll never fuck anyone else like me.”

He reaches up, grabs the back of my neck, and pulls me into his mouth, both of us lost in the kiss. My nipples rub over his chest, and everything is perfect. The way my body molds to his. The way I only have to lower my chin for my mouth to reach his. The way he feels so good to hold.

I pissed him off, so he pushed back, and I don’t care if I’m right and he’ll eventually realize that there are others better suited for him…or if I realize he’s right and we should just let it be and see where this goes. I have to have him.

I rock my hips faster, moaning as he chews up my lips, and I’m about to rip off the rest of my clothes when the stairwell light brightens the entryway.

I pop my head up.

“Fuck,” he whisper-yells.

He bulges between my legs, and I leap off of him, scrambling for my shirt. I pull it on, grab the iPad, and jump onto the sofa, curling up like I’m watching something.

He sits up and holds his head in his hands, breathing hard.

Footfalls hit the stairs.

“Hawke,” I grit out through my teeth.

He adjusts himself, grunting like he’s in pain, and grabs the blanket over the back of the sofa, covering his erection.

His father rounds the banister, sees us, and stops. He stands there in a gray T-shirt and jeans. His messy hair sticks up everywhere.

“Hawke,” he says, nodding.

“Morning, Dad,” Hawke says, barely opening his mouth.

Then his eyes flash to mine, and I smile tightly, but he hoods his eyes, looking amused as he walks away.

Because parents aren’t stupid, and he’s making sure I know that.

Another door slams shut upstairs, and I hear footsteps as the grandfather clock chimes six times.

I look out the window, seeing it’s still dark but with hints of blue now instead of black. The sun is coming up.

I look over at him, not sure if he’s okay or not. Is he mad? It wasn’t really a fight, but I don’t seem to be very good at reading him. I set the iPad down, about to rise, but he leaves the couch first, heading up the stairs.

No backward glance. No smile. No kiss.

He’s mad.

I was just being honest. He gets so pissy. It’s not self-deprecating to be realistic. Straight up, he’s out of my league, and sooner or later, he’s going to realize it.

I don’t have much time to seethe, because small feet appear on the stairs, and I see Matty holding the railing with both hands as he takes each step one at a time.

“Aro!” he squeals.

His smile supersedes everything else. I run over to him and wrap my arms around him, lifting him up. “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh-huh!” He grins wide, his straight rows of perfectly white baby teeth flashing for me. “They have a jungle gym. We played on it last night. And the lady read me a story like you do sometimes.”

On the rare occasion when my night is free and my mom or stepdad aren’t home anyway.

“Where’s Mommy?” he asks.

Good fucking question, dude.

But then Mr. Trent shouts, “Who wants pancakes?” and Matty’s attention is gone as he squirms out of my arms.

Bianca trails down the stairs, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and she looks at me. She opens her mouth to speak, but Matty pulls her toward the kitchen.

I follow, the two of them pulling out chairs. I tuck my hair behind my ear, heading to the counter. “I can do it,” I tell Hawke’s dad.

“I know.” But he doesn’t look up or stop mixing batter, and I breathe out a laugh. His wife and him are soulmates—definitely.

Juliet strolls in, and I can’t help but gape at the floor-length, black velvet robe with gold dragons embroidered on it. She looks regal, like she should be floating across the high balcony of a mansion or haunting a castle somewhere. I love a woman who just doesn’t give a shit.

“I set a selection of clothes on the bed,” she tells me. “Just in case you need them, but of course, you don’t have to wear any of it.”