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A flicker of something angry and hot surges in my chest. “Where was it this time?”

His eyes darken, sliding to the mirror. “The opera. Mrs. Wilhelmina Johnson has season tickets and a private box.” He waves his hand like it means nothing, but I know better. “The seclusion makes her bold.”

“And after the opera?” I ask, nodding to his rumpled clothes. He’s the very visage of a walk of shame.

“The afterparty ran over,” he says, a touch defensively.

I stare at him for a moment, then grab my robe. Wrapped up, I cross the room to the dressing table and take the concealer from him. “This one is too light.”

Bending over him, I pick through the makeup. This drawer is a mess. I should probably get Stella to do something about it, but we’re leaving in a week, so does it really matter? Glancing up at the mirror, I see Wicker staring at the gape in the front of my robe, eyeing my cleavage in the reflection. Catching me catching him, he just shrugs and says, “They look bigger.”

“They’re not.” I tighten the belt and resume my concealer search. Finding a couple of tubes, I say, “Push up your sleeve and give me your hand.” He does as I ask, rolling up the white shirtsleeve and offering his hand. I flip it over to the smooth flesh of his inner wrist. Squeezing out a small dot, I tell him, “Rub that in.” He does, working the makeup in with slim, quick, fingers. I shake my head and add a different color. “Try that.”

We go through three more shades and his other wrist before we find the closest one.

“Jesus, you have a whole collection here,” he says, surveying the bottles and tubes.

“What can I say?” I toss him a sponge, dryly explaining, “I have a lot I need to cover up.”

Glancing at me, he catches the wedge, frowning. “How long are you going to give me grief about that shiner? You know it was an accident.”

“Didn’t make it hurt any less.”

His eyes flick to me once, then twice, and when he mutters out, “Sorry,” it’s in this annoyed tone of voice. Before I can dwell on it, he turns the tube over and reads the name stamped on the bottom. “I should order a case of this.”

The reality of that statement hits home. “How long does Ashby expect you to do this kind of thing?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, staring at the wedge as if it’s a particularly baffling, alien object. “I used to think they’d get tired of me, but if that happens, they’ll just find someone else. It may as well be me.”

I take the sponge back and dab a little of the concealer onto it, making a show of the process as I raise it to his neck. “Did you…” I swallow as he tilts his head, giving me access, “you know. With her?”

His throat flutters with a scoff. “I told you, the only action my cock has seen is my hand.”

I feel his touch before I see it, his deft fingertips pulling at the collar of my robe. I don’t stop him, letting it fall over my shoulder to expose my breast. His throat jumps with a swallow as I dab at the hickey, and in my periphery, I can see his gaze glued to my nipple.

“You know…” he begins, not hesitating to skate his fingertips around the underside of my breast. “Now that my deal with my brothers is functionally demolished, nothing is stopping you and me from fucking.” Wicker has this way of being gentle but firm. His face is so close that I can count the wrinkles in his chapped lips, his exhale washing over me like fire. It’s easy to want more, even if I know he’s selfish and entitled and his desires will always come first. Beneath the expensive gray fabric of his pants, I see the growing bulge. “We could—”

“No.” I jolt back, away from his touch, and quickly cover myself. It’s harder than I think it should be, seeing him there all rumpled and hard—the embodiment of sin.

“No.” He repeats, as if the word confuses him. “No?”

“You were right before,” I rush out, clearing my throat. “We shouldn’t do this.”

He gapes for a moment, the confusion on his face transforming to anger as he rears up. “Why the hell not? Obviously, my brothers don’t agree with the boundaries I made.” He looks me up and down. “Your pussy is open for business.”

Crossing my arms, I lift my chin, meeting his glare head-on. “Not for you.”

“But it is for them,” he guesses, smiling bitterly.

“Only because they know what to do with it.”

He snorts, gesturing to the bedroom. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it three weeks ago when you were sleep-humping me.”

“I didn’t have any other options then.” Shrugging, I explain, “Now, I do.”

There’s some more of that eye-bugging, and then Wicker sputters, “So, what? You’re gonna make us compete forthe honor?”

If the words weren’t spoken with such dripping contempt, I might think to soften the blow.