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“What you need right now is to be fucked.”

And he does just that, stopping only when the light starts peeking between the bedroom curtains.

Does the fact that I love to be fucked while sleeping make me a pervert?

Three days later, I leave the bathroom and walk to the bedroom with that thought twirling in my head. Uri and I have being going at it like rabbits. My body aches spectacularly everywhere and my heart feels so full. I’ve never been this happy in my life.

I let the towel fall down on the floor. I’m wearing only a pink silk thong after deciding against a bra. Uri likes to play with my nipples, and they’ve gotten very sensitive. The feel of lingerie rubbing against them is quite arousing, and I don’t want to pop a boner while talking in front of a crowd of students. My lecture is scheduled for this morning at the University of Illinois main campus in Urbana, a town a little outside Chicago and I need to hurry up and get ready.

When I’m done, I walk downstairs and into the kitchen—after quickly checking on Albert E. The sight of Uri sitting at the table makes me lose my breath for a moment. My heart keeps fluttering and settling again and again. Anxiety and comfort tangle inside me.

He’s wearing a pair of black pants and a dark gray, V-neck sweater that looks tight on his fit upper body. No shirt underneath, revealing part of his tattooed collarbone.

He looks me up and down, narrowing his eyes at my pants. They are tight, but the boyfriend cardigan reaches mid-thigh.

“What?”

“Do the buttons,” he demands absurdly.

“They are done.” I look down at the two fastened in the middle. I’m wearing a turtleneck underneath, for hell’s sake.

“All of them.”

I hold his death stare, not afraid in the least. “I’m hungry,” I say when too much time passes in this ridiculous staring contest.

“Sit. I bought your favorite.” He points at the chair near his.

“Croissant with pear and chocolate?” I ask, hopeful.

“From that bakery on Green Bay Road.” He nods, and I smile brightly, forgetting everything else as I move to the table.

When did he buy it? Did he go this morning? The bakery is here in Winnetka, but it must have taken him twenty minutes to go there and come back. His ridiculously high level of dominance is tempered by how thoughtful and attentive he can be.

I sit next to him, but he doesn’t move. He keeps drinking his coffee; his other hand is wrapped around a steaming mug which contains what looks like tea. My tea. I move my hand toward the mug, but he slides it away. I turn my frown to him, confused by his strange behavior. His eyes glance down at my chest—and my half-buttoned cardigan—before moving back to my face.

Is he serious? My mouth turns slack as he keeps sipping his damn drink like his insane actions are perfectly justified.

I want to defy him so badly, but a glance at the kitchen clock tells me I don’t have much time before I have to leave. And I really want my croissant.

I let out an angry growl, to which he snorts. Snorts! The sociopath! I give him the most furious glower I can produce as I start to button up my cardigan. He waits until I finish before placing the tea in front of me and getting the croissant from the kitchen.

He sets the plate on the table and gives my head a kiss. When I huff, he pulls on my braid, tilting my head all the way up to crush his mouth to mine and gorge on my taste. The ardent kiss tastes like coffee. It demolishes my annoyance, consuming all the fighting spirit inside me. My toes curl and my heart climbs into my throat as I let him devour me.

Before going back to his seat, he lands another hard kiss on my puffy lips. He has a smug close-mouthed smile on his perfect face. It makes me realize that I need to up my game against him. I can’t keep yielding so easily.

“Stop looking so smug!” I scold him.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and grasps my thigh, squeezing the muscle like he needs to remind me that I’m his.

“How can I not when I put that dazed expression on your beautiful face?”

And swoon. I’m melting because Uri is not a romantic person, what he states are facts. He really thinks I’m beautiful.

I start eating my croissant, otherwise I’ll jump on him and never get out of this house. I have a lab and Albert E. is here, so I don’t actually need to go outside. Uri’s crazy illusion of keeping me locked up is growing on me. I better hurry and go give my lecture before turning completely mad.

“The driver will be here in fifteen minutes,” I say more to myself than him. “Don’t get that look in your eyes.”

“What look?” he asks.