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I accept a folded square of lined paper, aware of Trish’s avid focus and my own pounding heart. This can’t possibly mean what I think it means.

“Open it!” says Vincent brightly.

“Yeah, open it,” hisses Trish from the corner of her mouth.

The paper is smooth, almost cool. I unfold it to find a square of writing in the center.

Trish leans over my shoulder. “Here’s a pen,” she whispers, pulling it from behind her ear and all but shoving it into my fingers.

“Hi, Dad!”

My head whips up. The first thing I see is a bouquet of wildflowers. The second thing is a set of hopeful, crystal-blue eyes. I blink hard, but he’s still there. So is Vincent, who grabs the flowers and pushes them into my arms.

Behind me, I hear several “Ahhs” and “Ohhs” from customers and coworkers.

“She hasn’t circled one yet, Dad,” whispers Vincent.

Leo glances at the paper, currently crumpled against the stalks of flowers. I can’t feel my face, but I must be smiling or crying or shaking or something, because Leo grins.

“Are you busy tonight?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Can I pick you up at six?”

I nod.

He takes me to a popular sushi joint in Santa Monica. The place is wall-to-wall people, and the servers must be part-time acrobats for how fast and skillfully they move in the narrow aisles between tables.

Up until we were seated, I was nervous Leo was nervous, and constantly scanned him for signs of distress. Though I didn’t find any, I wasn’t convinced of his shift in attitude until we sat and he reached across the table to link his fingers with mine. Since that moment, I’ve been in heaven.

The restaurant is so loud we don’t talk much, but communicate in subtle touch. He barely looks away from me throughout our meal, following the path of every morsel to my mouth with hungry eyes. The air between us grows painfully electrified.

I never knew eating could be foreplay.

When I lick a drop of soy sauce off my lip, Leo’s expression turns pained. He lifts a hand. “Check please.”

Giggling like teenagers, we hightail it back to his car. In unspoken agreement, he drives to my place. It’s closer. By the time we get inside, my hand is down his pants and my bra dangles at my waist. Undressing the rest of the way isn’t graceful, but it’s fucking perfect.

“God, Amelia,” he groans, peppering kisses across my breasts as he carries me to the bedroom.

I’m unhinged. Dying to have him inside me. But I’m also drunk on his response to me. It makes me bold. It makes me free.

Before Leo can lay me on the bed, I wiggle from his arms, jerk him around by the shoulders, and shove his chest. He lands on his back, eyes wide with surprise, miles of beautiful, aroused male for my viewing pleasure.

Dipping my fingers between my legs, I cup a breast with my other hand. “Do you want this?”

He hisses, his cock twitching in anticipation. “You have no idea how much. Come here, please.”

I drag wet fingers to my clit and play with myself, delighting in his agonized groan. It doesn’t take long for me to be perilously close to orgasm. “I like it when you beg, Leo, but I also like it when you take what you want.”

In two seconds flat, I’m facedown on the mattress. Leo’s hot body descends on my back, his teeth finding purchase on my shoulder. I’m still reeling from sensory overload when he drags me to my knees and slams inside me.

“Fuck! Yes!”

I don’t know which of us the words come from, if they’re spoken or in my mind. But his next words ring loud and clear, punctuated by deep, possessive thrusts.

“I’m keeping you,” he murmurs darkly. “This pussy belongs to me. It’s been mine for years, but I was too much of a chickenshit to take it. I’m not making the same mistake twice. Do you understand?”