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“Has he hurt you?” I shake my head in response. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“No. Not really… no…”

“Not really or no?”

“Jesus, what’s with the inquisition?” I push to my feet and grab my bowl, ready to take it to the sink when his large, heavy hands anchor on my hips.

“It’s not… I’m not interrogating you, Courtney. The thought of you being hurt?—”

“It doesn’t matter, Auguste. I’m not going back to Washington anytime soon, so…”

His eyes are narrowed to slits when he stands, taking my bowl and stacking it with his. I hate that he doesn’t finish his dinner. The food he cooked for us. To take care of me.

This is where I question all the reasons I’m holding back. All the whys that I’ve talked through with Delilah over and over again.

“Go put a movie on,” he tells me while I watch him rinse the dishes from dinner and place them in the dishwasher.

“I picked the last one.”

“Yeah, and you can pick tonight’s too.”

“Okay… out of curiosity, what do you like to watch?”

A wonky grin tugs at his full lips. “You won’t like what I like.”

“Try me, Masterchef.”

“Okay.” The gravel in his chuckle is going to be my ruin. It’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. “I like nineties horror movies.”

“Horror?” My eyes must be bugging out of my head because I did not see this coming.

Surprisingly sweet and broody Auguste Broussard that bakes me muffins and cooks me dinner while waxing lyrical about his momma likes horror movies?

“Technically nineties horror movies are slasher flicks which means they’re more jumpy than scary. The eighties were more psychological and the two thousands were mostly cringe and gore… although, I do enjoy Final Destination .”

“What’s your favorite?”

“You can’t ask me that. What would you do if I asked you your favorite book?”

“Touché. Top five then? ”

Another belly flipping chuckle. “ Scream , Silence of the Lambs … shit… umm, I know What You Did Last Summer … Sixth Sense and Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers … no Psycho … shit… no… Candyman …”

“Which one is the least scary?”

“Probably Scream and I know What You Did Last Summer .”

I opt for the first one he mentioned both times he answered the question. Even if he thinks he can’t pick a favorite, I’d bet that Scream is it.

By the time I’ve found the movie on the complex entertainment system, Auguste is sitting next to me with Samson curled into the corner of the couch.

The apartment is dark now and my pulse is going fast as the opening credits roll.

Auguste is so relaxed that it makes me super aware of myself as silence settles between us. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Then Auguste shifts beside me, thigh brushing mine, warm and solid.

“You asked me once,” he says, low. “Now I’m asking you.”

I turn toward him, relieved to be missing out on the nervy scene on the screen. “What?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

I exhale a soft laugh. “I don’t know. I mean, I want to. But… I don’t even know if I believe in love, to be honest.”

His brows knit. “But you’re a romantic.”

A chuff escapes me. “Yeah. Weird, right? A romantic who doesn’t believe in love.”

Dark glinting eyes course over my face. “Tragic.”

That’s all he says, but the word lodges twists inside me. That lasso around my insides reeling me into him.

I don’t think. I just move. Leaning closer.

Until he stops me, barely pulling back. “Courtney… Court…”

“Auguste.”

His pinkie hooks over mine at the side of my thigh. “I’m not here to take advantage of you.”

“I know,” I whisper. My fingers tremble as they lace with his. “But I… I want you to.”

I crawl into his lap. Straddle him. Every hard line of him beneath me stiffens with his raspy breaths.

“Princess…” The words are ground between his clenched teeth as I lower my face to his, skimming the tip of my nose along his.

I’m not sure where this confidence has come from. Anything to do with intimacy normally scares me, but Auguste is so easy. So warm just like his name that he makes it impossible to do anything except give in to the need roiling in my veins.

His face tips up. Our lips meet.

Oh my God , I shudder at the throaty growl that vibrates in the back of his throat as his hand clasps mine tighter while the other grips my waist.

His breath, hot and humid, whispers through my parted mouth before he kisses me—slow at first. Lips rolling together. Tongues teasing. Then deeper.

Auguste’s mouth claims mine with a hunger I didn’t know I’ve been yearning for. His teeth scrape over my tingling lips. Nipping at the tip of my tongue with teasing possessiveness.

I like it. I like the way it feels when his fingers claw into my waist and the back of my hand. Promising to leave a mark. To make this real for more than just the here and now.

I like that too. The idea of having a visual souvenir of Auguste’s touch.

When my hands slide under his shirt, he catches my wrists gently.

“I’m not gonna?—”

I take his hand. Guiding it between my thighs before he can finish his protest.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Fuck,” he groans the mangled curse as his palm settles against the heat of me. “Snow…”

“Don’t think, Auguste,” I gasp, grinding down into his strong touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck, fuck… fuck it, ” he mutters, fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of my panties. “So hot. So wet… fuckin’ perfect.”

Auguste strokes me. Like his kiss, slow at first. Then he pushes his finger beneath my underwear and teases my slit.

He’s right. I am wet—totally soaked for him. And as he spears his fingers inside me, he strokes faster. Rubbing at my walls with just the right force. Building me up, unraveling me…

“Look at you, Princess—” He leans back into the couch cushions, the hand at my waist moving me in time with the relentless thrust of his finger while he watches me come undone for him. “—wearing me like a goddamn glove. So damn tight.”

My hips jerk and my throat catches on a cry. “Oh—oh my God?—”

His words are the match to the gasoline pounding in my veins, coursing through my body,

Everything is so warm. Stifling. Scorching.

My insides are all bunched together. Tight.

Pushing me deeper into his fingers as he strokes faster.

Fingers thrusting all the way to that spot tightening.

I’ve never… fuck… I’ve never felt anything this fucking good as he hooks his fingers and rubs. Thumb circling my clit hard and fast.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck… fuuuuck, Auguste. ”

His breath hitches as I come apart in his arms, body shaking, hips trembling, my orgasm barreling through me, gushing from some hidden part of me that didn’t exist until now. Until him.

My slick thighs squeeze around his drenched hand with every last tremor of my orgasm before I collapse into his chest. And he holds me. The hand at my waist trails along the small of my back pressing him to me while his other hand—his very wet hand—brushes my hair from my face.

Oh my christ. I don’t know what he just did to me. But it should be illegal because it takes me forever to gather my wits and sit up again onto his also very wet thighs.

I flush, mortified. “I—I’m sorry?—”

“Don’t.” His voice is rough, hard… and yet, reverent… awed. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize.”

He lifts his hand, licking his lips as he studies the fingers that were inside me moments ago.

A grin tugs at his mouth. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

My chest burns. Relief washing over me when he kisses the tip of my nose with a playful nip and stands, carrying me to the kitchen.

Dazed, all I can do is watch while Auguste cleans me up with a warm, damp cloth.

He’s quiet and his touch gentle even though he’s all tense and pent up.

Still when I reach for him, for the hem of his shirt he grabs my hands and holds them in my lap as his mouth presses to my temple.

Only once, one kiss, before he tidies everything away and then disappears into the utility room with his sweatpants tented.

Auguste comes back with his hoodie bundled in his hands. Then he wraps it around me—warm from the dryer and smelling of him. I’m desperate for him to kiss me again—to feel his teeth gnaw at my lip and his hands sink into my flesh.

He doesn’t.

Auguste takes me back to the couch where he settles me on his lap, face buried in my messy hair while we go back to watching the movie.

I don’t make it past the end of the scene before I melt into him. Into his strong body and possessive hold .

The last thing I feel is the whisper of his lips tracing the scar on my head.

When I stir later, I’m tucked in bed. Samson curled by my head and a small note on the pillow next to him:

Call me if you need anything. Bx

I hug it tight to my chest burrowing deeper into his hoodie, inhaling his scent all the way into my lungs.

And my last thought is if maybe, just maybe… love is real.