He was fascinated by it—just as surely as he was fascinated by the toy she’d been fucking. Not half an hour ago this woman had been nattering about penises and pussies with laughter in her voice; she made dick jokes every time she cooked sausages; she came out with That’s what she said more often than a fifteen-year-old boy. Yet now she covered her eyes with her hands, practically vibrating with a discomfort that gleamed like ripe fruit in the sun.

“You’re blushing,” he said.

She peeked at him through her fingers, those cautious dark eyes sending a thrill over his skin. “You are holding my dildo, Jacob.”

“So you admit it’s yours.”

“No, it’s yours. You must have lost it on the sofa months ago.” But the joke lacked her usual humor, the words softening until they were just gasps with shape. He wondered if she was thinking of him lying here with something just like this, fucking himself. He hoped she was, even if that seemed anatomically unlikely. What did he know about the sexual capabilities of his arse, anyway? Maybe it was perfectly possible.

Maybe she was imagining all the ways it could be perfectly possible.

Or maybe she was so mortified right now because Jacob was utterly alone in his illicit feelings and making a complete fool of himself.

Now, wasn’t that possibility a bucket of ice water?

Abruptly, Jacob put the toy down on a side table.

Eve released a sigh of relief and flopped back on the bed, flinging an arm over her eyes.

“I apologize,” he said.

“No,” she murmured. “No, it’s . . .” and then she trailed off. God only knew what that meant.

If he had an ounce of sense or self-respect, this would be a great moment to de-escalate the situation. But he must have lost those somewhere down the line, because instead of changing the subject—or, you know, throwing himself out of the window—Jacob simply looked at her. Looked, and let himself notice the soft plumpness of her arms, the dark and delicate lines etched into her palms. The fat curve of her breasts beneath her T-shirt. The hem had ridden up a little and he could see the strip of skin just above her leggings. He could see her bare hips. He could see the beginnings of a scar on her right side—appendectomy, it looked like. He’d seen that kind of scar before.

But it felt like he’d never seen Eve. Or rather, like he’d been working incredibly hard to keep his eyes closed, and now he was exhausted so his eyes were wide open. Only, she was hiding, which suggested she did not want to be seen.

Jacob was gathering the frayed edges of his control when she peeked out at him and asked, “Are you going to make fun of me for the next thousand centuries?”

“You think I’m going to make fun of you,” he said. Thank God his voice was strained enough that the words came out flat and harsh, instead of dripping with inappropriate desire and—and hope. Because Eve was gloriously unselfconscious about sex, and she certainly didn’t give a damn for his opinions—not usually, anyway. Only when it mattered. So why would this matter?