“Take me home,” I say again, and he leads me to the limo.

The driver comes out to open the door for us. He meets my eyes, making me blush. Before Lander I never blushed . . . not since I was a little kid, not since I learned to breathe anger and live with pain. I raise my hand to my own cheek and feel the warmth. There’s something . . . appealing about it, thrilling.

We get in the limo, the door is closed behind us, and the noises of the city are instantly gone.

As we drive through the streets, we’re quiet, like the first time we rode in a cab together . . . Was that only yesterday? It’s hard to keep track of these things when you’ve just started a relationship with a man you’ve been studying for years. Time gets all mixed up and confused. You have to remember what you’ve been told versus what you’ve secretly learned on your own. That’s what always trips people up in the movies and on TV.

I reach over, squeeze Lander’s knee, gaze at him with wide, innocent eyes. The trick is to not overthink. To always stay in the moment. To pretend that you don’t know anything, that you can’t even remember what he told you an hour ago. Pretend that all you can remember and feel is the sensations he provokes, the pulsing need you have for him when he smiles with those crinkly eyes.

With Lander I don’t have to pretend too hard.

In minutes we’re at his Upper East Side home, walking past the doorman, moving into the elevator, not touching but feeling each other’s presence. His hunger for me is tangible. It tickles my skin and pulls at my heart.

When we walk into his penthouse, I lead the way. I don’t bother with the living room but instead crook my finger, beckoning him to follow me into his office.

I stand in the middle of the room, turn to him, reach out my hand. “I don’t know how much time we have,” I say softly. “Maybe we’ll last a month, if we’re really lucky a year. Maybe you’ll tire of me tomorrow.”

“Bell, I won’t—”

“But I want to treat every moment like it has value,” I interrupt. “I want to make love to you in every room of your home. I know what it’s like to be pressed up against your window, the entire city at my back. It wasn’t like flying—it was more unstable than that. It was like . . . like the only thing that kept me from breaking through that glass and falling was our lust. Like passion actually kept my feet on the floor.”

“Bell,” he breathes, but this time the word is not the beginning of a promise, or an exclamation. It’s the sound of admiration, maybe even respect.