In a flash he sits up, grabbing me by my waist to keep me from falling back and losing our connection. I stare into his eyes and slowly start to lean back. His hand supports the curvature of my back as I continue into a full backbend, my head resting between his legs, my hips pressed against him, my knees pushing into the soft rug, my arms stretched out, hands clinging to his ankles.

And that’s when Lander leans forward, bringing him in so deep I can’t help but cry out. He kisses my breast as I cling to his legs, bracing myself against each thrust. The ecstasy is overwhelming. This is real, this feeling, this passion, this crazed intensity.

This man . . . he knows my body.

He knows how to make me feel.

I’m trembling against him. Being with him like this shouldn’t feel this powerful. I’ve forgotten who I am. Maybe that was inevitable.

But I shouldn’t forget who he is.

And yet right now, he is this feeling. He’s rage and rapture; he’s tenderness and grace.

He’s the closest I’ll ever get to love.

My orgasm rocks through me as he pulls me back up so I sit on his lap and give way to his motion.

And when he comes . . . I feel that too. I feel him throbbing inside me. I feel him shake as he explodes. I feel his warm breath against my skin and how desperate his hands are by the way they grasp me.

And I wish he knew me.

I wish we were the man and woman we pretend to be.

I wish I didn’t have to destroy him.

chapter sixteen

I don’t spend the night. I need Lander to feel the luxury and loneliness of an empty bed. The minute he gets used to me is the minute he’ll start losing interest.

But I also leave because I need to prepare. After all, the next day will be my first working with Travis.

When I wake up that morning I take care selecting my outfit. I end up with a charcoal suit made of a stretch wool-poly blend with a leather collar and leather patches on the elbows. It’s cold commerce with splashes of rebellion.

Travis will appreciate it.

I smile at my reflection and snatch up my bag, ready for battle.

But on the way out I pause to grab a Clif Bar, not for me, but for Mary. It’s a knee-jerk reaction that I don’t seem to have the strength or desire to squelch.

On the way to the subway, I spot her sitting on the pavement, her back to a wall as she uses a stub of a colored pencil to work on her coloring book, two felt-tipped pens in her hair held in place by the thick, tight curls.

“Hey,” I say as I reach into my purse. “Hungry?”