I’m messy with her. My lips are wet from her lust. I lick them and then go back for more. Her breathing fills the room, a counterpoint to the crackle and pop of the fire.

“Let me come. Please.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh God, it hurts. It hurts not to come.”

Maybe I’m drawing it out to punish her. Or maybe I just need her to feel as good as she’d have felt with Lucas and Oliver. Better than that. She could have gone with them and had a night to remember. They are famous in LA—and Prague, and Tokyo, and London—for their exploits. They could have taught her things, but I want her here—quivering under my lips.

That’s the kind of experience she can have later. The kind she will have later, when she leaves me. Because inevitably she’ll leave. I’ll be here, covered in sea spray, drenched in rain, freezing to death on the cliffs of Maine. Later, later. Right now she’s here. With me. I show my gratitude by pushing two fingers inside this time. I reach deep, finding the spot that makes her jolt. And then I rub it again. And again. She’s moaning now, seconds from coming. It’s getting harder to stop her. Harder to draw this out.

She’s on a razor’s edge, vibrating with how close she is. God, she’s magnificent. Her breasts shake. Her thighs tense. Her hand fists in my hair, demanding that I worship her.

I press the flat of my tongue against her clit at the same time as I twist my fingers inside her. She comes with a sharp cry, her whole body writhing. Darkness and chaos. Water in my lungs. I breathe the salt and musk of her deep, wanting to remember this for a cold future night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jane Mendoza

The doorbell rings at noon.

I open it without checking the peephole. I’m hoping it’s the event company come to pick up their china and silverware and sashes. Zoey is the one who made the order, and without information from her, I have no idea how to return them.

“Holy shit. You’re Mateo Garza.”

A casual smirk that probably earns him a zillion dollars per second on film. He’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt and jeans, but he might as well have just stepped off some fancy men’s magazine cover. “We met yesterday. You’re Jane, right? The nanny.”

“Yeah, but I thought I might have imagined it. I got a little tipsy.”

“Top-shelf vodka will do that.”

“Good thing I can’t afford it, then. Because my head hurts this morning.”

A small, sympathetic laugh. “I think we’re all feeling the hangover this morning.”

I open the door wider. “You’re here to see Mr. Rochester?”

“Yeah. Though I wanted to check on you, too.”

I glance behind me, just in case. Empty foyer. “Me?”