In answer, Sylvie pulls free, rolls over, now on her hands and knees, and pushes herself against my erection. “Yes,” she says.

I consider taking her that way, plunging inside; one hand on her hip while the other tangles in her hair. I’m so hard, it will be over fast. We can take it slow the next time. I slide her panties off, part her legs. Sylvie reaches back, pulls me forward until the tip of my cock begins to penetrate. Fighting my desire, I pull back and use my fingers, slide them inside her and find the most sensitive spot, slip over it again and again as she gets wetter until her legs tremble . . .

“Now,” Sylvie beckons.

I withdraw my fingers. “I want to see your face.” She doesn’t turn. Again I bring her to the edge of orgasm but stop short. I’m not sure why I don’t take her this way . . . I want to, almost to the point of losing all rational thought, but it’s like there’s some animal part of my brain warning that if I slip inside her from behind, I’ll have gone down the wrong road. “I want to see you,” I repeat, my voice rough.

She rolls onto her back, wraps her legs around me, and we both groan as I enter. For a moment we’re still. When I kiss her, the spell is broken and we begin to move together. Her hands grip my back, while mine cup her ass as I drive deeper and deeper, my eyes never leaving her face, until we buck, quake, cry out. Our orgasms ricochet, going on and on until we fall into each other.

Burying my face in her hair, I whisper, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You will,” she replies. “It’s the human condition.”

THIRTY-THREE

Sylvie

I watch Thomas sleep. He knows more about me than any man I’ve ever been with. When he smiles in his dream, tears slip down my temples. The past forty-eight hours have been grueling, out of control, as I’ve fought for my career—my right to exist, as Sylvie Young, a legitimate psychic-medium—while at the same time trying to discover a past that may hurt or even destroy me. I turn my face into the pillow to stifle sobs. I told the truth and for a short time Thomas liked me anyway. But the pressure and his kindness are not the only reason I’m crying. Sex with Thomas, our emotional and undeniable physical connection, will give me power. Does that make me a bad person?

I think so.

Before sleep, I move Chris and Moose back to the couch. My dog gives me the look—he’s been relegated to the bathroom before. “Don’t judge.” I tuck both animals beneath a throw blanket. I slide back into bed and Thomas spoons me in his sleep. Tomorrow he’ll probably be sorry we had sex. He was in the dominant position over my career and me. Now he’s professionally compromised and I have newfound power. The question is: Am I going to use it?