“Why lace?” she asks.

Because it’s clean. Pretty. Pure. “I don’t know, but always wear lace.” I stop at the door. “Keys, back pocket.”

She pulls them from my jeans and unlocks the door, and I drop everything to the floor and make my way up the stairs with her clinging to me like a baby chimp, snuggled in my neck. She’s tired. Me too. But never too tired for more. I pull my phone out and load the music app, hitting shuffle before tossing it on the cabinet. And like an omen, Massive Attack’s Angel plays.

Perfect. So fucking perfect.

I pry her from my body and set her on her feet. “I’m taking you to bed now.” I start unbuttoning her blouse, seeing her visibly tense. It’s not just me. It’s the music. So fucking sexy, and so fucking apt. I gaze at her, my eyes soft, hers full of wonder. Or love.

“Why do you try to control me?”

Her question throws me for a loop. Control her? The chance would be a fine thing. And I wouldn’t call it control, more assertion. But try is the operative word here. If she knew my story, she might understand. So tell her, Jake screams from the dead. “I don’t know,” I whisper, feeling my forehead go heavy. “It just feels like the right thing to do.” It’s all I’m capable of. Control has been non-existent in my life, and, clearly, I don’t know how to handle it. I drop her blouse to the floor as she studies me, quiet, not challenging me, which is good because what the fuck would I say?

The truth.

It is far from appropriate for my brother to be here right now, taunting me, nagging me. Fuck off.

Fine. I can’t watch this train crash anymore.

I jerk a little, like he could have just prodded me; I swallow hard, waiting for him to enhance my guilt some more. He doesn’t. But he doesn’t need to. I look at the woman before me and it’s there with a vengeance.

Make love to her. Show her. Make her see. I’m doing it constantly in between the minor meltdowns, but I need to speak the words and hope she reciprocates.

Then, spill it all. Every unbearable, heartbreaking moment.

I shake my head clear and remove her trousers, feeling her watching me with a curious interest I don’t like. I need to turn this around. I step back and kick off my shoes and jeans, and something in her eyes shifts. She’s back. I’m back. I take in every inch of her, from her toes to her hair and lift an arm, reaching for her bra and pulling the cups down, tracing the stiff nub of her nipple with the back of my hand. Her chest expands. “You make me crazy,” I whisper.