Jamie smiles softly against my neck, his hands slipping down my body, curving over my ass, moving me against him. “Please, what, Beatrice? What do you need?”

That voice. Low and ragged, like he’s hanging on by a thread, when all I want to do is make him snap.

“I need . . .” But I’m helpless to speak, as Jamie palms my ass, notches the hard, thick length of him tight against me where I’m desperate for relief, chasing something aching, sweet, and torturous—

BAM BAM BAM.

My eyes fly open, taking in the world around me. Bedroom. Sunlight. Warm sheets. Air whooshes out of me as I sit up, the pulse of unfulfilled release sharp between my thighs. My door rattles again with three hard bangs.

That’s when I realize my phone’s alarm is playing a thirty-second stretch of acoustic guitar music. Judging by the time and when I set my alarm for, it’s been on repeat for an hour. And here I thought my dreams were just capable of epic soundtracks.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Jules shouts.

“Sorry!” I yell back. Reaching for my phone, I shut off my alarm, then throw myself back in bed and bury my face beneath the pillows.

That dream. Wow.

Except it wasn’t all a dream. Up until the moment Jamie’s hands began wandering my body, his mouth branding my skin, that’s exactly what happened last night—a kiss that left me wanting everything my subconscious took and ran with in my dreams.

Of course, Jamie was restrained, gentlemanly as ever, seeing me inside, standing beyond the door as I locked myself in, a foyer between us not nearly enough.

Heart pounding. Kiss-stung lips. For just a moment I drank him in, framed by the doorway and starlight, wishing for his silky hair and warm skin and long, hard body moving over mine.

Then I turned and walked up those steps, not once looking back.

I have a serious problem.

I want Jamie. I’m not sure how far that wanting goes, but the wanting itself—whatever it is—it’s too much.

Whipping back the sheets, I wince as my feet hit the cold wood floor. I pull on a robe, nab a hair tie to make a quick high bun, then throw myself down at my desk, opening a sketch pad as I locate my charcoal tin.

I stare at the paper, creativity buzzing in my fingertips, resolve flooding my veins. I’m going to draw Jamie Westenberg out of my system. I’m going to bleed this want dry until it’s poured out onto paper and I have something new, even if I burn it all, even if none of it ever sees the light of day.

My heart got the best of me last time.

That’s not happening again.

—