He gave me a light shake.

I rolled them back.

“Aspen,” he pushed.

“I need to take care of Smithie.”

He studied me.

Then he sighed.

It took a lot but I didn’t smile my triumph, just felt it warm me deep down inside.

But I got serious when I asked, “You pay me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that…uh, gonna continue?”

“Do you like stripping?”

“I’m fucking amazing on that stage.”

He shook his head, but did it with his lips curled up, holding me tight. “Then yes, it’ll continue as long as you want to be on that stage.”

“I rocked a private dance, sugar, but I can’t say they were my favorite things. They were just below having my eyes burned out with a red-hot fire poker, having my nails ripped out at the roots, and having a really bad hair day.”

He started chuckling.

It looked good on him but I didn’t join in.

When Marcus noticed my seriousness, he sobered and asked, “What?”

“There’s nothing I can ever—”

He let me go with one hand to put two fingers to my lips.

When I shut up, he took his fingers away and said, “Something else my sister taught me. If you can give it, you don’t blink at giving someone you care about something they need or they want. No matter how deep it cuts, how much it costs, how steep the price might be in a different way. It’s an honor and it’s a blessing. So giving you the things I can give you means I’m honored and blessed, Daisy. Please don’t take that away from me.”

I stared up at him thinking Marcus Sloan wasn’t like a dream.

He was just a dream.

And on that thought, I blurted, “Miss Annamae would love you.”

Again, something new moved over his face and I held my breath at its splendor.

“Consider me paid back,” he whispered.

Lord.

He.

Was.

Killing.

Me!

“Oh my God!” I snapped. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Cry in your linguine, darling, it’s getting cold,” he returned, pulling me to his side and guiding me back to my chair.

I sat.

He sat.

Then I groused, “Who woulda thought some asshole cheatin’ on me or beatin’ on me would be easier to take than some hot guy honored and blessed to spoil me rotten.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Marcus murmured to his linguine.

I stared at his dark head bent over his plate right along with feeling my heart contract.

He lifted that head, swallowed, and asked, “What?”

“I don’t know whether to throw something at you or jump you.”

He grinned a wicked grin that set my coochie to buzzing.

“We’re taking it slow, remember?”

“Yeah. Right. Great.”

He kept grinning and the buzzing got stronger.

“Stop turning me on,” I warned.

“Stop being cute,” he fired back.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

He watched it then looked in my eyes. “That didn’t work.”

“Whatever,” I muttered, grabbed my bread, and gnawed off a huge chunk with my teeth.

Marcus burst out laughing.

And I loved the sound.

Whatever!

* * * *

Marcus ripped his mouth from mine, rested his forehead against mine, and murmured a labored, “Christ.”

I stood pressed against the doorjamb of his bedroom, my chest heaving, brushing against his, this setting my nipples to tingling (or setting them to tingling more). My fingers were also gripping the back of his sweater in a way that I was sure would misshape it forever.

It was a great sweater. This would be a shame.

I just couldn’t find it in me at that minute to care.

It was time to go to bed.

And Marcus led me to his bedroom, where I was sleeping (and he would hear none of it that I could take a guest room (he didn’t have one like he’d said, he had three) so I shut up about it) and he’d just given me a goodnight kiss that led to another one that led to another one that led to a make-out session in his doorway.

He had one hand curled around the back of my neck, the other hand braced on the jamb over my head.

His hold and pose were hot.

So I was not feeling slow.

At all.

“I think maybe we can—” I began.

He lifted his forehead from mine and cut me off.

“We need to work up to it.”

“I’m up for more working up to it,” I shared with him breathily.

He took his hand from the jamb and brushed his fingers along my jaw.

“Don’t make this harder,” he ordered gently.

I wanted to make something harder.

To communicate this, I replied, “I know ways to make it a whole lot easier.”

“Daisy, honey, you lost it at dinner.”

Damn.

“We need to work up to it,” he repeated.

He was right.

And that stunk.

“All right,” I grumbled.

“All right,” he replied sweetly.

“Can we make a deal that if I have forty-eight hours drama-free, you’ll consider banging me?”

He smiled down at me. “Honey, I’m never going to bang you. What we’re going to do will not including banging.”

I didn’t know what to make of that.

“What’re we gonna do?” I asked, not to get a rise out him (in that way, or any way).