“Right,” he whispered, totally seeing through me. Then he declared, “He scraped your ass raw on that asphalt.”

I winced and looked away.

Marcus kept at me.

“He did not fuck you. He did not bang you. He did not have sex with you. He raped you. Do you get the difference?”

“Yeah,” I bit out sarcastically, turning back to him with squinty eyes, my face hard. “I was there, darlin’. I get it a fuckuva lot better than you.”

“But he was inside you.”

Oh God.

I started shaking.

“Stop talkin’,” I demanded.

He did not stop talking.

Oh no.

He did not.

“And I’m the man who has to come after that. How do I do that, Daisy? How do I do that and make sure you don’t go back there? How do I do that and make sure it’s good for you? Make sure I take you where I want us to be? Give you that at the same time keeping you safe? Give you what I want you to get from me? Make you understand what being inside you means to me?”

I stood still, staring at him, frozen, but I did it still trembling.

Though now for a different reason.

“How, Daisy?” he pushed.

I kept staring, trembling, unable to speak.

Marcus was able to speak.

“I talked with a woman called Bex who’s worked for years at a rape crisis center. She told me to be watchful, communicative, patient, and give it time. We need to give it time so I can be certain to give you what you deserve when I give you me.”

“You don’t wanna fuck me,” I whispered.

“No, I don’t want to fuck you,” he bit off.

“You want to make love to me.”

“Yes, that’s what I want to do and that’s what I need you to feel when I do it.”

Oh my God.

I was in love with this man.

And he was in love with me.

He was in love with me.

“Marcus?”

“What?” he clipped.

“Please make love to me.”

We stood staring at each other in the dim lights in his fabulous entryway.

But all of a sudden I had my hand in his and was being dragged up an elegant winding staircase.

I tripped.

Marcus stopped, jerked my arm, and then I was flying through the air.

I settled in his arms like a bride carried by her groom as he stalked up the rest of the steps and prowled down the hall to his room.

“Seriously, really, truly,” I whispered to his hard jaw. “If you’re carryin’ me in this way to your bedroom, honey bunches of love, somethin’ needs to come to fruition.”

He looked down at me when he cleared the doorway then he walked me across his room and slid me down his body so I could take my feet when he made it to the side of the bed.

He bent to the side to switch on a light but straightened in front of me, right in my space.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked.

“Never,” I answered.

That was when he kissed me.

We fell back to the bed when Marcus pressed into me.

I immediately went after his suit jacket.

He went after the zip of my hoodie.

He let me win and I shoved the jacket down his shoulders.

He threw it off and then took down the zip.

I yanked his shirt out of his trousers and dove in at the back.

God, not for the first time I encountered skin that felt amazing.

Through all this, Marcus kissed me.

Suddenly, he rolled so he was on his back, I was on top, and he sat up, so I was forced to straddle him.

My coochie liked the kissing.

It liked the straddling better.

“Baby,” I whispered.

He pushed the hoodie down my shoulders.

I tossed it away.

His eyes holding mine, he went after the back clasp of my bra.

His fingers there, and that was it.

He needed me to give him permission. To let him know where I was at. To show him I was with him, only him, this was only him and me.

God.

Marcus Sloan.

“Please,” I breathed.

It came loose then the bra was gone.

He looked at me exposed to him in his bed for the first time, not on a stage, and he whispered, “So beautiful.”

God.

Marcus Sloan.

“Kiss me, honey,” I begged.

His hands went up my back, into my hair, pulling my face to his, and he kissed me.

He did a lot of kissing. In fact, he kept my mouth occupied with his lips and tongue the whole time it took him to get my clothes off, his clothes off (but he let me help with that part). And he kissed me the whole time he touched me, no, caressed me, his hands roaming, slow, gentle, sweet, over every inch of me.

Finally, finally, he bent and took my nipple in his mouth.

That shot so hot up my coochie, I slid my fingers in his hair, my neck twisting to the side, and I gasped, “Yes.”

He worked me there just like he always worked me with his kisses these past weeks and everything he’d done that night.

Slow. Gentle. Sweet.

And just the same way, as his lips moved to my other nipple, his hand slid over my hip, over my belly and down.

I opened my legs for him.

His fingers slid through me.

My lips parted, my hips lifted, his mouth went away, and I righted my head to catch his gaze.

Watching me, his face dark and beautiful, he stroked a finger inside.

And when he did, his face got darker, more beautiful.

And hungry.

My hands darted out and clutched his arms, my eyes drifting closed, I whimpered, “Marcus.”