“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have just—”

She launched herself at him with such a quick shift, he nearly jerked away himself. What saved him was the wanting … the vicious craving he’d always had for her that was all pent up from the time they’d been apart.

Lizzie spoke against his mouth. “I’m not in my right head, either.”

With a curse, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her into his lap, the computer sliding off onto the thick carpet—which was fine. He wanted to forget about the money, his father, Rosalinda … even if just for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he pushed her down on the mattress with a twist. “I need you. I just … I need to be in you—”

Knock, knock, knock.

They both froze, their eyes meeting.

“What,” he barked out.

As a muted female voice said something about towels, all Lane thought about was the fact that that door was not locked.

“No, thank you.”

Lizzie pushed her way out from under him, and he moved so she could get to her feet. Meanwhile, the maid in the hall kept talking.

“I’m good. Thanks,” he said roughly.

His eyes tracked Lizzie’s hands as they yanked her shirt back down and finger brushed her hair.

“Lizzie,” he whispered.

She just shook her head as she paced around, looking as if she were considering a leap-out-the-window strategy for escape.

More talk from the maid, and he just lost it. Exploding up to his feet, he stalked over and ripped open the door, blocking the way into his room. The blond twenty-five-year-old on the other side was the same one who’d been in the hallway when he and Chantal had been arguing.

“Oh, hi.” She smiled up at him. “How are you?”

“I don’t need anything. Thanks,” he said roughly.

As he turned away, she reached out and took his arm. “I’m Tiphanii—that’s with a ‘ph’ and a double ‘i’ at the end.”

“Nice to meet you. If you’ll excuse—”

“I was just going to come in and check your bathroom.”

That smile of hers gave her away. That and the little change in position where her pelvis tilted toward him and one of her legs got extended like she was wearing stilettos instead of Crocs.

Lane rolled his eyes—he couldn’t help it. The woman he really wanted had just gotten out from under him, and this piece of taffy was thinking she had anything to offer?

Make that taphii.

“Thanks, but no. I’m not interested.”

He closed the door on her because he didn’t have the energy to be pleasant, and he didn’t want to say something he was going to regret.

Pivoting around, he found Lizzie across the room by the window. She was deliberately standing off to the side, as if she didn’t want to be seen from down below, and her arms were crossed over her chest.

“You sounded so sincere,” she said roughly.

“When I’m with you, I am—”

“With that maid just now.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You know what I really hate?”

“I can only imagine,” he muttered.

“How she just propositioned you … and still, all I can think of is taking your clothes off. Like you’re some kind of toy I’m fighting with her over.”

His erection twitched in his pants. “There is no fight—I’m yours. If you want, here and now. Or later. A week, a month, years from now.”

Shut up, his arousal said. Just shut up, buddy, with that timeline stuff.

“I’m not falling back into you, Lane. I’m just not.”

“You said that over the phone.”

Lizzie nodded and unplugged from the view of the garden. As the light began to fade from the sky, she marched across the room, clearly heading for the door.

Damn it—

Not the door.

She did not, in fact, go to the door.

Lizzie stopped at him and let her fingers do the walking, taking his face, bringing his mouth back to hers.

“Lizzie,” he groaned, licking into her mouth.

The kiss got out of control fast, and he was not going to lose the chance with her. Spinning her around, he pushed her against the wall, the oil painting next to them bouncing so hard, the thing threw itself off its hook and splintered to the floor. He didn’t care. His hands shot under her clothes, finding skin, riding upward to feel her breasts.

He never thought he’d get this again, and though he would have liked to do a slow-and-sweet, he couldn’t. Too desperate.

He was rough with the waistband of her shorts, tearing at the button, the zipper, ripping them down her legs. And then he slid his hand between her thighs, pushing her cotton panties out of the—

Lizzie called out his name in a hoarse voice that nearly made him come right then and there. And as her fingers bit into his shoulders, he stroked her harder.

“Hurt me,” he growled as she dug into him. “Make me bleed …”

He wanted the pain along with the pleasure, everything that was going on with his father and his family making him raw and dark on the inside—to the point where he wondered dimly if maybe this was what drove his brother Max. He’d heard about those things Maxwell did—or rumors about them.

Maybe this was why. He felt like he had to get the darkness out or it was going to consume him.

Lifting Lizzie up off the floor, he relished the way she locked on to him with her powerful arms. One tearing jerk of the zipper on his slacks and his arousal was ready to go. He split her underwear in two, and then—