“Going to have breakfast with you.”

“With me or on me?”

“Both.”

He pours a bit more, biting his lip.

“Fuck. Your skin is just like the cream. You have no idea how hard I am right now.”

“I might.” My hands reach around below, grabbing at his robe and tugging at it, trying to expose him, to feel him, but he shifts just so that I can’t touch him.

“I like to torture myself,” he explains before running his hand between my breasts and slowly licking the cream off of his finger, his long tongue riding up the side, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I think you might be torturing me while you’re at it,” I tell him, my hands going into his thick hair and giving the strands a pull.

His eyes close with a groan and he starts massaging the cream over my breasts, my nipples hardening into tight little peaks, so sensitive that every time he brushes over them I want to scream.

This man, this man, he’s undoing me.

There will be nothing left of me when he’s done.

Nothing left of me when he’s gone.

He lowers his head, his stubble scraping along my skin and bringing me back around to the here and the now.

All I have is here and now.

His mouth dips down to suck my nipples into his warm mouth, making my back arch. “Fuck,” he moans, the vibrations running through me until I am so fucking wet. “You’re so perfect.”

His hands spread the cream down over my stomach and between my legs, dragging the wetness over my clit.

My grip tightens in his hair and I gasp again, my hips bucking up automatically, desperate for friction, for purchase. “Come inside me, please.” The words nearly choke on my tongue.

“I’ve only started feasting,” he says, sliding his finger inside, his thumb rubbing my clit. I clench around him, hard, until he pulls his finger out. “Do you see the way you taste to me,” he says, licking his finger again.

Jesus.

“Better now,” he says. “You make it sweeter. And yet it will be sweeter still.”

He reaches over and grabs the small jar of honey that came with the toast, unscrewing the cap and dipping his finger in. He brings his finger to my lips, rubs the honey over them before sticking his finger into my mouth. I can taste myself, taste the sweet honey. Most of all I can see the lust in his eyes, the raw, sensual desire he has for me.

No one will ever look at me like this again.

I shut my eyes, trying to drown out that voice.

“What’s wrong?’ he asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him, opening my eyes. He looks so concerned, he might break. “I’m just…”

Trying to hold on to the moments we have together.

Trying to ignore what’s about to happen.

Trying, trying, trying.

“Make me come,” I tell him, my voice coming out ragged. “I want you inside me, I want you to make me come.”

Rip me from my mind. Make your body salvage my body. Damage me until I can’t think, until there’s nothing left to feel but you.

“I want to paint you with honey,” he says, moving back to paint squiggly lines of honey down my breasts and stomach. “I want to paint you with my tongue. I want to take my time.”

We don’t have time!

You have a plane to catch.

A country to return to.

But I manage not to say it because I don’t want to ruin the last time we have together.

The last time.

“Take your time,” I say quietly, lying further back into the sheets, closing my eyes.

I can feel him hesitate before he slowly, teasingly, licks the honey off of me.

Off my breasts, my collarbone, my stomach, my hips, my inner thighs.

My body tenses with each pass of his warm, hot tongue. It’s so decadent and rich the way he devours me, like I really am a feast to him.

He settles between my legs, his fingers pressing into my thighs, pushing them further apart.

“Now that you’re all clean,” he says, “I’m going to get you dirty again.”

My eyes fly open.

His robe is discarded behind him and his massive body is prowling between my legs like a big cat stalking its prey.

I would never get tired of this sight, of his bare, hard body hovering over mine.

The ease in which his hands work me, like I’m an instrument being tuned.

The way that he pushes inside me, always with this breathless gasp that turns into a moan that turns into sweet nothings that shake with his want.

The sounds of his skin slapping against mine, the feel of his sweat dripping on me as he works me so fucking hard, his face creased with the effort of it all.

The moment he brings me to that razor edge and I willfully fly over it.

The world spins before I tumble, shaking and twirling through spasms that put me upside down and up again. I’m wild, I’m crazed, I’m disoriented, I’m spent, I’m…

This is…

As the intensity of the orgasm wanes, the intensity of my emotions slam over me like a wave.

This is it.

I keep my eyes closed, fighting back the tears. I hate that I’ve cried with him already this trip when I opened up about my parents, I don’t want to cry again, not during sex, not now.

But the hot, damp knot in my chest grows and grows until I have to gasp for breath.

I’m not sure Viktor notices. He’s coming too, groaning and grunting and swearing in my ear, those feverish sounds that I love so much.

“Maggie,” he whispers through a ragged breath, kissing me roughly on the lips. “Maggie, I…” he breaks off and exhales so hard the bed shakes. “This, just this,” he says. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight.

Time seems to slow with our heartbeats.

The sweat on my skin cools.

Someone outside, so far away, jumps into the pool with a splash.

I want to lie here forever.

“Maggie,” Viktor whispers to me. “I am so sorry but I have to go. We have to get going.”

I nod. Forever isn’t enough. “Of course.”

I practically drag myself out of bed. No point in makeup when I know I’m going to cry it all away. I put on the same clothes as yesterday, brush my teeth, slick on some deodorant, pull my hair back in a ponytail and I’m ready to go.

I take one last look at the hotel room and realize that it changed me. The person who stepped in here, nervous, anxious, on Thursday night is not the same person who is walking out of here on Sunday morning.

We get his car from the valet, the blue finish sparkling under the sun, and after a few wrong turns and wanting to strangle the Waze app, we get on the right freeway heading to LAX.

There is so much tension between us, so much worry and sadness, that I don’t even have the words to talk. I’m afraid to, afraid to say the wrong thing, to say something that will make it harder for both of us.

The thing is, as much as Viktor whispered sweet nothings to me this morning, as much as he’s told me how hard it will be for him to say goodbye, I don’t think he can possibly feel the way I do. I’m even surprised I feel the way I do. I’m a rational person. I use logic. I’ve had enough of life slapping me upside the head to have a jaded and cynical outlook on it. I err toward the negative rather than the positive.

I don’t believe in love at first sight, in soul mates, in happily ever afters.

But with Viktor…he makes my soul feel brand new. Not something tired and weathered and trampled upon. I feel as if just being with him has scraped off all the rust, letting a part of me, all of me, shine. Maybe for the first time he’s helped me discover who I really am.

Maybe there is no logic in love.

Maybe you just have to let it in when you see it, when you feel it.

Maybe you just need to believe in it.

On paper, it looks like I barely know this man and therefore I couldn’t possibly love this man. But I’ll burn that damn piece of paper to ash.

I do love him. My heart knows it, I know it, and even if I pretend otherwise, even if I tell myself it’s impossible, it won’t change a damn thing.

I look at Viktor, at his hand on the steering wheel, the glint of his watch, the way his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the tan of his skin. He’s wearing his sunglasses, the wind coming in through the half open window and mussing up his hair. His eyes are on the road as far as I can tell and every so often he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

Then he looks at me. “Taking a picture with your mind?”

I nod. Clear my throat. “Listen, uh, I can’t remember. Am I taking like an Uber you arranged back to Tehachapi or is it a shuttle or…?”

He frowns at me. “Uber?”

“You know, a cab.”

“I know what an Uber is. Why would it take you back home?”

“Because you said you arranged for my transportation back. Is it a Greyhound? I seriously don’t mind.”

A smile spreads across his face. “Maggie, Maggie.” He shakes his head. “Miss America. Min sota lilla persika.”

“What?”

“You’re taking the car back.”

I stare at him. Blink.

“Huh?”

“The car,” he says, smacking the dashboard. “She’s yours.”

“What?”

No way.

No fucking way!

“What did you think I was doing with the car?”

I shrug, trying to find the words but it’s coming out all flustered. “I don’t know. Selling it?”

“I don’t need the money. And you could use an extra car. And if you don’t like it, sell it. Keep the money. Just make sure Pike does the sale so that you know what it’s worth.”

“Viktor…I can’t possibly accept this car.”

He’s nonchalant. “It’s a gift and I want you to have it. In fact, I need you to have it.”

“I…I don’t know Viktor….”

His car. His sexy, beautiful, incredibly rare car. I couldn’t possibly take it. And I would look like an idiot driving around town in it.

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