“We’ve waited a long time for this. I want the real thing. Not the watered-down version. And the real thing is not only beautiful. It is also ugly. I want your truth.”

The head of my cock was already poking at her entrance, so I tried to convince myself I didn’t have any other choice.

Yes, I hated my scars. They were pink against my white skin, impossible to miss and loud, so fucking loud. But my need to be inside her was louder, to the point I was going to go deaf. I groaned and pulled the shirt over my head in one fast movement. Like removing a Band-Aid. I was about to push into her when she stopped me again.

“Condom,” she warned.

Right. Right.

I reached for the nightstand and patted inside the first drawer, knowing Dean kept them there. It was the first time I’d forgotten about wearing a condom since I started doing it, and I didn’t like it at all. My mind was not in the game when Emilia’s pussy was involved.

After tearing the wrapper and sheathing my cock properly, I closed my eyes, finally sinking into Emilia Leblanc. Her nails clawed into my back softly. I tensed when I felt the scape on my old wounds, but I let her. I was sinking into her, while she was sinking into me.

“Breathe,” she whispered into my ear.

I thrust once, surprised at how surreal it felt. I never gave two shits about what women thought of me in bed. But with her, it somehow mattered.

She moaned, encouraging me to go on, stroking my marred flesh. Yet she didn’t make me feel like a freak. Not Emilia. She never made me feel that way.

I thrust again, picking up the pace.

She writhed under me, arching her back, asking for more. We were compatible. I knew we would be. Her skin warm and soft. My hard body enveloping hers perfectly. She was sweet and wet for me, and tiny, but not so tiny for it to be painful for her.

I thrust again.

“Vicious,” she cried out, digging her fingers deep into my skin. Creating new, temporary marks that I loved. That I wanted to exhibit proudly. To wear like fucking trophies. “Oh my God.”

I thrust again.

It felt like stepping into heaven and closing the gates behind me. This was it. I didn’t want to leave. Not this bed, not this city, and worryingly, not even this girl. I felt her quivering beneath me, and my arms flexed as I pushed into her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I closed my eyes, sighing, feeling her. Not just her body. Her. The girl from the servants’ house with the gabby mouth and the hearty laugh who ate like boys weren’t looking and always carried the faint, pleasant smell of sweet butter.

Then I felt my balls tighten and the familiar welling pressure through my shaft.

No.

I froze. This was not happening. Not with her, and not at all.

After a few seconds of me failing to move, Emilia nudged me, still trapped between my arms. “Vic? Are you okay?”

My jaw flexed. I was the opposite of okay, and fuck, that was a first too. She wasn’t kidding when she joked about taking my virginity. I’d pretty much experienced everything I avoided during my youth, but in one day and in one night—at twenty-eight years old. And I hated it.

“If I move, I’ll come,” I said, and tick went my jaw again.

She laughed with her whole body shaking, a happy laugh that wasn’t mean or judgmental.

“Then do. We’ve got all night. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since I was fifteen and did lose my virginity, I came in less than ten minutes. Usually, I was famous for my stamina.

But usually, I didn’t go to bed with the woman I was obsessed with.

We did it three more times before the sun came up, and those times I redeemed myself, my reputation, and my cock’s dignity.

Still, it dawned on me that Emilia now had an even worse secret on me than knowing about Daryl Ryler.

I’d come after five seconds.

Like an amateur.

But hell, it was worth it.

It was a good morning.

Christmas lights decorated every building and tree in Manhattan and the streets smelled like vanilla Starbucks coffee. I picked myself up a cup of the good stuff on my way to the office—sans the vanilla because, surprisingly, I still had my balls—while Emilia went downstairs to shower and dress for work. The idea of buying her a cup crossed my mind for exactly two seconds before I crushed and burned it. She was not my girlfriend. She was not my friend. She was not even my fuck-buddy. She was just a woman I’d screwed until I took what I wanted from her.

And she’d done the same to me.

Even so, the morning was cold but crisp, and the office was nearly empty. Most people already had taken off outside the city to visit their families. I enjoyed working in silence but knew that unfortunately my deadline was approaching. Dean was sure to return to New York sometime after Christmas, reclaiming the office I’d stolen from him, and that meant I needed to get my ass out of this place and take the LeBlanc sisters with me.

Emilia couldn’t stay here. She had to serve me. After all, I needed her cooperation with Jo.

When I saw her in the security screen, I found myself taking one last sip of my coffee and throwing it in the trash, smoothing my shirt with my palm.

She passed reception and paused in the hall, looked toward my office. Our eyes locked through the glass wall, but neither of us smiled. She offered me a little wave and disappeared behind her own door. Thank God she didn’t think she could barge into my office and act like my girlfriend all of a sudden.

I was swamped with work for four hours before I saw her name on the screen and answered my cell phone.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“Only for your pussy,” I deadpanned.

Silence.

“On a scale of one to ten, what are the chances of me convincing you to go to McDonald’s with me for lunch?”

“Zero,” I fired back, without thought.

“Come on,” she said. “You tore me away from my parents.”

“Are you going to guilt me into doing shit for you all the time? Because by now, you should know I don’t have a conscience.”

But that wasn’t necessarily true, and even I was beginning to admit it. The more time I spent with her—especially after the Met, where I admitted why I hated her so much—the more I realized I’d made a mistake forcing her to leave Todos Santos. A mistake I wouldn’t repeat if I could turn back time.

“I’d go there alone, but the lines are always so long, and I won’t be able to do that and pick up your lunch in time.”

I had the same sandwich every afternoon. She already knew my routine.

“Too bad,” was my response.

“Or…” her voice was hesitant. She was nibbling on her lips, I knew, and my cock swelled. “You could give me a two-hour break today. You know, because it’s practically Christmas Eve and all.”

“No,” I said, then realized I had the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. It was negotiation time. And I was really good at negotiations.

“Get in my office, Miss LeBlanc. Now.” I hung up.

When Emilia walked into my office, I stopped her before she reached my desk.

“Stay by the door.”

I wasn’t particularly against people seeing us fuck. I didn’t mind the crowd, but the lawyer in me knew it could result in a lot of paperwork. She stood by the door and watched me, a playful smile grazing her lips.

“You needed to see me?”

“No. I needed to taste you,” I corrected, closing the merger folder on my computer and getting up.

She stood still, pressing her back to the door, her face tight and wary. She hugged her arms to her chest and watched me. My predatory steps made her eyes narrow, and I loved how impatient she was, her foot tapping against the wood of my floor. When I reached her, her hand moved to my slacks and she cupped my balls.

I stopped her with a tsk-tsk and a shake of my head. “Fucking wet and ready for me, even from across the hallway.” I smirked. “Don’t you need a little foreplay?”

“I’ll have the non-smug, non-jerk version please. And objection.” She blushed. “Lack of foundation. You have no way of knowing that.”

She was lying. Again. My pretty little liar. I shoved my hand under her dress and nudged her boyfriend shorts, which I knew she wore because she gave zero fucks about whether I might favor lace to them—Emilia was a sensible 100% cotton girl—and thrust two fingers into her at once.

Soaked.

Dragging my fingers deliberately slowly from her tight sex, my eyes holding hers, I brought them to my mouth and sucked them clean, my lips quirking into a smile. “Fine, I’ll rephrase. Is it true that you’re always wet for me, Miss LeBlanc?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’ve been sleeping together for less than twenty-four hours. So at this point, yes, I guess I am.”

“And is it also true that because of that, you’ll do non-work-related tasks for me, even if you don’t want to?”

She halted. “That depends on what the tasks are and whether you’ll go to McDonald’s with me.”

I licked her neck and collarbone before dropping to my knees. Thank fuck she’d worn a dress today. Thank fuck it was long enough so that she didn’t wear leggings underneath. And thank fuck she was wet enough not to resist my request.