In the kitchen, neither of us is in the mood for sushi, so we scavenge for something else.

“You have Cinnamon Toast Crunch!” Olivia says, her voice excited but muted from inside the cabinet. She comes out smiling, holding the box like a found buried treasure.

I set two bowls on the table. “We have something similar in Wessco called Snicker-Squares. It’s my favorite.”

“Me too!” Then her blues eyes go light and soft as she sighs. “Just when I think you can’t get any more perfect.”

After a few minutes of sitting at the table, munching on cinnamon, sugar and squares that pretend to be whole wheat, words tumble out of my mouth without a second thought.

“This is fun.”

Olivia grins at me over her bowl. “You sound surprised. Don’t you usually have fun?”

“I do. But this is…more fun.” I shake my head. “I can’t really explain it, it just feels…good.”

“Yeah, it does.”

And then I gaze at her—that cute way she chews, the swipe of her tongue over the lower lip I can’t wait to nibble on again.

She runs her hand over her forehead self-consciously. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No…I’m just wondering,” I tell her quietly.

“Wondering what?”

I reach out my hand, tracing the slope of her cheek. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”

Our eyes hold for a few moments, and a spark of mischief lights in Olivia’s. She takes my hand and kisses my palm lightly. Then she stands up, moves closer and sinks down on my lap—straddling me—her forearms on my shoulders, the slick heat of her pussy against my thickening cock.

“Do with me or do to me?” she teases.

“Either. Both.”

Olivia runs her tongue along my top lip, sucking gently.

“How about you take me back to bed and we’ll figure it out there.”

My hands cradle her hips, holding her tight against me as I stand.

“Brilliant idea.”

In the bedroom, I lay her back on the bed and lie down on top of her.

“Stay,” I say between kisses. “Stay here with me.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you can.”

Her hands slide up and down my spine. “I have to start things at the coffee shop at four.”

I kiss her hard. “Then I’ll drive you home at half past three. Yeah?”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

UP UNTIL THIS POINT in my life, I would have described sex as…nice. My experiences with Jack were first-love sweet—in that hormone-driven, quick-and-over-just-when-it-starts-to-get-good kind of way that a seventeen-year-old girl thinks is romantic, because she doesn’t know any better. She doesn’t know there’s more.

Sex with Nicholas is more-more.

It’s fun. Like, John Mayer, “Your Body Is a Wonderland” music video kind of teasing and touching, rolling-around-the-sheets-and-laughing-in-bed kind of fun. We kiss and caress—not only as a warm-up to fucking, but because it feels good.

Sex with Nicholas is thrilling. Exciting in a heart-exploding kind of way. I didn’t know having my wrists held down above my head could feel so amazing—not until he did it. I didn’t know the slide of sweaty skin, drenched from hours of exertion, could be so erotic. I didn’t know certain muscles could even be sore—or that everything still feels awesome when they are.

I didn’t know I was capable of multiple orgasms—but glory be to God, I am.

I’m not uptight—or a prude. I know how to get myself off—a little rub and grind after a stressful day is the best and quickest way to fall asleep. But, after the grand finale, I’ve never tried going back for an encore.

Nicholas tries—and even better, he succeeds.

In the days that follow our first night together, we fall into an unspoken routine. I spend the day at the coffee shop and the night at his hotel suite. Sometimes he comes to pick me up, sometimes he just sends the car—trying to keep his frequent visits to Amelia’s hidden from the public for as long as possible.

When I arrive, he sends the security guys out of the suite—going as far as to get them their own room one floor down. Logan grumbled the loudest, but went along with it.

The customer is always right, and apparently so is the royal.

We haven’t gone out to dinner again—we order in or make something easy, like sandwiches or pasta. It’s all surprisingly…normal. Some nights, we watch TV—try to binge on American Horror Story, season two, but we haven’t made it past the second episode.

Because…sex.

Amazing, mind-blowing, I’ve-literally-had-to-change-my-panties-at-work-reminiscing-about-it sex. Marty noticed and was jealous. Then he teased me about it.

In bed, after the sex, we talk a lot—Nicholas tells me stories about his grandmother and his brother and Simon. And though I feel an intense growing tenderness for him that could quickly turn into something deeper, I make sure to keep it all casual and light. Un-clingy.

Nicholas already gets a whole lot of clingy from his day job.

The closest we’ve come to having “the talk”—the “Are we exclusive, where is this going?” talk—is when a story about him and a gorgeous blond he’d been photographed with in Wessco flashed across the television. “Wedding Watch,” they called it.

Nicholas told me she was an old friend from school—just a friend—and that I should never believe anything any journalist said or wrote about him.