“I guess that’s as much a mystery as why you would want to be here with me. After… Should we just acknowledge the elephant at the table and talk about how I stood you up for your own prom?” I let out a breath, relieved to finally say the words to his face. “I’m sorry. I’ve always been sorry. I hope you know that.”

He drops his gaze to my mouth. “Come here.”

Biting my lip, I slide around the booth so I’m next to him. The lights are so low, I can barely make out his expression, but I don’t need to in order to feel the heat between us. Is it in my head? Can he feel it too? Whatever it is—hormones, memories, the knowledge that this is temporary and I’m leaving soon—the pull between us is magnetic, and I let my bare thigh press against the soft fabric of his pants.

“That’s better,” he whispers, his hot eyes on me.

“I think so, too.”

He lowers his head and glides his lips over my neck in a movement so sweet, so simple, my breath leaves me in a rush. “I’m supposed to be pissed at you,” he whispers. “You broke my heart.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“When I saw you again, there was no room for my anger. I want you too much.”

Under the table, his hand settles against the inside of my knee, making little circles that send my heart racing and turn my muscles to jelly. “Me too,” I admit.

His fingers trace an invisible line two inches up the inside of my leg, and I clench my thighs together instinctively, trapping his hand between my legs.

“I can stop,” he says in a whisper.

“No,” I breathe. I want the opposite, and I force myself to relax, and my legs open to the exploration of his hand.

“You look amazing in this dress. I love the way it shows off your legs, but it just makes me think of having them wrapped around me.”

I bury my face in his neck and moan softly, remembering the way he used to touch me. He smells amazing, and his whisper-soft exploration of my thigh sends tiny shivers of pleasure through me.

His hand slides higher until his fingertips reach the edge of my panties. I almost squeeze my legs together again—not because I want him to stop but because I want his hand there so badly, touching me, exploring me, his fingers sliding into me.

“What do these look like?” He traces down the satin center of my panties.

Oh, God. By some miracle, I’m already ready for his touch. I haven’t been this turned on this quickly since…since William.

His knuckles brush over me, lightly pressing the soft fabric against my swollen clit.

He opens his mouth against my ear and draws my earlobe between his teeth, nipping and sucking. My eyes flutter closed. I want to fall into the pleasure that’s spinning like a cyclone around every nerve ending, and I’m almost afraid of how quickly he has me falling into it.

I rock into his hand instinctively. “Touch me.”

“Tell me,” he whispers. He makes wicked little circles on my panties. “What do they look like?”

This desire clawing at me is madness. At this moment, I would do anything to get him to slide under the barrier between us. “They’re black satin.”

“Mmm, satin. I can tell.” He rewards me by rolling his fingers against the fabric in question.

Holy shit.

“What else? How do they look?”

Under the table, I cling to his forearm as if I’m afraid he might escape. “They’re string bikinis with a little bow at each of my hips.”

His hand leaves that pulsing, aching spot between my legs to explore the string over my hip, leaving me ready to cry out or beg or both.

“God, I bet these are gorgeous on you. If I had you alone, I’d stand you in front of me in nothing these panties and I’d untie them with my teeth.”

Yes, please.

I can hardly breathe. I want what he’s describing. More. “Have you thought a lot about getting me alone again?” Drawing back a bit so I can watch his expression, I watch his eyes and wait for the answer I need to hear.

“Every second since you showed up on my street.”

“Me too. And before.”

Heat flares in his eyes. The intensity of his gaze would scare me if I didn’t already trust this man with every inch of my being.

He presses his mouth against mine as his hand returns between my legs. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s hard—punishing and demanding—and I need it. I could lose myself here, in this kiss that is equal parts desire, anger, and regret. I could forget who I am, what I’ve done, and become the stroke of tongue against tongue, become the pleasure of his hand working between my legs as I moan into his mouth.

He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against mine. “You feel so damn good.” His hand moves slowly, smoothly.

How can he affect me so much more than any other man I’ve ever been with? He’s always been the standard by which all other men have been measured and come up short.

I shouldn’t be here with him. I gave up my right to this seven years ago. I take a long drink of my wine—seeking courage and permission for this evening suspended outside of time and heartbreak. One night. One indulgence.

I lift my h*ps off the seat, seeking out his touch.

“Do you want more?” The words are so low they’re more a vibration against my ear than a sound.

“I’m leaving in a couple of days. I can’t stay.” And that’s the only reason we can do this at all.

His teeth nip my ear again, suck at the lobe before he speaks. “That’s not what I asked, Cally.”

Outside my panties, the pad of his thumb is resting on my cl*twith nothing but the promise of the pressure I need. When his hand leaves me, I hear my own gasp of protest.

“Come home with me tonight.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. After weeks of looking after my sisters, I need to be something other than a resented stand-in mother. Even if only for a couple of hours in this man’s bed. He deserves the night I once promised him. I deserve it. But I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Then tell me to stop.” The rough pads of his fingers toy with the thin ribbons at my hips. With his free hand, he places a sliced grape to my lips, and I take it, only briefly letting my lips brush his fingertips. His eyes flash—hot and hungry. “Tonight is yours. Whatever you want.”

“This,” I whisper, rolling my hip into his touch.

Then he tugs, and he releases the tie on my panties. His hand snakes around to the other hip, and he grins at me as he frees that side as well.

“Lift,” he whispers, and before I realize what he means to do, he’s slipped my panties from under the table and tucked them in his pocket. He flashes me a small smile as he sips from his wine glass.

My panties are in William Bailey’s pocket.

“You intending to give those back?”

“Not a chance.” But then, instead of heading straight for my newly bare girly bits beneath the table, he cups my face in his big hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Memories have this amazing way of changing on us, and I had myself convinced you couldn’t have been as beautiful as I remembered. I was idealizing you.”

I can’t reply. The heat in his eyes alone is enough to make me want to crawl into his lap. Add the way he’s been touching me, and in this moment, I am his.

“I was right about one thing,” he whispers.

“What’s that?”

“My memory got it all wrong.”

“It did?”

“You’re so much more beautiful than I remembered.”

Our lips touch again and I will myself to memorize every second of this kiss. The soft brush of his lips before he opens his mouth over mine, the patient sweep of his tongue as I open for him, the way he tastes—a potent cocktail of wine and regret.

I don’t even realize his hand has left my face until I feel the possessive wrap of his fingers around my thigh. Then, as he slides to points farther north, I have to break our kiss to catch my breath.

“Jesus,” he hisses as his fingers reach my wet heat.

I almost cry out when he takes my swollen cl*tbetween two fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers against my neck. “So damn wet.”

“I—William….” I have to fight to keep my volume down, to keep from moaning.

He’s touching that swollen, sensitive spot in a slow and gentle rub that has me rocking into him.

“You want to know what I’d do to you if you came home with me tonight?”

I’m weak. I want to know, need to hear. “Yes.”

“I’d get you na**d because you have too goddamn many clothes on right now. Then I’d start with your amazing breasts. Remember how I could get you off just by kissing your breasts, sucking those beautiful nipples?” He brushes my taut ni**les with his free hand and even through my dress and thin bra, the contact is enough to make me gasp. “Answer me, Cally.”

“Yes,” I breathe. His fingers have slowed their movement under my dress, as if he knows how close he is to getting me off and he wants to wait.

He moans appreciatively. “I’d start there. My tongue and lips and teeth on your br**sts until I’ve memorized every curve and dip, until you’re begging me for more—” He removes his hand from between my legs, “until you come for me.”

“William.”

“I’ll get you there, baby. I swear. But not yet.” He slides his hand farther up my dress and circles my navel. “Do you want to know more?”

God help me, I do. I want to know it all. And then maybe when I’m back in Las Vegas and wishing I could have him, I’ll shape his words into my very own fantasy. My very own souvenir of my what-if life. “Please.”

“Then I’d kiss you here.” He pinches my navel piercing. “Damn, I bet this looks so sexy on you. When did you get it?”

“After I moved.”

He draws back, his eyes hot on mine, his jaw hard. “For a man?”

“No. I got it when I was missing you.”

He moans into my ear then fans his hand out to my waist. “I’d have to take my time there then. I’d run my tongue from hipbone to hipbone, then turn you over and lick down your spine.” He slides his hand across my hip and under my ass. “When I got here,” he says, squeezing, “I’d have to see if you’re as sensitive here as you are everywhere else. Your ass is so incredible, and I can’t forgive myself for neglecting it when I had a chance. I’m dying to bite you here.”

He pinches my ass, and my breath draws in sharply. I shudder in his arms and feel his smile against my neck.

“Would you be ready for me then?” As he asks, he returns his hand between my legs, and I find myself scooting to the edge of the seat, parting my thighs to give him better access. I don’t just want him to touch me. I need it. Like water. Like air. I need to feel William’s hand between my legs because right now I am nothing but the pulsing ache of my arousal, and it’s the f**king best I’ve felt in months.

No man I’ve ever touched could touch me the way Will does. It’s like he has some sort of ability to intuitively know how I’m feeling.

Even now, sitting at the back of this candlelit restaurant with the wait staff milling around us, he doesn’t rush in his movements. His fingers slide over me, alternately teasing and touching, working anticipation in equal measure against the pleasure.

“What else would you do?” I bite back a moan. “If we were alone?”

“I’d drop to my knees,” he whispers. “And I’d cup your amazing ass in my hands as I tasted you.”

It hurts, sitting here, listening to this, wanting it, knowing I can’t let myself have it. Knowing that tonight, this moment, is all I get.

I curl my nails into his forearm, and he groans in my ear.

“But for now,” he says, “for now I’ll settle for touching with my fingers what I want to taste with my lips.” He slides two fingers inside me, curling them as his thumb rubs my clit. “That’s what I want you to think about next time you touch yourself.”

I shudder, the pressure and pleasure building. “William,” I whimper.

“Because next time my dick is in my hand, I f**king swear that’s what I’ll be thinking about. You. Naked. The taste of your pu**y as you come against my tongue.”

Dear God.

I have to bite his neck to muffle my moan as my orgasm hits, hard and fast.

THE CAR is quiet on the drive home, and when I reach for her hand, she lets me take it. I have to remind myself that she’s leaving. That this—the sweet silence of our touch, her soft fingers twined through mine—this isn’t the new normal. I don’t get to keep her. I don’t get to finish what I started at the restaurant. She’s leaving.

When we pull up to the motel, she doesn’t rush from the car, so I turn and press my lips to hers. At first, I think she’s going to pull away, but she opens under me slowly, and what I intended to be a brief goodbye kiss leaves me hard and breathless, and her clawing at my shirt and half in my lap.

We lean our foreheads together and catch our breath.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow? Day after tomorrow maybe? Dad’s home. I just want to get the girls settled, but then I need to get back for work.”

There’s nothing I can say to get her to stay. I’m not even sure I should want her to. Tonight wasn’t real after all. Reality wouldn’t have let me touch her in in public like that. Reality dictates that I stay away from her, that I hate her for what she did to me. Or, at the very least, that I want nothing to do with her.