But attraction didn’t mean anything, considering I was there for him to assess what a train wreck I was. Who in their right mind would choose to take on that type of obligation? And once he heard my story, he was sure to look at me the way everyone else did: with pity. And I honestly couldn’t stand that shit.

However, Tucker never did. He never made me feel like an escaped mental patient. And when I told him about what had been done to me, and how I chose to overcome it, he didn’t try to tell me how I should feel. My healing was mine alone. And he respected that.

Even if Patrick hadn’t made me a victim and I wasn’t his patient—let’s face it—the chances of Tucker and me hooking up were pretty slim. I’ve read enough romance books during my seclusion to know that I don’t fit the profile. Guys like Tucker—gorgeous, smart, kind, warm—were the heroes. And I am anything but a heroine. I’m not quirky, or awkward. I’m not beautiful without knowing it. I don’t listen to classical music or have some tragic backstory. I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need a hero. I can fare just fine on my own, fuck you very much. And Tucker is most definitely the kind of guy—man—that needs to save someone. No thanks, I’ll pass.

And aside from being too cynical to be considered pleasant and as stubborn as an ox, I’m just not interested in dating. I think.

Yet, here I am, putting on my favorite jeans that make my ass look fabulous and spending more time with the flat iron than I usually do. For Tucker. The man that I absolutely don’t want to date.

I think.

Chapter Eight

N OW . . .

We sit across from each other at the breakfast bistro made for two, like we do every morning. Tucker has his usual: steel cut oats, a drizzle of honey, and freshly squeezed orange juice that our housekeeper, Lucia, prepares for him daily. I’m having my breakfast of choice: coffee and half of a grapefruit. We are creatures of habit. And while we may smile at each other from over the rims of beverages and newspapers, what’s really on our minds is completely a break from the norm.

Friday night. The night I slept with another man, while my husband watched as he pleasured himself.

It was . . . intense. Exhilarating. Wrong.

And while we can both agree that it was totally not something that should ever happen again, we can’t deny the impact it’s had on our sex life.

When we left the Royal hotel in the wee hours of the morning, we didn’t speak. I don’t even remember us looking at each other. I was ashamed, I was scared. I didn’t know if Tucker would hate me forever for what I had done. And more than ever, I knew that I loved him. That I needed him. And there was no way I could survive losing him.

The cab ride was silent. When the morning doorman smiled and lifted a brow at our disheveled appearance, I was too embarrassed to even cast him a greeting. Every step toward our home felt like a death sentence. Every breath felt like I was already dying.

Silently, Tucker let us into our condo, stepping back so I could enter. I walked in tentatively, awaiting the shouts, screams, tears. But they never came. Instead, I heard the front door slam shut behind me, causing me to flinch. And in the next second, I was pressed against the wall and my clothes were being ripped from my body. My already soiled panties were next to go.

I groaned with shock and relief as I realized what was happening. And when I felt the hard tip of my husband pushing at my still sore sex, the groan became one of desire.

He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t tell me he loved me or that I was beautiful. I don’t even think he looked at me.

Tucker took me. He took back what belonged to him. And with my cheek pressed against the wall, my knees trembling with exhaustion and ecstasy, I let him have me.

I look across the table as I take a small teaspoonful of grapefruit to find that he’s staring at me. His gaze is hot, molten lava sliding down my lips and neck before slipping between the crevice of my breasts. His tongue snakes out to lick his bottom lip and I imagine that tongue laving my already hardening nipples. I want them between his teeth, as he applies the perfect pressure to make me squirm. It would sting so good. Good enough to cause wetness to dampen my French lace panties. And when I’m hot and ready for him, he’d slip a hand between my thighs and paint music notes with those long, callused fingers. Then I’d sing for him, just like he wanted me to . . .

I blink rapidly, tearing myself from the trance of my fantasies. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. I shouldn’t be looking at my husband while imagining Ransom’s hand between my legs, his skilled fingers caressing my silken folds while I hit every note in every octave. I shouldn’t still be able to feel the tug of his teeth on my nipples. I shouldn’t still be craving the taste of his kiss—so sweet and tender, yet viciously hungry—or the scent of sex and sweat on his skin.

Jesus, what has gotten into me? Wasn’t that why we did what we did? For me to get this ridiculous fantasy out of my system? It was supposed to be a good time. Something we’d look back at and laugh about when we’re old and gray, reminiscing about the days when we were young and beautiful. But my body just won’t let it die. It’s not ready for Ransom to become merely a memory.

Relieving me from my reverie, Lucia comes to refill my cup of coffee before I even have to ask. She’s been with us for a little more than a year now, and I honestly don’t know how we ever made it without her.

“So how was your weekend? Do anything fun and exciting?” she asks like she does every Monday morning when she comes back to work. She expects us to answer politely as we always do, reciting the recent events of our mundane life as we always do.

Tucker and I share a glance and a secret smile. And we say nothing at all.

MONDAYS ARE LIKE a weekly reoccurring nightmare for publicists. All of our clients have behaved like fucking snot-nosed children over the weekend and left a burning, brown paper bag of shit on our doorsteps to deal with. I’ve got Betty Ford on speed dial and most of the staff at the Post knows my home number by heart. So, I’m at my desk, starving because I’ve had to skip lunch, trying to put out some media firestorm revolving around my attention whore of a client and her arrogant prick of a musician husband. Oh, and her bubbalicious ass, which coincidently, is my biggest client of all.

“The photos were doctored. How can you prove that some horny little shit in his parents’ basement in Connecticut didn’t just Photoshop their heads onto some random porn stars? You can’t, can you? Therefore, you’re just spitting vitriol into the ether, in hopes that some sex-starved moron will actually be dumb and desperate enough to believe you,” I say into the receiver of my office phone, while simultaneously tapping on the keys of my cell. Get rid of the original photos!!!! Wipe every fucking phone & computer NOW!

The journalist—which I say with sarcasm because no one at TMZ gives a fuck about journalism—snickers and pulls a trusted source out of his ass. I call his bluff, challenging him to reveal this close family friend that supposedly has proof. At that, he stammers an empty threat and I hang up on him.

I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the first pricks of a migraine creep into my temples. I really should’ve grabbed something to eat. God only knows how long I’ll be here at the office, which usually isn’t a problem, considering it’s my home away from home.

My office is fashioned much like my luxury high-rise condo. The walls are coated in a clean dove white, as is the upholstery, with just a touch of metallic color lent by stainless-steel accents. It’s modern, chic, and painfully orderly, yet somehow it exudes warmth. That could be attributed to the massive windows that make way for brilliant bursts of sunlight to peek through, and for me to indulge in a killer view of the city.