“Production planned it,” I remind him.

Both Brett and Ben give me wild looks at mentioning production. We’re not live. This isn’t Big Brother.

“Oh please,” I say right at the camera. “Scott, if you’re hearing this, delete this portion.” I glare at Ben. “There you go. He won’t spank you for your misbehavior.”

And like good cameramen, they stay mute.

Loren watches short stubby Brett for a long moment. He finally catches his attention. And then he runs his tongue along the nape of Lily’s neck, eyes pinned to the camera as if he’s seducing the onlookers. Lily practically melts beneath him, her breath hitching into an audible moan. Loren grins wickedly, especially as Brett stumbles back in shock.

And then he sticks his tongue into Lily’s ear.

They are toying with the cameramen.

And it’s only day two.

A lot has changed since I was nineteen. And then again, things are always the same. I have the girl, but not entirely. If it were that easy—that boring—I wouldn’t still be here. Add Scott Van Wright into our lives, a threat on some serious level, and keeping Rose is going to be problematic.

But I’m going to put up one hell of a fucking fight.

He even rescheduled the “magical” party with the psychic, citing some bullshit about time, but really he wants to increase the production value of the entire reality show—I just haven’t figured out what he’s going to do in order to achieve that.

I rinse shampoo out of my wavy brown hair, the water blanketing me in warmth. I’ve never lived with another girl. Never shared a space with someone else, not even at my boarding school.

What’s mine has always been mine.

Expensive perfumed soaps line the shower ledge. I share the bathroom with Rose. I share the bedroom. We’ve been at each other’s throats for so many years that becoming a team isn’t exactly set in the future for us.

We’re still, very much, rivals in bed.

I crank the heat, the steam gathering and beading my chest with water. I lower my hand, picturing Rose as I’ve never seen her. Undressed. Bare. Wanting. She won’t let me in that far.

Not yet.

I place my hands on her bent knees, spreading her open quick and hard. She chokes on a gasp, a pleasured scream locked tight in her chest.

“Please…” she cries.

In the shower, I stroke my cock that tenses with each rhythmic movement, hardening at the flashes of my fantasy. Her body bucking. The fullness of her breasts and hips underneath my strength. She attacks me with the same intensity, but I push her roughly back on the mattress. And her face lights with fire.

I dominate her and give her everything I know she’ll adore.

That’s the thing about being fucking smart—I understand her better than she understands herself.

My muscles pull tight, and I rub up and down my shaft, an involuntary sound escaping my mouth. I rest a hand on the tiled wall, quickening my movements. Fuck yes.

And just as I’m about to come, the bathroom door flies open.

I see her feminine shape through the misted glass, and she can see my form just as easily. A grin overtakes my features, and I watch her turn towards the shower with her hands on her hips. I can practically feel her hot, unbridled anger steaming off her body.

Come to me.

She storms over to the shower and flings open the glass door.

I don’t stop.

She stands there, eyes ablaze at the mere idea of me coming in our shower. But she stays quiet, not lowering her gaze to catch a glimpse of my erection or opening her mouth to chastise me. She has frozen in silent curiosity, and I gladly take advantage of it.

I watch her, skimming the nape of her neck that peeks from her black silk robe. Her chest rises and falls in deep, physical attraction. But she’s too unsure of herself to do something about it. So she stays rooted to the bathroom rug, not even willing to look at my hand that moves with skilled efficiency. She doesn’t want to give me that satisfaction or that win.

I grip my cock tighter, a low groan in my throat.

She inhales sharply.

I only grin more. Even though she’s confident, brazen and haughty, she’s none of these things when it comes to this. Sex. Fucking. Affection.

I may be patient, but I’m no longer going easy on her anymore, not with Scott Van Wright in contention. Before I moved in with Rose, I would have placated her. I would have stopped masturbating as soon as she opened the door.

Now, I’m not going to be so nice.

My eyes descend to the curve of her hips, visible with the silk that hugs her waist. I roam her body with my intense gaze, and her legs shift, her knees bending.

I affect her as much as she does me.

I rub faster, and then my body shudders as I release.

She stiffly steps back from the shower before I can meet her eyes, and she plugs in her curling iron at the sink.

I control my breathing, keeping my weight supported with my left hand on the wall. And I let my thoughts realign from hormonal places to more logical ones. I have been with Rose for an entire year, and I’ve been jacking off for most of it.

Waiting for her—that’s not the hard part. Knowing what’s best for her but watching her deny it out of stubbornness—that is.

I open the shower door. She caps her toothpaste and places it meticulously back in the organized cabinet. Her body is tense and lit up, and she’ll most likely please herself later to alleviate the pulsing between her legs.

 She glances at me once, and her eyes immediately flit away. “We have towels, Richard.” She points a manicured nail to the rack. “Terrycloth. Soft. Inviting. You might want to try one out.”

The corners of my lips rise. “It’s just a cock, Rose,” I say. “You’d enjoy it inside of you.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically, but her neck flushes.

I understand that she’s afraid to lose her power. We’re equals on many accounts, but when it comes to sex, I am like a god to her mortal standing. And it’s driving her crazy. Not that she’s ever been completely sane.

I casually walk towards her. “So you’ve learned politics, philosophy, French, business and fashion at Princeton, but clearly you were a little slow in your dormitory studies. Penn would have served you better.”

She glares. “Why? Because your college was filled with juvenile horndogs?”

I ease behind her, and she stares at me questioningly through the mirror. Approaching Rose Calloway is like nearing a sleeping tiger. Every single time there’s a chance she’ll bite me. “No,” I whisper, pulling the collar of her robe to expose more of her neck. “Because I was there.” I press my lips lightly to her nape.

And her whole body trembles. Just as my hands fall to the slip of her robe, she spins towards me and places her hands on my chest. Normally I’d back up, but I stand my ground. Right here. Not moving to her demands.

I raise my palms and then clasp my hands behind my back, showing that I won’t touch her anymore. But if she wants to curl her hair, she’s going to have to do it with me—naked—behind her.

“Back up,” she says.

“If I really thought you wanted me to, I would.”

“I do.” But curiosity glimmers in her yellow-green eyes, and she peers down at my cock for the first time.

She remains stoic, almost unreadable, but the corner of her lip betrays her, rising in a fraction of a smile. When she meets my gaze again, I tilt my head, grinning in satisfaction, the kind that only incites her.

She holds up a warning finger at me. “Don’t you dare say do you like what you see? I will break up with you right here if you utter those fucking stupid words.”

I laugh into a wider grin and say, “I don’t have to ask you, Rose. I already know you do.”