“Perhaps the kitchen would be the best place to direct your request, Mrs. Carr.”

Too absorbed with every other (forbidden) part of her, I don’t even notice the spoon and small dish of ice cream in her hands.

“Yeah, but it’s some nonfat, soymilk crap that tastes like baby poop,” she replies, wrinkling that freckled nose.

I allow myself to take a few steps towards her. I’ve earned them. I’ve been a good boy…sorta. “And you know what baby poop tastes like?” I ask, cocking a cynical brow.

“Well, I don’t know, obviously. But based on how it smells, I would say this ice cream is pretty darn close.” She sets the dish down beside her after giving it one last, shaming grimace. “So what are you doing out here? I’d think you’d be exhausted from that very… hands-onlesson today. Very enlightening, Mr. Drake.”

“Well, we try our best, Mrs. Carr,” I respond with a blank face, though my voice is teeming with amusement.

Allison rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her auburn hair brushing her bare shoulders. “I told you—do notcall me Mrs. Carr. I have no interest in eating my young nor nursing them until they’re old enough to pay taxes.” She brings her feet to the surface of the water and watches as she wiggles her toes. “So…is that how it’s going to be all the time?”

“What do you mean?” I take a few steps closer, a frown pinching my forehead.

“I mean, will you always be so intense with us?” Before I can brace myself, her gaze locks onto mine, piercing straight through my impassive façade. “Will you…touch us like that? Say those things to us?”

“All physical contact is specifically outlined in the contracts, Mrs. Ca-, excuse me, Allison. Now, if at any time you feel uncomfortable with the physicality or feel as though I’m being too demonstrative, say the word, and it stops. Understand? Are you saying I make you uncomfortable, Allison?”

I don’t even notice how close we are now, as if the ebb and flow of our chlorinated sea has somehow pushed us together. Only inches of water, breath and clothing separate us, yet I know any space we share will feel too intimate.

I know what I need to do. It’s what’s right, what’s responsible.

I need to tell her to leave.

I need to send this woman back to her cheating, piece of shit husband and let her work out her issues like the rest of America—with therapy, pills and the occasional bad decision. But most importantly, I need let her do it without my help. Because, right now, all I can think about is helping myself.

“No,” she says suddenly, as if those bright eyes have infiltrated my mind. “You don’t. And, remember, it’s Ally.”

She pulls her feet from the water and stands, collecting her now melted nonfat-soy milk-baby poop-ice cream. Before she turns to walk away, she smiles at me, not at all put off by my icy approach as I had hoped.

Note to self: Be more of an asshole.

And get real ice cream.

TODAY ON THE Hollywood Reporter, playboy billionaire, Evan Carr, caught with another woman while wife vacations solo at a spa?

Sources close to the couple say the pair had been having problems for months, amidst outrageous cheating rumors. Claims have even been made that wife Allison Elliott-Carr has not been at a spa retreat, but rather in rehab after a mental break. With her unavailable for comment, and whereabouts unconfirmed, Hollywood Reporter reached out to Evan Carr who did not deny, nor confirm, rumors of infidelity.

I click off the television and scratch the short layer of hair on my chin, my jaw tight with irritation. Fuck. This is exactly why all outside communication is forbidden during instruction: shit like this worms its way into the ladies’ heads, sucking out whatever tiny glimmer of hope they have left and sending them running back home.

Of course, they’d have reason to, since 95% of these stories have some truth to them. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and the Carr marriage has been a blazing inferno of lies and deceit since before Allison even said, “I do.”

I should know.

With a huff, I make my way toward the main house, just as the women are finishing up breakfast and morning yoga. One by one, they trickle into the great room, silently taking their seats. A few of them glance up at me through long, false lashes. Others knead their hands in their laps, their cheeks red and warm with memories of my hands touching them, coaxing their inner deviant to come out and play. Yet, I don’t notice it. I don’t see their longing stares. I just keep watching, waiting, until she walks in.

Once I see her filing in with the rest of the ladies, something hot and heavy collects in my gut. It’s torture. It’s relief. It’s goddamn confusing. I’m too edgy, too anxious, and there’s fuck all I can do about it now. Impulse takes over, and I’m striding toward her just as she takes her seat.

“Stand up,” I command. I don’t ask. I never ask for what I want.

“Excuse me?” Allison asks, with a frown wrinkling her forehead. I want to reach out and smooth those tiny creases, but I don’t. I’m not a total narcissist.

“Stand up, Ally.” I extend my hand to her, which she studies cautiously before taking. Her palm is warm and soft…everything I imagined herto be. Simultaneously smoothing her dress down her backside, she stands, closing the small space between us.

I hold her hand a beat longer than I should, before pulling it back. “Turn around. Let me see you.”

“Wha-? Um, I don’t understand what you-”

My hands are on her shoulders, their boldness catching her off guard and causing her to gasp. I guide her, turning her body 180 degrees. “This. This is what determines whether or not a man fucks you, ladies. The packaging. The allure. The temptation.” I turn her back toward me, letting those questioning, blue-green eyes bore into mine unabashedly. I can’t turn away. I can’t even fucking blink. I talk to her like she’s the only one in the room, yet I make sure my voice carries to the other eager ears. “Men are visual creatures. They need to be enticed. Excited. And while A-line dresses and ballet flats may be sensible, it’s not sexy.”

“This is Alexander McQueen!” she scoffs.

“It’s ugly as day-old sin. Fuck the labels.”

Her eyes grow wide at first, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Then my words sink in, and pain creeps onto that porcelain canvas of sandy brown freckles. I don’t want to hurt her, but shit, the truth hurts. Life hurts. Hell, it hurts like a motherfucker.

Before she can protest, I’m touching her hair, pulling out the silver pins that secure it in a practical bun. Flames cascade down her back, spilling into her face and kissing her shoulders. I coil an auburn lock around my finger and inch my face closer to hers so only she can hear these words I shouldn’t say. These words that threaten to eat away at the once steel fortress of my logic.

“I think you’re sexy as fuck, Ally,” I whisper, my breath tempting the skin right below her ear. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Just as swiftly, my touch abandons her, and I’m hurriedly making my way to the lectern, away from her. Away from the temptation to rake my fingers through that fiery mane before fisting the hair at the nape of her neck—pulling her head back so she has no choice but to see me. But is that what I really want? For her to see who I really am? Or do I continue to spoon-feed her, and everyone else, the illusion that will provoke their own inner temptress?

I clear my throat, fidgeting with the lapel of my linen suit jacket. Allison is still standing, still looking at me with eyes wide and mouth agape. That was necessary. I had to tell her that. Who knows what spin the tabloids will put on her absence from the public eye?