I get to my feet and wander across the kitchen to her, slipping my shades on and claiming her hand. I smile as I pull her on. She was expecting a kiss.

  “You’re not going to touch me all day, are you?” she asks as I lead us to the lifts.

  “I’m touching you.”

  “You know what I mean.” Her words are tight. Frustrated. “You’re punishing me.”

  I get us into the elevator. “Why would I do that, Ava?”

  “I want you to touch me.”

  I smile, pressing the button to take us down. “I know you do.”

  “But you won’t?”

  “Give me what I want, and I will.”

  “An apology?”

  “I don’t know, Ava.” I don’t look at her, but it doesn’t lessen the burn of my skin under her pissed-off gaze. “Do you need to apologize?”

  “I’m sorry,” she grates, and I mentally dance in celebration. She craves me. Even when she’s mad with me, she craves me. I feel like it’s my only defense in the battles, and yet rather than accept her apology, I just can’t help pushing my limits, my ego swelling.

  “Now, if you’re going to apologize, at least sound sorry,” I say quietly, and she audibly breathes in some patience.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I look at her reflection. “Are you?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  She’s not sorry. She’s giving me lip service, but that’s how much she wants me all over her skin. “You want me to touch you?”

  “Yes.”

  I move in and crush her body against the wall. Breathless, she stares up at me. “You’re beginning to understand, aren’t you?”

  “I understand,” she agrees on a wheeze.

  I kiss her hard, feeling her short nails sinking into my flesh, and I make up for the many kisses I deprived her of this morning. “Happy?” I ask, and she sighs, relaxing against the wall.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too.” I drop a gentle peck on her forehead and take her hand as the doors slide open. “Let’s go.” I slip my shades back on, looking over my shoulder as we pass through the foyer. She’s grinning. Fuck, I love that grin. I need to keep that smile on her face all day. Make this a date she’ll never forget. I feel like I’m winning already.

  I open the door of my Aston, sweep my arm out in gesture for her to get in, and bend to pull her seatbelt across. She doesn’t murmur a word of protest, letting me do my thing. The clip locks in place, and I pull back, my face close to hers. She smiles demurely, and I return it, running my tongue across my bottom lip. She hears my silent demand, pushing her mouth onto mine. Another kiss. Slow, soft, calm, but full of purpose.

  “You’re a good kisser,” she mumbles.

  “I know.” I move my mouth to her cheek and playfully bite, and she laughs, the sound dreamy.

  * * *

  My day is planned out meticulously. Breakfast at a place that serves the best of Ava’s favorite, a stroll holding hands, and then home to make mad sweet love. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is beaming down, the breeze mild, and I’m with my favorite person. I glance across the car at her when I’ve pulled up outside the bistro, and she gives me another smile. She’s full of them since we made friends in the elevator. I never want to be the person who takes those smiles away.

  I swallow and eject myself from my Aston, collecting her and guiding her toward the bistro. “You’ll love it here,” I say, offering her a chair. “We’ll sit outside.”

  “Why will I love it?”

  “They do the best Eggs Benedict.”

  The delight on her face is endearing, as is the waitress’s when she approaches. I place our order and once we’re alone again, I refocus all my attention on Ava. “How are your legs?”

  “Fine. Do you run often?”

  I get comfortable, seeing a million questions in her dark eyes. “It distracts me.”

  “Distracts you from what?”

  “You.” That’s a lie. Nothing distracts me from her, but I can appreciate my infatuation isn’t healthy—always wanting more time with her—and Ava’s in full control of that side of our relationship.

  She snorts. “Why do you need distracting from me?”

  “Because, Ava . . .” My exhale is heavy. Tired. Doesn’t she get it? “I can’t seem to stay away from you and, even more of a worry, I don’t want to.”

  I expect at least some shock in response, and yet she just stares at me. She does get it. So why does she constantly rebuff me? She dangles herself like a carrot, denying me even the smallest nibble, when what I actually need—and she knows it—is a huge fucking bite.

  “Why would that be worrying?” She busies herself with something, and I look down seeing our coffees have been delivered to the table. And there’s my point. I didn’t even notice because . . . her. I scowl at myself when I bite too hard on my lip. She’s waiting for an answer. What on earth do I say?

  I have to look away from her for a moment, unable to face the concern on her face. It’s a hint of what’s to come. “It’s worrying because I feel out of control,” I blurt, giving her the truth. “Feeling out of control is not something I do well, Ava.” Terribly, in fact. There’s a part of me that copes so much better when she is around. And there’s another part of me that completely sinks. I have to fight my compulsions. “Not where you’re concerned.”

  “If you were more reasonable,” she says, her voice quiet, as if she’s afraid to speak up, “you wouldn’t feel out of control.” Her lashes flicker when she blinks at me, her fingers toying with the edge of her coffee cup. Reasonable. Yes, let’s talk about being reasonable, but before I can open my mouth, she goes on. “Are you like this with all of your women?”

  The fuck? All of my women? Does she actually think this is normal behavior for me?

  Ah, so you’re admitting to abnormal behavior?

  I shake Jake’s irritating voice from my mind. “I’ve never cared enough about anyone else to feel like this,” I say, making that crystal clear. All of my women? I’m feeling strung. This is not how I planned the day to be.

  Oh, so you thought it would be all sunshine and smiles, huh? No questions? No truths? And what the hell do you mean, you’ve never cared enough about anyone?

  I grab my coffee and mentally beg Jake to leave me alone, just for today. This is going to be hard enough without him poking at my conscience. “It’s just fucking typical that I would go and find the most defiant woman on the planet to—”

  “Try and control?”

  I shoot her a startled look. No. To fall in fucking love with. For Christ’s sake. Doesn’t she see it? And I don’t try and control her. I try to control myself. And fail.

  “What about other relationships?” she asks, clearly not seeing my silent plea for this to stop.

  “I don’t have relationships.” Only with drink. “I’m not interested in getting involved.” Except, clearly, with her. “Anyway, I don’t have time.” What the fuck am I saying? I’m being backed into a corner, completely caught off guard. I’m not prepared. This talk was supposed to happen later after our wonderful date.

  “You’ve devoted enough time to trampling all over me,” she says, almost laughing.

  “You’re different. I told you, Ava, I’ll trample anyone who tries to get in my way. Even you.”

  She seems to take that news quite well, not scoffing or snorting her disgust. “Why am I so different?” she asks quietly, again distracting herself from looking at me. Breakfast is on the table. I missed that too.

  “I don’t know, Ava.” I collect my cutlery and poke at my plate. My appetite is gone.

  “You don’t know much, do you?”

  Oh, baby, I know too much. And I want to protect you from it all.

  “I know that I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more than once,” I say quietly, my mouth speaking words I didn’t tell it to. “You, though, I really do.” Peeking up, I find Ava not just looking horrified, but hurt too. “That came out wrong.” I drop my fork, giving up on breakfast. This isn’t going well at all. “What I’m trying to say is that . . .” I love you. “Well . . .” And for some fucking reason, I can’t find those words. “I’ve never cared about a woman enough to want more than sex. Not until I met you.” My attempts to massage away my thumping headache are futile. “I can’t explain it, but you felt it,” I say, searching her eyes. “Didn’t you? When we met, you felt it.” I wasn’t alone in that crazy. I’m still not, and I need her to tell me, at least only to prove I’m not going in-fucking-sane.

  “Yes,” she breathes, and I feel my shoulders lighten. “I felt it.” Her smile is knowing, and I match it. That’s it. No more. Let’s end it on that high for now.

  “Eat your breakfast,” I order gently, and she begins to pick her way through her plate, quiet and thoughtful. I won’t ask what those thoughts are, but I hope she’s concluding what’s true amid the unknown lies shrouding me. She’s special. “We need to buy you a dress for The Manor’s anniversary party.”

  She looks up at me, pulled from her daydreams. “I have plenty of dresses,” she says tiredly, going back to her bagel.

  I expect she does, but I’d like to buy her a new one. Something special. Like her. “You need a new one,” I declare, and her shoulders drop. She’s exasperated? “Anyway, I owe you one.”

  “Do I get to choose?” she asks, looking at me with a fixed glare as I move a piece of hair from her mouth.

  “Of course. I’m not a complete control freak,” I say in jest, because I know she thinks I am.

  Her body jerks. “Jesse, you’re really very special.”

  “Not as special as you.” I smile cheekily, and she shakes her head. “Are you ready to hit Camden, baby?”

  She goes to her bag, and I watch in disgust as she places some money on the table. What is this? I’m insulted. I stand and replace it with some cash, snatching her bag and stuffing her money inside. She’s taking this whole independence thing too far now. Way too far. What has—

  I’m distracted from my grievance when her mobile rings, “Mum” flashing up on the screen, and I grab it and answer. Don’t ask me what the hell I’m playing at; I couldn’t tell you. And Ava’s jaw hitting the table is a clear sign she’s wondering the same thing.

  “Hello,” her mum says, and I smile, thinking she sounds so similar to Ava. And, actually, quite young.

  “Mrs. O’Shea?”

  Ava’s recovering jaw plummets again, and she swipes at me, trying to win her phone back.

  “Oh, who’s this?” her mother asks, as I dive out of Ava’s reach.

  “I have the pleasure of being with your beautiful daughter.” I suddenly comprehend the reason why my instinct had me hijacking this call. Win her mother over. It’s common knowledge that if a man can win a mother’s approval, he’s halfway to a happy ever after.

  “How lovely. I’m Ava’s mother.”

  “Yes, Ava has told me lots about you.” I smile wickedly at my girl as she practically chases me around the small table. “I’ll look forward to meeting you.” I raise my brows, and Ava recoils. It doesn’t sit well, and the reason stings like a bitch. My unknown age. She’s worried her parents won’t approve.

  “You too,” she says, sounding hesitant. “Is she there?”

  “Yes,” I murmur, my mood dipping. “I’ll put her on. It was lovely to talk to you.”

  I pass Ava her mobile and throw her a warning look when she snatches it. So unnecessary. I was only trying to break the fucking ice. Isn’t that the right thing to do? Introduce oneself to your girlfriend’s mother? Not that I’ve ever had to do that before.

  “Mum?” She turns away from me, and I pout, watching as she hunches over, like making herself small will lessen the chances of me hearing.

  “He’s just a friend, Mum,” she says. It’s my jaw’s turn to scrape the ground. I’m raging, could quite easily claim that phone back and put Ava’s mother right, but, instead, I plunge an imaginary knife through my heart. Ava rolls her eyes, then I see her visibly solidify, swinging away from me. What was that?

  “Mum, can I call you back?” she asks, and my suspicions increase. “I’m in Camden; it’s loud.” She’s being shifty. “Okay, I’ll call you later.” She hangs up and takes a few moments before facing me.

  Her face is tight with anger. “Why did you do that?”

  Keep your cool, Jesse. It’s tough when I’m constantly trying to advance our relationship and she’s constantly putting the brakes on it. “He’s just a friend?” I say, not prepared to let that slide. “Do you often let friends fuck your brains out?”

  I expect a slap, not that I deserve one, it’s just that . . . well. Ava. But as I’m bracing myself, she seems to fold, and defeat looks utterly shit on her. “Is it your mission objective to make my life as difficult as possible?”

  “No,” I breathe. That hurt. “I’m sorry.” It actually hurt.

  “Forget about it.” She whirls around and starts walking away, and I trudge after her, giving myself a thorough telling off. My age bothers her. Her parents’ opinion bothers her.

  Obstacles. Constant fucking obstacles.

  I shouldn’t be making this harder for her because in the process I’ll be making it harder for me. Fuck everything.

  I catch up and throw my arm around her shoulders, pulling her into my side, and she comes with ease, my stride dropping to her slow meander. Her head sits perfectly on my chest. Her arms fit perfectly around my back. Her hand rests perfectly on my stomach. She’s mad with me but finding comfort in me. I drop my mouth to the back of her head and hold it there as we walk, and she answers by slipping her hand beneath my T-shirt, stroking over my stomach. Her tracing stops over my scar.

  And I squeeze her into me that little bit harder.

  * * *

  I never knew wandering aimlessly could be so pleasurable. She moves so in sync with me, her steps following mine, as I weave our joined bodies through the crowds of Camden market. Every so often, she stops at a stall and pokes around, but never, not once, does she break her hold of me. For every second we’re stuck together, I feel myself fusing to her even more. My heart blending with hers. My mind traveling in circles. My skin permanently buzzing.

  My fears intensifying.

  I’m a man tiptoeing on the edge of paradise and destruction, and this woman in my arms will dictate which way I fall. I look down at her tucked into me, mentally begging her to find strength to see this through, and when she breaks away from me, I think she might have heard my silent pleas. She starts wriggling out of her cardigan, huffing and puffing. My amusement can’t be contained, my smile breaking. For the past few hours, I’ve been thinking she must be stifling. What took her so long?

  She turns a full circle, her eyes down as she pulls her cardigan around her waist, and my smile plummets when her back comes into my view. Her naked back.

  “Ava,” I blurt, “your dress is missing a huge chunk.” What the heck is she doing? My dick twitches behind my jeans at the gorgeous planes of smooth, delicious skin staring back at me, then I’m checking to see if anyone else has copped a load of my half-naked girlfriend. I spot a man walking past, looking back over his shoulder. I snarl at him, returning my attention to Ava as she pivots toward me. She’s smiling. Why the fuck is she smiling?

  “No, it’s the design,” she says, blasé, rolling her eyes. Another man wanders past, and my narrowed eyes follow his path, daring him to look back for another peek. He gets a good few paces before he does, and my nostrils flare dangerously. Lucky for him, he catches the growling wolf beside the beauty he’s admiring and quickly gets his wandering eyes under control.

  No. This isn’t happening.

  I huff and take the tops of her arms, turning her away from me and pulling the cardigan up her back, covering her up. “Will you stop?” She chuckles, batting my hands away and slipping from my reach. She might be laughing now. I guarantee she won’t be when I get her home and cut up another dress.

  “Do you do this on purpose?” I position my hand over the gaping hole in her dress, fanning my fingers to cover as much of her exposed flesh as possible. I don’t want an argument. I need her in the best mood, loving me the most, when I drop my bombshells. I walk us on, my eyes scanning the crowds for potential pervs.

  “If you want full-length skirts and polo-necked jumpers,” she mutters, “then I suggest you find someone your own age.”

  My spare hand goes to her ribs, and she squeals on a jump. She’s joking. I think. Is she? “How old do you think I am?”

  “Well, I don’t know, do I? Do you want to relieve me of my wondering?”

  “No.”

  “No, I didn’t think so.” She’s suddenly gone from my side, shimmying through the throngs of people.

  “Ava,” I call, my eyes like laser beams on her naked back as I hurry to catch up with her, knocking people out of my way as I go. I arrive at a stall and grimace, the stench of burning fragranced sticks dotted everywhere irritating my nose. She’s reaching up for something on a shelf, but before I can make it to her to help, the stall owner—he’s definitely the stall owner, all dreadlocks and baggy pants—is by her side doing my job for me, pulling a cloth bag down and handing it to her. I scowl at him too and move in, returning my hand to her back as she rummages through the bag and pulls out . . .

  “What’s that?” I ask, frowning as she flaps out a huge piece of material.

  “These are Thai fisherman pants.”

  Now, I’m all for plenty of material to hide her precious body from roving eyes, but, even for me, this is going a bit too far. She could cloak the entire market in the things she’s currently holding. “I think you need a smaller size.”

  “They’re one size.”

  “Ava, you could get ten of you in those.” And probably ten of me too. In fact, are they maternity pants? I tilt my head thoughtfully. She’d look good in maternity pants. She’d look good pregnant.

  “You wrap them around. One size fits all.”

  “Here, let me show you.” The hippy takes them from Ava’s grasp and kneels before her. What the fuck is he doing?