For the next several days, Preston didn't come home.

I heard from the office that he'd moved Vivian into another condo in his name and was taking care of her personally.

That was fine by me. I had the peace and quiet to focus on damage control at the gallery and to keep an eye on Rowan.

Rowan's "post-traumatic stress," as he called it, was apparently severe.

He had nightmares at night. He'd wake up drenched in a cold sweat and come knocking on my bedroom door.

"Chloe, I can't handle the dark. Can I sleep on the floor in your room?"

Standing there looking pitiful in a loose set of pajamas with most of his chest on display — I honestly didn't have it in me to turn him away.

"No one's sleeping on the floor. Take the couch."

And that was how Rowan ended up comfortably installed in my bedroom.

He was, admittedly, good at taking care of a person. His right hand was out of commission, but his left did almost everything around the apartment.

Every morning I'd wake up to an elaborate breakfast he'd somehow put together one-handed.

Sometimes he'd deliberately cook in nothing but an apron — hips, obliques, and that sharp cut of muscle that runs down into his waistband all very much on display.

"You don't have to do any of this, Rowan. You need to rest your hand."

I frowned at the sweat on his forehead.

He flashed me a wide, lazy smile.

"I'm eating and sleeping here for free, Chloe. I have to earn it somehow — or I'm worried you'll kick me out."

I shook my head, giving up.

"I told you I'm not kicking you out."

That Saturday I was on the couch going through the gallery's invoices when the front door's keypad beeped.

Preston walked in with a fancy bakery cake.

He took one look at Rowan on the couch, peeling an apple for me, and his face turned the color of asphalt.

"Chloe. He's still here?"

I didn't look up. "I told you. He doesn't have anywhere to go. He's staying for a while."

Preston slammed the cake down on the coffee table.

"Chloe. Do you even remember what today is?"

I glanced at the cake. A laugh slipped out of me.

"Oh, of course. Today is Vivian's birthday. Shouldn't you be with the birthday girl, Mr. Hartley? What are you doing here?"

Preston went still. And then came back at full blast.

"Today is our fourth wedding anniversary! What the hell is wrong with you!"

I set the invoices down and looked him in the eye.

"Oh. So you do remember we have an anniversary. I was starting to think you and Vivian had been together so long you'd forgotten I existed."

"Thanks for the wrecked gallery, by the way. Very thoughtful gift."

Preston snapped.

"For the last time — that was an accident! I bought a cake and came back to apologize! What more do you want from me!"

"Get this useless hanger-on out of my house so we can have a proper anniversary!"

The last word was barely out of his mouth when Rowan's hand jerked. The paring knife sliced across his left index finger.

Blood welled up, bright and fast.

Rowan sucked in a breath. His face went pale.

"Chloe — I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I heard Mr. Hartley, and my hand shook, and —"

I dropped the invoices, grabbed a stack of tissues, and clamped them over his finger.

"Preston. Are you out of your mind? Charity case, charity case — do you even hear yourself?"

I yelled it straight at him.

Preston looked at me like I was a stranger.

"Chloe. You're yelling at me. For him?"

"He did that on purpose!"

Rowan's eyes were red. His voice broke.

"Mr. Hartley, I know you don't like me here. I'll go. I won't come between you and Chloe."

He tried to push himself up, heading for the door.

I caught him by the arm and held him there.

"You are not going anywhere. He is the one leaving."

I pointed at the door and looked at Preston, cold.

"Take your cake. Go back to your Vivian. There isn't anything left between you and me worth saving."

Preston's eyes went hot red. He held my gaze, rigid.

"Chloe. You are going to regret this."

He wrenched around and slammed the door behind him.

The instant the door clicked shut, the hurt drained out of Rowan's face and was replaced by something closer to victory.

He turned his good left hand around and caught mine, voice suddenly soft as silk.

And with a tiny tug he pulled me down with him, tipped me back into the couch, his tall frame pinning me there.

His mouth brushed against my ear, warm.

"Chloe. You chose me over him. I'm so happy."

His uninjured left hand slid along the line of my waist, leaving a trail of shivers.

"Since he's not spending the anniversary with you — how about I do it instead?"

His lips pressed directly against my neck, his tongue licking my earlobe. I gasped, instantly wet.

Just as I tried to push him away, he grabbed my hand, pressed it to his crotch, and made me grasp his hard penis. The shaft throbbed in my hand, so thick my fingers couldn't close.

“Touch it, Chloe,” he growled. My hand unconsciously squeezed, feeling the veins throbbing on his glans, a surge of heat rising within me.

Meanwhile, his hand slipped inside my clothes, kneading my breasts, his thumb pressing and rubbing my nipples back and forth. My nipples were hard and painful; my breathing quickened, my genitals burning with an intense itch.

His fingers slid inside my panties, directly touching my clitoris, kneading the swollen bud. First, he gently circled it, then pinched and pulled hard. My legs went weak, and my vulva leaked fluid, soaking my panties and thighs.

“Chloe, you’re so wet down there,” he panted, his fingers probing and stirring inside my vulva, thrusting a few times, producing even more wet sounds. My body trembled, yearning to be filled.

He unzipped his pants, his penis sprang out, the thick, long shaft pressing against my clitoris. The glans rubbed against the wet entrance, moving back and forth several times, his glans glistening with juices. He growled and thrust forward, but didn't fully penetrate.

I felt an unbearable emptiness down there, and couldn't help but twist my hips to meet his thrusts.

But he stopped, panting, and asked, "Do you want me to fuck you, Chloe? Or should we stop now?"