Night fell, and the temperature on the porch dropped as the fog began rolling off the bay. Leaving Astrid chatting with Bo, Aida struck out into the house to find Winter. He wasn’t in the kitchen. Wasn’t downstairs. Wasn’t inside his study.

The mirrors.

God, she hoped the staff hadn’t already seen to her request. Hopefully Greta had sense enough not to listen to her. She approached his bedroom door, heart hammering with dread. It was closed. She rapped lightly, and hearing no reply, almost walked away. But considering that she hadn’t heard one word from him all day, if she didn’t at least try to talk to him, she might be sleeping on the sofa in his study.

She opened the door. Winter was standing in his shirtsleeves on the opposite side of his bed, staring into the corner. The dressing mirror had been moved there. He wasn’t looking in it, but rather looking at it. As if it were an alien enemy breeching the safety of his room.

Aida closed the door behind her. “That was my doing, too, I’m afraid. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I just . . .”

He didn’t turn around to look at her. “You just what?”

“I just wanted you to see yourself as I did.”

“And how is that, Aida?” He sounded weary or sad. Maybe angry. She wasn’t sure which.

She stood behind him, catching both their reflections in the long mirror. The planes and contours of his long face were changed by shadows, his eyes downcast, feelings shrouded. “I see someone strong and resilient. Someone who pushes himself hard and expects others to do the same. Someone smart and fair. Decisive. Protective. I see a good man.”

“You see a mirage.”

“Better to use my sight for hope than remain blinded by guilt.” She put a hand on his arm. “And if you’re a mirage, how is it that you feel solid to me?”

His head turned. He looked down at her hand as if he could will it away. She gripped him harder. When his eyes met hers, she saw nothing but cold outrage and a barely checked rancor that made goose bumps swell across her arms. It was as though he was daring her—just daring her to look away.

She dared him right back.

An explosion of fire leapt behind all that coldness. His big arm shot out, snagged her around the waist, and lifted her right off the floor.

• • •

He meant to punish her, but she met him halfway, wrapping her legs around his waist and digging her nails into the back of his neck.

How do you punish someone who wants to be punished?

The kiss was angry. Aggressive. Searing. His cock hardened immediately. Christ, she felt good, and he was starved for her. Had it been two days since he’d had her? It seemed like years. He pulled her hips against him and slid his tongue into her mouth, teasing a tortured moan out of her. Yes, that’s the sound he’d been missing. Her capitulation. Her pleasure.

She wrenched herself away from the kiss, gasping for breath, breasts heaving. “We were supposed to be lovers, nothing more.” She was practically shouting in his face. “That was the agreement. You didn’t want anything permanent—that’s what you said.”

“Nothing’s changed.” A lie. The biggest lie in the world.

She slid down his body until she was on her feet again. Fingers fumbled at his fly, freeing his cock, heavy and aching for her. His balls tightened while she gazed at it, watching it bob between them.

And she dropped to her knees.

One warm hand wrapped around his cock—the sensation of her soft skin on him nearly enough to rocket him through the roof—as she gave the head a few tentative kisses that sent a dark shudder through him. Big, brown eyes looked to him for approval. He urged her on with a hand on the back of her fine, straight hair. Soft kisses gave way to a testing lick, then another—oh please, oh please, oh please—then she took him inside her mouth.

He nearly died with pleasure.

Were they fighting? He forgot instantly. Forgot everything but her mouth, wet and warm and doing her best to take as much of him as she could. He made desperate, uncontrollable noises, completely at her mercy. Unable to reason out the why behind what she was doing, only astonished and grateful that she was. Gaining confidence, she took him in deeper, another inch, cheeks becoming concave as she suckled.

He glanced to the side and saw her from a different angle . . . their reflection in the dressing mirror. Mother of God. Aida on her knees servicing him. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

Was this on purpose? Damn her, and damn her again.

His hips bucked. Her fingernails dug into his legs. She pulled back to get a breath, continuing to pump at him with one hand, then gave him a smile, an exhaled single delirious laugh of joy, before going at him again. She’s enjoying it, he thought madly as he looked in the mirror. But why wouldn’t she? He enjoyed burying his tongue between her thighs.

This was something more, though. She was angry . . . wanting control—of him, or of her dismantled life? Of the unseen bond that pulled them together? If she wanted him to admit defeat, he would shout it across the city. She defeated him with far less than this.

After a few more pulls from her warm mouth, he felt an unmistakable pressure at the base of his cock, the urge to thrust. He wouldn’t last much longer if she kept this pace.

“Enough, enough.” He hooked his hands around her shoulders and pulled her up. “Christ, Aida, I want to be inside you. Help me.”

He made quick work of her clothes: dress lifted over head, chemise yanked down over hips. The stockings could stay. Why was she insistent on unbuttoning his shirt? Keyed up and anxious, he slung his arms around her waist and lifted her off the floor, excited by her protest, and threw her on the bed.