He moves faster, circling his hips, and the tension builds, my back arching, my breath heaving.

And then I feel his hand on my face, his finger brushing my lip, and I realize what he wants. I bite his finger, and come, silently, violently, and the second my teeth close on his knuckle, he groans, shattering with me in hoarse cries muffled by my hair.

I don’t know how long it takes me to return to earth. Seconds? Minutes? Days? I gently remove my lips from his finger, my hand lifting so I can rub a thumb over the teeth marks I’ve left.

“You’re terrible at sex,” I say. “Just awful.”

He lifts his head, his eyes sleepy and amused. “Yeah. I could tell you didn’t like it.”

“Sorry about your finger,” I say, my finger still rubbing the spot where I’d gone all bobcat on him.

He kisses my jaw before rolling onto his back. “Are you serious? That was fucking hot.”

I know it’s common protocol to do the postcoital cuddle, but I’m too hot and sweaty, so instead I just extend my hand until my pinky brushes his.

He turns his head to look at me, before sliding his palm beneath mine.

And then, Michael St. Claire, sex god extraordinaire, Mr. No Emotional Attachment Ever, links his fingers with mine.

I turn my head so that he can’t see my smile.

“So that was okay,” I say, when I look back toward him. “But next time, I’m thinking … cowgirl? No, reverse cowgirl. I mean, I am from Texas, after all, and I’ve never—”

His eyes dance away from mine guiltily, and I ignore the little twinge of panic.

Because I know what that look is trying to tell me: There won’t be a next time.

The thought causes a deep ache … different and more poignant than anything I’ve ever felt in my quest for Devon’s affections.

Devon. Damn it.

I hadn’t thought about him once.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For once, just live in the moment, Chloe.

When I open my eyes, Michael’s lying on his back, no longer looking at me, but his fingers are still entwined with mine, so I take that as a good sign.

Or at least not a bad one.

My fingers trail up the inside of his wrist, running lightly over the smooth skin of his inner elbow, before moving up over his biceps, to—

“Oh my God.” I sit up.

“Lord. Now what?” he asks.

“Your tattoo! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to see it?”

He glances down. “You haven’t seen it before?”

“Your shirt’s always covering it. And whenever I tried to move the shirt to look, you’d bat my hand away.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why. You were being so appropriate.”

My finger traces the pattern there. “It’s so … boring.”

I don’t know what I’d been expecting his tattoo to be, but it hadn’t been a simple, sleek black O.

“Is this an O or a zero?” I ask.

His eyes shutter. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”

I flop back down and watch his profile. “Wait, you branded your body in a not-so-private place, but it’s a secret that you don’t want to talk about?”

His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

I move to my back, knowing that I should probably get up. Especially since our after-sex talk is turning out to be anything but sexy, even if the sex was, well … the Most Amazing Thing Ever.

I run a hand over my lips. “My lips are killing me.”

He glances over. “Sorry. Razor burn, maybe. There might be some ChapStick in the nightstand, if that helps.”

“I so did not expect you to have beauty products on hand,” I say, rolling toward the nightstand and pulling open the drawer.

“It’s the twenty-first century. I’m pretty sure we cavemen are allowed a few basic grooming products.”

“Beauty products,” I correct, as I rummage in the drawer. “Hey, what’s this?”

I pull out a picture frame and study it. Michael turns to look at it, and if I thought his expression shut down when I asked about the tattoo, now it goes all Fort Knox on me.

“Put that away.”

“Oh, stop,” I say, bringing the picture closer so I can study it. “Whatever your secrets are do not justify this iceman routine.”

“Chloe.”

I turn the picture toward him. “Who are they?”

It’s a picture of a gorgeous blond girl with one of her arms around an equally gorgeous blond dude. Her other arm is around Michael’s waist, and although he’s darker than the other two, he’s equally gorgeous. Obviously.

They look like the too-perfect cast of some sort of teen TV show.

“He looks kind of like Devon,” I say, tapping a finger against blond guy.

Michael lets out a grunt. “Tell me about it. Figures my actual brother would look like a guy that was like a brother.”

I frown and roll over to face him again. “You’re speaking past tense.”

“That’s because he’s no longer ‘like a brother.’ We don’t even speak.”

Michael’s voice leaves no room for discussion, but when has that stopped me? “Why not? What happened?”

“Drop it, Chloe.”

“But—”

“Chloe!”

I press my lips together. “Fine. I get it. You and Hercules here had a falling out. What about the girl?”