He walks toward me slowly and my breath catches a little at his nearness—even more so when he uses his hips to nudge my knees open so he can step between my spread thighs. The dress rides up, awfully close to displaying the lady parts, but he doesn’t even glance down. He’s too focused on my face.

He shoves a hand into my hair, his fingers fisting just a little roughly, the other hand resting on my hip.

For a second I think he might kiss me, but instead he rests his forehead on mine, his eyes dark as they look into mine. “I’ve treated you badly, said things I shouldn’t, and for that I’m sorry. Really,” he says, his voice rough. “But I don’t think I’m off base in thinking it’s not just me who’s messed with your head. It’s the fucking paparazzi and all that comes with your private life being public, and you need to shake that off. You need to not give a fuck what anyone says or thinks about you, me included. You get me?”

“I’m working on it,” I whisper.

“Work harder,” he says, his fingers tightening slightly as he eases back and lets his eyes roam over my face. “Because you’re good, Jenny Dawson.”

I wince, and his hand tightens on my hip. “No, I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that you’re supposed to be virginal and sugar-sweet and not make mistakes. I mean you’re good in that you’re kind and patient and only moderately annoying.”

“High praise,” I say with a little smile.

He leans again, his forehead resting on mine once more as his eyes go even darker. “You’re also sexy as hell and give great head.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Last night was—”

“If you say it was a mistake, I’m giving your steak to the dogs.”

“I was going to say last night was an experiment.”

His hand slides down, his thumb trailing over my lip. “I’d say it was a successful one.”

“I thought for sure you were going to push me away today,” I whisper, the hand that’s not still holding my wine coming up to fiddle with the button of his polo shirt. “Give me all the reasons that this can’t happen.”

“It shouldn’t happen,” he says, his eyes watching the way his thumb drifts over my mouth. “I’m not the guy for you.”

“Why not?” I challenge.

“Because I’m the guy building the porch swing while you’re working on your next Grammy-winning album. I’m the guy drinking PBR while you sip champagne. I’m a redneck, you’re red carpet.”

“But—”

“You know as well as I do that you’re leaving sometime soon, and I’m sure as hell not coming with you.”

I want to tell him about my plan to buy the place, but I don’t. Because what would that even mean? It’s not as though I plan to live here full-time. Or even part-time. It’s not remotely practical, and it’s not as if he even wants me to stay.

“I am not for you, princess.”

My hand drifts lower on his chest, my nails raking lightly over his abs. “You didn’t seem to feel that way the other night when you snuck into my bed.”

“Sweetheart, if I married every girl I’ve ever finger-banged…”

I choke out a horrified laugh and put my hand over his mouth. “Maybe don’t finish that sentence.”

His eyes relax a little, maybe even reflect a smile, and he surprises me by kissing the palm of my hand before gently pulling my wrist away from his face. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“More of what I felt last night. And the night before that.”

Noah’s eyes narrow. “And that’s all? Just a quick fuck with the hired help before you go back to real life?”

My lips part. “Hey, that’s not—”

“I’m not complaining,” he interrupts. “Because if that’s what you’re looking for, and all you’re looking for, I’m happy to oblige.”

“You’re telling me not to get the wrong idea,” I say with a little smile.

Noah jerks his head in the direction of the grill. “You have to admit, the cozy dinner scene doesn’t exactly scream no-strings-attached.”

“I’ll take full responsibility for planning the dinner, but you’re the one who saw it through,” I remind him.

He plucks the wineglass out of my hand, setting it aside before his hands find my hips. He presses closer, his hips spreading my thighs wider as he slowly lowers his face to my neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin there. “My motives were impure. I was trying to get you into bed.”

I gasp as he licks my neck. “I hate to tell you this, but a big juicy rib eye isn’t exactly known for being an aphrodisiac.”

“Then why are you wet right now?” he asks, his teeth scraping along the column of my throat.

“I’m not.”

I feel him smile. “Liar.”

My hands lift to the back of his head, my legs spreading wider to pull him close. “Okay, maybe I am. But I’d still like to point out that you’re the one that cooked dinner.”

“Maybe I made you the food because I wanted you to get your strength up for what I plan to do to you.”

I bite my lip to keep from asking for details. To stop myself from begging him to talk dirty to me. It’s criminal how much I want this guy.

I don’t understand it.

But neither do I want to fight it.