“Danny,” she murmured, the name imploring him as she quickly unhooked his wrists and pushed
one of his hands between her legs. She was on her knees at his side, almost thrusting her hips into his
shoulder, clutching his jaw, burying her face in his hair. “Please, please,” she groaned, pushing her
hips to his hand, rubbing herself against him.
God, how could I have lived all my life without you, Monica?
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmured, drawing her to him by spreading his free hand on her butt and
anchoring her to his body, his other hand teasing his fingers into her pussy. As he watched, his chest
trembled at the sight of the magnificent woman against him rocking her pelvis in trusting surrender,
coming apart as soon as he fed her his two longest fingers.
She exploded with a soft cry, a cry he claimed with his mouth, and when she went lax, he gently
gathered her to him, whispering to her, telling her he’d wanted to hold her for years, that she fit just
right in the crook of his neck, that as she burrowed in his arms he could feel the peace in her body, the
peace in his.
After days of torment, he felt the tendrils of sleep tugging him as he brushed her hair back and
kissed her forehead.
She was groggy, lying limp and tired against him. He kissed her on the lips, and she shuddered. Her
hand clenched on the back of his neck, locking herself to him.
He’d held her before, like this. They hadn’t been sweaty and sated. They hadn’t been slick with their
juices and tired from their lovemaking. But it was just as easy, just as right, as ever.
* * *
She dreamed of them again.
Always that same dream, always of that day.
“Promise me you will never, ever, give any man your heart, Monica, like I did. You keep it to
yourself. Give your virginity away—that doesn’t matter—but you never, ever, give anyone the power
to hurt you. You have to promise me no matter what happens to me. ”
She looked wild, her mother. Her hair undone as it had been for the past months, her eyes bloodshot.
“But Father loves you,” Monica said, trying to soothe her.
“He never did, never!” She was packing up his things, having Monica help her. “Come, help me
pack this. We’re not leaving, but he sure as hell won’t be staying here with us anymore. We’re getting
this house, we’re getting Davenport’s, we’re getting the last penny—see how much his little woman
likes him then—otherwise I’m not even signing the divorce!”
Monica folded her father’s sweater to perfection. It smelled of cologne, and it made her chest
constrict, and all she could do was fold up that sweater. Her family was falling apart and she was
folding the sweater, making sure all the buttons were buttoned to the top.
“You should always be with someone who loves you more than you do him. Always.” Her mother
kissed her forehead. “You’re a smart girl, you’re smarter than both of us. You won’t ever fall for a
man after knowing this is in store for you. You will choose a partner with your head, not your heart,
Monica.”
Monica thought of Daniel Lexington, and his twinkling green eyes and that wickedly sexy smile,
and the way he’d looked months ago in the Pacific Ocean when he’d traipsed off the Lexington’s yacht
and into the deep blue water. He’d come up behind her like a shark, and she made a squeal, thinking
she was drowning because his hands had been on her waist. Instead he propped her up on the stairs and
then followed her up, slicking his head back.
She thought later that day of the way he’d called her princess, of all the ways he smiled and paid
even more attention to her than he had to his own sister. Her mother suddenly seemed to read her
mind. “That boy’s not for you. These rich men, they’re born pampered. They think they deserve it all:
the wife, the mistress, the groupies. Don’t ever love any of them. Not any man, much less one like
him!”
Monica nodded, shocked at the change in her mother.
“Baby, I know you wanted to go to college, but maybe you’ll stay here with me?” Her mother’s chin
trembled, and she started crying. “Oh, Monica, Monica, sometimes I don’t even want to live.…”
That night, her father had appeared at the house to see his suitcases by the entry. He tossed them
open in a rage and shoved everything back into his closet, slamming the door behind him.
But no door could contain their screams.
“You’re not making me leave, this is my house, you fucking whore! You vindictive whore … what
have you been telling my daughter about me? She won’t even look at me, won’t even let me touch her