The Prince's Cinderella Bride. Amalie Berlin

heard his laugh. She was a silly, naïve twenty-year-old again, starved for his kisses, for his touch, for the heat of him against her.

      When she opened her eyes, it hurt to see him. His brows were wrenched, as if touching her hurt more than helped. As if he tortured himself with every kiss, but couldn’t stop.

      She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to feel him shaking or the mingling of pleasure and bitter need that twisted her insides. But she couldn’t stop.

      Her arms came around his shoulders, pulling him close, reveling in his solidity, the breadth of him. His face had matured; his body had as well. He was a new man, but still the same.

      His arms around her waist bent her toward the floor, and he paused only long enough to shove chairs violently away, making a space for them.

      There was no way for reason to intervene, not when his unfamiliar and heady mass pressed her into the cold wood floor, and his hands began frantically pulling at the material separating them.

      Her tank top came up and her front-clasp bra popped open at his insistence. He only took his mouth from hers to turn his attention to her breasts.

      Her breath left her and she moaned so loudly that he lunged back over her, covering her mouth again with his own, absorbing every tortured gasp he ripped from her.

      Before she registered movement, he’d stripped her from the waist down. She could only hold his mouth to hers, needing his kisses to continue blocking out the world. Needing to fill her lungs with him.

      Tenacious, unhesitating, he pulled her legs around his hips, and launched himself into her.

      Dizzy and breathless, only his mouth kept the broken sobs of her regret and need from echoing through the whole facility.

      Like a wild thing, he set a thundering pace, hollowing her out and tearing down those carefully constructed walls of protection. Anna was gone. Anais was too. All thoughts gone. Nothing left but this need to get closer, to wrap her legs around him and pretend that the years in between never happened. Forget the bad times. Forget the end. Even forget the wedding. Pretend she didn’t know it was only lust and anger driving him. This was hate sex for him. That horrible need to be closer. They might never be cured of it but it had been twisted by her leaving, and by his never showing up to begin with.

      Still, she hung in that heartbeat where she’d still believed they could have that future she’d so desperately wanted. With this man—the only man who could bullhead through her reservations and convince her to act against her best interests.

      He was with her, connected, inside her, but leaned away until it was his idea to return for another desperate, suffocating kiss. That frequent distance kept her from reaching for him until he deigned to return to her.

      The last time she’d held him, he’d still been a boy. A decidedly handsome, sexy boy, but now, broad-shouldered and deliciously heavier than he’d been, he still felt like hers. Angry, but hers. Wanting to punish her, but still part of her.

      It was wrong. All of it. The sex. Wanting to see him. Wanting to know him... Wrong. Stupid and wrong.

      Stretched too taut, the thread of her pleasure snapped, and the first wave of her climax blasted through her, but she was too far gone for moans or any sound. It was all she could do to keep breathing.

      When he stiffened and jerked, his broken breaths told her he’d come with her, and there had been no barriers in those few moments. Not even the sort that would prevent pregnancy.

      Pretend it was still then. Back when they’d had a future. When she’d have felt only bliss at the idea of having his child. Before she’d learned how much to value a quiet life.

      Quinn relaxed against her, his stubble-roughened cheek to her shoulder, rapid breath fanning her hair.

      What were they doing? Why had she kissed him back?

      Her hands ached to smooth over his back, to relearn the body she’d once known. To comb through his hair, trace his jaw and feel the rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips. She wanted to luxuriate in the tactile experience his body could bring. Just hold on and pretend for a little longer.

      Instead, she curled her fingers to her palms to keep from stroking his skin. As soon as she got control of her thoughts, of her mouth—as soon as she could stand the idea of him looking at her again—she’d push him away. Off her, out of her...

      No words came from her, not out loud, but it was as if he heard her anyway. Quinn lifted himself, off and away from her, severing their connection before he’d even gotten control of his heart.

      On his knees between her legs, still mostly dressed, he rested and silently looked over her naked body. A heated look, at least. He still wanted her. This could be the first in a long, tangled back and forth—something she wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand. Or it could be another sign that it was once again time to run.

      She pulled her tank top down to cover her breasts, and scooted back to sit up, legs together. As if that would make her less bare to him.

      What could be more heady than knowing how little effort it had taken to have her? A kiss. Just one kiss. And she’d practically begged him.

      “I need my shorts.” She didn’t want to crawl past him to reach them, but she would if she had to.

      Without a word, he shoved the crumpled garment at her, and climbed to his feet, righting himself. Tucking in. Zipping up.

      “If you’re wondering, that was goodbye,” he announced as he bent to look under the desk for his shoe. “That’s all.”

      The goodbye she’d denied him.

      “Right,” she managed, no words coming to mind that would provide her with the same emotional distance. He’d just announced the end of whatever they’d had, as if it hadn’t ended once already. That was what he’d been doing—ending things?

      He’d had a goal, but why had she gone along with it?

      Because...chemistry.

      Because she was still vulnerable to chemistry. Because in some ways she’d be forever stupid.

      It had blinded her before. Blinded him too. They’d tried to build a marriage on chemistry—the height of bad reasons to get married.

      If he’d loved her, if he’d ever felt anything for her besides lust, he would’ve listened when she’d tried to tell him about the photos, her blackmailer. He would’ve helped her. Helped them. He would’ve cared what was happening to her. But he hadn’t. Everything always just magically worked out in Quinn Land. Fate was kinder to him than it had ever been to her, and he took it for granted.

      One last anger-filled time was his version of goodbye. There weren’t feelings attached. For either of them. She had regret, and chemistry, and that was plenty. How much worse would it be to still love him and have him never able to feel the same?

      Even weakness and chemistry-fueled unprotected sex on her office floor was better than that.

      Snagging the shoe, he straightened his sock and crammed the shoe back on.

      Following his lead, she shimmied into her underthings and stood.

      “Are you going to talk to Nettle?” There. Those were words. The thing she’d actually wanted to talk to him about before all this insanity happened.

      “I’ll talk to him.”

      She turned to grab her shoe and heard the door close.

      Whatever. She sat down and put the shoe on.

      Showering, changing, and going home would help. Get the scent of him off her. Clothe her far too bare form. Drink tea while not letting on to Mom that anything was wrong. And sleep...

      Leaning over the desk to get her bag, she noticed the large envelope she’d prepared for this talk.

      He’d left without the literature. Of course he had.

      Snatching