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I kiss him, and those brilliant thoughts seem to scatter. I say his name the right way, and something hot flashes through those impossible warm, glacier blue eyes.

I can affect him.

Me.

Not my questions.

Not my story.

Not whatever information he thinks I might uncover.

Layla.

At least, I desperately want to believe that's true.

My hand travels higher. He catches my wrist.

For one second, my heart stutters. Then he turns his head and presses his mouth against the inside of it. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender I stop breathing.

“Mitchell.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“What?”

Nothing.

Everything.

Don't do things like that unless they mean something.

I can't say it.

Because then I might have to admit how much I need them to mean something. So I give him the easier answer.

“You're still wearing too many clothes.”

His mouth curves against my skin.

“There she is.”

“Who?”

“My Firecracker.”

My.

Such a tiny fucking word.

It shouldn't have the power to make my heart squeeze.

It does.

I tug my wrist free only so I can reach for him again, pushing his boxers down his hips.

Mitchell's body is corded with muscle and more definition than I would have ever thought a billionaire would have. He's fucking hot.

There.