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I don’t even know if that’s possible, but I damn sure want to try.

Yet when I deepen the kiss to soften her, she does something to me instead. She arouses me, of course. But she also…comforts me. I don’t know why, but one kiss from her, and my anxiety seems to melt away.

I feel nothing but her. I lose my head to her. I drown in her.

When I grip her tighter, Nia moans, wraps her arms around my neck, and sways closer, pressing her body to mine. I part her lips. Her tongue dances against mine. She flicks, then retreats in a teasing sweep. Desire slides through my veins like a narcotic. I’m reeling. Blood rushes. Thoughts about anything besides getting her naked, panting, and under me stop.

I don’t understand what Nia does to me. It makes no sense, but I don’t care. I can’t stop myself from nudging her against the side of her porch, notching my cock against her softness, and groaning long and low into her mouth.

When I rock between her legs, Nia tears her lips from mine with a gasp, clawing into my shoulders and tossing her head back. Moonlight and arousal make her glow as she stares at me, blinking and breathing and seemingly stunned.

“If we keep this up out here, your neighbors are going to get an eyeful,” I joke. “I don’t think you want that.”

Slowly, she nods. “You’re right.”

Thank god she agrees. All she has to do is open the door and let me in so I can put us both out of our misery.

Instead, she plants her palm in my chest and gives me a gentle push. “I think we should say good night.”

I freeze. Am I understanding her correctly? “End the date now?”

“Yes.” She withdraws her keys from her purse. “I had a really good time with you. I appreciated the museum and the conversation. Both told me a lot about you that I needed to know.”

That’s great but… “You said you wanted me?”

“I do, but I don’t think we should have sex tonight. After all, it’s our first date.”

“But we’ve already had sex.” I know she hasn’t forgotten.

“Yes, but now we’re dating. Since we’re also talking about marriage, what’s happening between us isn’t a hookup.” I must look as confused as I feel, because she pauses, seeming to gather her words. “After what happened in the dressing room, you said you needed time to think, so I gave you space.”

She did, and I appreciated it. “And now you need some?”

“I have to ask myself if I can marry someone who may never give me children and may never love me.”

Instantly, I want to protest…but what can I rail against? She’s not saying anything that isn’t true. And doesn’t she deserve everything she wants in life? Especially to be loved?

“Evan…” she goes on. “Don’t be disappointed. The sex would probably be really good, and god knows I would love your touch…but it would muddy everything.”

She’s probably right. Rationally, I know that, yet I find myself grappling. My libido wants to change her mind. The rest of me realizes I have to back down. If I don’t, Nia may think I’m more interested in sex than in her.

Dragging in a ragged breath, I step back. “I understand. Everything is happening fast, and I’m asking a lot of you. Of course you have to think about it. Just consider that, no matter what, we could be our own family, and I will always endeavor to make you feel like the most important, beautiful woman in the world, especially in bed.”

She tears up. “I think you mean that. Now I have to ask myself if that’s enough.”

Wednesday, November 15

I’m still troubled by my conversation with Nia last night when I walk into Stratus’s lobby to see her arguing with Douglas Lund and some other puffed-up suit. I presume it’s one of his staffers, whom I’ve never met. They don’t have an appointment, so why the hell are they here?

Then Nia distracts me. She’s wearing a red dress that gathers at her small waist, flares over the tempting curve of her hips, and ends at mid-thigh. Her stilettos and professionally dismissive smile round out the look.

“Mr. Cook’s calendar is very full. You’ll need an appointment to see him. He’s on vacation for two weeks beginning next Monday. So his next available opening is”—she glances at her phone—“December fifth at two thirty. Would you like me to put you down then?”

“Look, Ms…” The silver-haired Wall Street bigwig glares impatiently.

“Ms. Wright. I’m Mr. Cook’s executive assistant. He doesn’t have time to see you today.”

“He hasn’t made time to see me since he flew out to New York months ago. I’ve sent my people here to reason with him, and he never has time for them, either. I call, and he dodges.”