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inside her again and again, almost fighting her, rough and hard and everything he shoudn’t be. He fucked her like an animal—and that was how he came, with a roar that could be heard through the entire house.
    He slumped over her, blanketing her with his body. She still shook slightly beneath him. Aftershocks?
    Or was he too rough with her?
    But when he raised his head to check, she smiled at him—so sleepy and full of love that his heart seemed to squeeze. He rolled over, bringing her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him. In minutes their breathing had evened out and matched up.
    A soft snore, and he knew she was sleeping. It made him smile, but he was nowhere near sleep.
    Who was your first?
    As if the question was anything to do with Clarissa or the fact that she’d had braces and he’d been nervous out of his mind. No, the question was about the fear he’d seen in her eyes. The fear that he’d seen when she’d met his parents, seen their house. Maybe the fear had always been there and she’d just hidden it—or he’d just pretended not to see.
    She still saw the class differences between them.
    And he’d been an idiot not to see them too. Not that he believed himself above her in any way. But their childhoods had shaped them. He didn’t want to think of himself as a pompous, self-entitled prick, but he couldn’t deny that was exactly what he’d been raised to be. And no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he believed in equality, no matter how much he was head-over-fucking-heels in love with Erin, it could never change his past.
    It could never change what he was deep inside.

Chapter Four
    E rin woke up the next morning with an ache between her legs. It took a moment to remember what had happened yesterday—the long drive, the Ice Queen, the wild sex in Blake’s childhood room.
    After that there’d been an awkward dinner with only a long table and dim lights to hide her blush. Neither of Blake’s parents had commented on their little nap, thank God.
    And for whatever reason, his mother didn’t launch into any more guilt tirades. Mostly she just drank while Blake’s father grilled him on his position at the university, his career plans, and his investment portfolio. Blake put up with it through the salad course and the main course before he turned the tables and persuaded his father to talk about political maneuvers from his heyday.
    Once he got started Mr. Morris didn’t stop talking. It was hugely interesting to listen to his stories, a front row seat to some of the major political dramas in their past. When Blake winked at her from across the table, she knew he’d done that on purpose.
    What could she say? She had a weakness for men who could talk history.
    Like Blake, who reclined beside her in bed. His arm was stretched out, long and muscled even in sleep. His eyes were closed, lashes thick and blunt, and almost touching the pale scar tissue on his cheek.
    The fire had come too close to his eye. She shivered to think how much worse it could have been. He could have lost his sight. He could have died.
    Her heart felt too full, too vulnerable after sleeping beside him all night.
    And she couldn’t stand to not touch him. Couldn’t stand not to feel the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breaths. His chest had a sprinkling of coarse hair, and she ran her hand over it, tickling her palm.
    He hadn’t stirred, his lips slightly parted in deep sleep.
    So she kept going, over the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the muscles tighten under her touch. She glanced at him, feeling shy, almost caught, but he was still sleeping.
    There was no way she could stop this close to him, not when she could see him hard beneath the sheet. He woke up this way every morning, but usually he was up before her. Sometimes she’d awaken to find his fingers in her pussy and his mouth at her breast. Other times he’d already be inside her, thrusting away, by the time she opened her