He pressed me closer, hugged me tighter. “It’s late. We should skip the apartment.”

I hated that I agreed with him, but I did.

“Okay. We’ll go there tomorrow.”

“I have something else planned for tomorrow.”

I turned in his arms, issued him a coaxing but firm smile. “Alex. Tomorrow is my turn to choose, and I choose the apartment. I know it’s safe, unbugged, uncamera-ed, and we can be alone together.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, and I thought I detected a flicker of panic behind his expression. “We should wait.”

“Wait? Wait to go to the apartment, or wait to be alone together?”

“Both.” He breathed, glanced over my head, pointedly not making eye contact.

As I watched him—his arms falling away, his expression growing distant—I had another moment of clarity, where clouds parted and I saw a glimpse of Alex behind them, and not just the part he was willing to share, but a truth about who he was.

And why my heartbeat was the first he’d felt.

I had to ask because I had to know.

“Are you a virgin, Alex?”

His eyes whipped to mine, a lightning flash of emotion reaching out to me. In truth, I felt a bit singed by it, but I held firm.

“What?”

“Are you a virgin? Have you ever engaged in coitus? Futuero?”

He glanced away, backed away, stretched his arms in front of him as though he were anxious for some movement, something to do. “Does it matter?”

“A little.” I nodded, marking his profile with my eyes. “And by a little, I mean—yes, it matters a great deal.”

Alex blew out a loud breath then met my gaze again. His expression was cool and distant; I could tell he was bracing himself against my inevitable reaction. “Yes. I’m a virgin.”

I knew already, but hearing the words emerge from his mouth—in his velvety, lovely voice—sent a small jarring shock down my spine. I wrestled with my immediate instinct to question him to determine the what and why behind his decision to remain a virgin.

Because it was a decision—of that I was certain. This guy could have imbroglio-ed a hundred girls by now if he’d wanted to.

My secondary instinct, after assessing his mental state, was to ask What does this mean for us? Surprisingly, my secondary instinct overtook my initial clinical curiosity, and I may have started to panic a little.

I struggled to find the words to ask my next question, though the oddly prim part of myself—which didn’t make frequent appearances—wouldn’t allow me to say, So, am I going to deflower you? And if so, when?

I settled on, “Do you have any plans to be not a virgin?”

His response was quiet but firm, and to his credit, his gaze was steady. “Maybe. Eventually.”

“Maybe? Eventually?”

He nodded.

“With me?”

He made no response.

In order to buy some time I said, “Okay,” followed by another “okay” and a third “okay,” because I had to say something.

I turned away from him, my movements on autopilot as I processed this information. I think I was still repeating the word okay, but I couldn’t be sure. My thoughts were loud in my head, and I was imagining several scenarios at once, all of them ending with Alex and me no longer together sooner rather than later.

“Sandra.” Alex was suddenly in my path, stopping my pacing by placing his hands on my upper arms. “Talk to me.”

I looked into his dark eyes. “I’m having a bit of a freak-out.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not allowed to ask you certain questions, and I want to ask you questions because I’d like to know where I am.”

“Where you are?”

“Yes. Where am I? What are we doing? What’s going on? Why am I here?”

“Why were you here five minutes ago?”

“Because I like you—you’re funny and interesting and surprising—and I’m attracted to you—mostly your voice and your smarts and your body and lots of other stuff—and I’d hoped you felt similarly about me so that we could have intercourse at some point—and I don’t mean the intelligent, conversational kind.”

“That’s discourse.”

“Intercourse, discourse, that course, your horse—whatever.”

“So what’s changed in the last five minutes?”

“Why haven’t you had sex yet?” It was a risk. Questions about his past were apparently off limits, but I had to know. One does not reach the age of twenty-whatever, looking like he looks, without purposefully avoiding sex.

His eyes danced between mine and he shrugged. “An appropriate opportunity hasn’t presented itself.”

“Um…on a scale from one to ten on the fiction meter, that rates as a raging, ten-story inferno of cow poo. I don’t believe that an opportunity hasn’t presented itself, because girls in the restaurant throw themselves at you daily. You’re the main attraction.”

He didn’t smile; he seemed to be struggling with something. His temple and jaw ticked. At length, he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

In my head, I heard a door shut. It was a symbolic door. It represented the possibility of us. He’d closed it. He’d locked it.

And only Alex had the key.

I breathed out an unsteady sigh, glanced at the dark sky; I gave myself a moment to see the door, how impenetrable it was. I could bang on it, get a crowbar and try to pry it open, hire a bulldozer and demolish it; but I knew he’d just find another door, close it, lock it, hide behind it.

“Okay,” I said, because I had to say something, and I met his gaze once more.

He studied me, his brow pulling low. He must not have liked my expression because his hands tightened on my arms and his eyes flashed lightning again. “Okay?” he growled. “What does that mean?”

“It means okay. You don’t want to talk about it. Okay. I guess that’s that.” I tried to shrug and felt my eyes sting. I wouldn’t cry, but I wanted to.

His frown turned menacing, angry. “You’re breaking up with me. You promised me three months.”

I felt my expression soften as I allowed my eyes to move over his face, committing him to memory. “Are we together?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Because we might not have sex?”

“Yes. No.” I held my breath for a moment then exhaled. “I don’t know what we’re doing.”

“What’s wrong with just being together? What’s wrong with what we’ve been doing?”

For maybe the first time in my adult life, I had no control over the volume of my voice as my response bellowed forth and I roughly disengaged from his grip. “Because, Alex, I want you! I want to know you, about you, and you don’t trust me enough to answer any of my questions.”

“That’s not true. I do trust you. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

“You may trust me more than you’ve ever trusted anyone, but that’s not a lot—is it? And I love having intercourse just as much as I like engaging in discourse. I want you, all of you, every inch, and I want to give you all of myself. But you don’t seem to want me the same way. So, tell me, where are we supposed to go from here?”

Our taxi, with impeccable timing, pulled up to the curb just as I finished. Alex held my gaze for a long moment. Waves of barely controlled fury were radiating from him, evident in how he held himself, how his hands were balled into fists.

Then he opened the back door of the taxi and motioned for me to get in.

I slid in first, all the way to the far side. Though the interior of the car was beige, I saw only black and red.

My despair fog cleared a little—and only by necessity—as I realized both Alex and the driver were waiting for me to speak.

“Sandra,” Alex said, his expression and voice tight, “where is the apartment? What is the address?”

I glared at him. “No thanks. I’m not interested in pushing you into….”

“We need to talk—openly. What is the address?”

I studied him, noticed that he had moved himself to the middle of the back seat. His leg and side were pressed against mine, and his hand was possessive on my thigh.

Heat suffused my chest and neck as I ripped my gaze from his and gave the driver the address. The rest of the short drive was spent in silence.

Well, the cab was silent. But the conversation going on in my head was deafening.

CHAPTER 17

We pulled into the roundabout for Quinn’s building after an almost comically tense car ride. I had money ready to pay for the cab, but Alex closed his fist over my hand and tossed the driver a bill much too large for the small fare.

He didn’t release me as we exited. Instead, he firmly gripped my fingers—and, therefore, my ten dollar bill—as we entered the building.

I knew the doorman, and Janie had promised to let the staff know that I’d be coming this week to look at the apartment. Thus, I had no need to stop at the concierge and alert him to my presence. We were waved forward to the lifts beyond the impressive lobby.

Even inside the elevator, Alex didn’t slacken his grip. It wasn’t until we reached the door to the apartment, and I needed both hands to unlock the bolt, that he—albeit reluctantly—let me go. I walked inside as soon as the lock was free and made my way to the living room.