As we exit the restaurant, he hands the valet his ticket before pulling me into his arms and attacking my mouth with his. He seals his mouth to mine, kissing me deeply and quite inappropriately for a public street. He appears not to care at all that people are passing by as he forces his tongue into my mouth, and my body radiates heat as he continues to consume me. When the valet soon returns with Logan’s Jeep, he reluctantly releases my mouth and opens the door for me. He tips the man and hurries to the driver’s door. When he pulls from the curb, he reaches for my hand, holding it tightly in his. I gaze at him as he moves through the traffic.

He occasionally looks over at me with a smile, and when he approaches a red light I start to question him. “Logan, where are we going?”

“Somewhere.” He smirks at me with a mischievous grin.

“Somewhere where?”

“Just somewhere.” And as he glances over at me, he shakes his head slightly with a mild smile on his lips. “God, I can’t wait to make love to you.”

He returns his eyes to the road, and the light turns green. He’s left me with the most provocative words he could have said to me. He wants to make love to me. There was no argument behind what he said, no failed attempts at restraint, no hesitation. And as his Jeep heads out of town, my thoughts wander to what is in store for me. My body is already craving his touch. I’m wet and now eager, and as the minutes tick off the clock and the miles slip away, I start to think I might just lose my mind before we get wherever it is we’re going. But Logan keeps heading eastward. I try on a few occasions to get him to fess up, but he doesn’t give an inch. And I’m left to let my mind wander once again. I imagine his first touch, his taste, the sight of his body. It’s been so long since I’ve had any part of him other than his mouth, and I’m a frenzied wreck just thinking about it. I wonder if it will hurt as much this time as it did the last time. I’m sure it will, but I don’t care in the least.

The last time was so incredibly bittersweet. Making love to me was so obviously not what he had intended to do that night, but he gave in to my wishes. Why? A parting gift perhaps. Or just complete lack of control more likely. It was sad but incredible. I knew the entire time I was losing him, and making love was like some desperate attempt to hold him as tight as I could before I lost him forever. How is this night any different? I don’t know when he’s going back to Colorado, but it will, without a doubt, be soon. So how is this night going to be any different? I’m once again torturing myself with the truth. My internal dialogue is like the bearer of all unwelcome news, and she pops in every time I want to just forget about what is wrong with our situation. Why can I never just be content? Because, the bitch inside my head reminds me, this is fleeting. You’re practically his Michigan whore. My heart drops, and I know my night is doomed to be tormented with thoughts of being parted from him again. I resort to looking out the window at the passing countryside as the sky darkens. We are headed toward Ann Arbor, and as we approach the exits for my future home I half expect him to turn off. But he continues by each and every exit ramp.

And soon we’ve left Ann Arbor in the darkness behind us. Within fifteen minutes I can see the glow of the Detroit city lights. And as we approach the city I’m reminded that he’s probably just in town on business. I get it now. He’s taking me to his hotel room for the evening. I really am his Michigan whore. My mood is dropping with every passing second, and he must sense it as he squeezes my hand, appraising my somber face. We travel into the city, circumventing downtown out and along the river. It’s dark, and I’m not familiar enough with Detroit to know where exactly we could be going. I expect him to exit toward downtown, but it seems we’re moving on past downtown. Logan starts telling me about the historic old neighborhoods of Detroit that lie to the east of downtown. The Villages, as he calls them, are filled with old homes reminiscent of the Heritage Hills neighborhood of Grand Rapids. I can’t imagine why he’s telling me all of this now. It’s too dark for sightseeing, after all.

My mood has fallen, and as much as I’m eager to be with Logan, I’m confused and frustrated and resentful. I don’t want to be the girl he hooks up with when he comes to town on business. I don’t want to wish to see him all the time but accept seeing him only once in a blue moon. I’m not built for that and it makes my heart sink, because while I know I’ll give myself freely to him tonight, it will break my heart when I have to give him up again. Will I let myself be tortured like this forever? Will I ever be strong enough to say no to him?

We continue through residential streets lined with the old historic homes, but it’s hard to get a good feel for the place. And why should I care? From what I can tell it seems like exactly the type of neighborhood I would love—old, beautiful, huge trees, amazing architecture, but I just don’t care.

We eventually turn on one of many dark and quiet streets, and moments later, Logan is pulling into the driveway of an impressive two-story Arts and Crafts style house with a black iron fence in the front yard. It has a huge porch that runs the length of the front side of the house. One lamp is all that is on in what I assume is the living room. It is quiet and dark otherwise, and it really doesn’t appear that anyone is home. Logan parks and shuts the car off, saying nothing at all. He is still holding my hand, and as I turn to look at him he lifts my hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss along my fingers. I gaze back at him passively and defeated before finding my voice, choked with the emotion that has been building thanks to the nasty voice in my head so intent on ruining my evening.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted to show it to you.”

“Show me what? This house? Why?”

“Because it’s mine.”

* * *

For the second time this evening I’ve managed to shock her, and were she in better spirits I might be able to enjoy myself more. Her mood has been sinking since we left Grand Rapids, and the moment I saw the shift, all I wanted was to get her here. This home, the culmination of my giving up every last dream I thought I wanted, is now mine. There was never really any chance of my returning to Denver permanently after Rowan almost died. Truth be told, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have found a way back to her eventually once I fell in love with her.

The night I watched her sleeping in the hospital, the decision was made. The DA made a few calls to the Detroit DA’s office for me the next day, and I had meetings set up almost immediately. Detroit is, fortunately, never short of a need for lawyers in the public sector, and interviewing the following day I had a good feeling about my prospects of being hired as a new assistant DA. I’d be trading a rather ridiculously large salary for a much less impressive one, but Rowan is worth far more to me than the hundred thousand a year I’ll be sacrificing. Of course, there will be far more financial sacrifice than just that. Breaking my contract with Brighton came with a pretty damn hefty price tag, but there was simply no choice at that point. She’s worth every penny.

I’d enjoyed my time in the Grand Rapids DA’s office enough to know I’d fit right in as a criminal prosecutor far more easily than I would ever have fit into private practice, so this was the place for me to be—close to her in a career I could love. But I ended up having to wait for any final job offer for well over two weeks. Damn bureaucratic red tape.

But landing a new job in a location that would keep me close to Rowan ended up being the easy part. Breaking the news and coming clean to my parents proved to be one of the most difficult conversations of my life. But they listened, and they accepted what I told them. I really gave them little choice. By the time I made the call to them, I’d already turned in my resignation at Brighton, packed my boxes, and started researching real estate in Detroit. My father helped me scout out some properties, and a hasty negotiation and closing ensued. I’d only just signed all the paperwork two days prior, after rolling up in the moving truck. I hired movers this time to unload furniture while I settled into my new office. No city skyline views, but I’m thrilled to be here nonetheless. And now I’m sitting in the driveway of my new home, terrified to breathe because the woman whom I love and moved halfway across the country to be with has yet to say a word to me about my decision.

Her eyes are huge, and her mouth is dropped open in shock. Her hand that I still hold in mine is shaking, and she looks like she’ll burst into tears at any moment. I finally give up waiting for her to find her voice and step from the car, taking a steadying breath as I go. I help her from the passenger seat and lead her to the front door. I unlock the door and open it for her, and she enters clutching my hand. She stands in the entryway taking in the darkened space, and as she does she starts to cry. I’m desperate to hear her voice and to know what she’s thinking. Are they tears of joy, or have I made the greatest mistake of my life thinking she’d want me back after I abandoned her?

“Please say something.” My breath is shaky.

And she does. In a whisper hoarse with tears, she tells me the three words I need to hear more than any others—the words that tell me I’ve made the very best decision for us both—the same three words I’ve kept from her for far too long. “I love you.”

And as I pull her into my arms, I clutch her to me. “Oh God, Row, I love you, too.”

When I’ve held her as tight as I can for as long as I can bear, I let her go, lock the door behind us, and lead her upstairs to my room. It is late, and she looks emotionally and physically exhausted, but as she watches me undress and drop my clothes on the chair in the corner of the room, her still wet eyes smolder and burn with desire. I finish undressing and approach her as she watches me saunter naked across the room. When I reach her, her hands move instantly to my hips and mine reach to her bottom, caressing the round firm cheeks through the skirt of her dress. I slide my hands under the back hem of it and caress the back of her bare thighs, pulling the skirt up as I go. My head is near her neck, and I can hear her panting breaths coming in ragged shudders at my touch. She turns her mouth toward my ear, and as she reaches for my distended and swollen cock she begs. “Please.” And I thank God I will never have to deny her again.

At the first touch of her hand on my cock, I lift her legs swiftly up to straddle me and lay her down on the bed underneath me. She’s pulling my hips desperately toward her, and I pull away only long enough to pull her underwear off of her legs. I push the hem of her dress back up the tops of her thighs and take in the sight of her sex for the first time in what feels like an eternity. She needs no coaxing to spread her legs wide for me, and when she does I can see the slick, pink folds of skin ready for me to take. I want to taste her, smell her scent, plunge my fingers within her, but my cock wants to be buried deep inside her far more.

Her hands are back on my hips pulling me into her, and I let her. I know this is going to hurt her, but I also know it has to. I use the head of my engorged cock to part her lips and nudge against her opening, and with one final look to her eyes for approval I thrust to my hilt inside her tight sheath. She cries out in pain, but holds me tight to her body. I can feel her pussy tighten and clench around me. I ease from her, letting the head of my cock linger teasingly at her entry before plunging into her once again, and as I claim her pussy over and over her moaning and cries intensify. Her tight passage is contracting around me, trying desperately to keep me inside her, and when her body finally explodes in orgasm I let myself come powerfully, too. I withdraw from her quickly before making the mistake of losing myself within her again. Instead, my cum spurts out across the bunched up skirt of her dress. She lets her head fall back in repletion as I lay my head on her chest. Our lovemaking was fast, hard, and desperate—everything it needed to be after so long apart.

Once our breathing has slowed, I sit her up and unzip the back of her dress, pulling it over her head and tossing it to the floor; Sara would definitely not approve of my treatment of Rowan’s little black dress. I lie next to her on the bed and gaze down at her naked body. The scars from her surgery are still red and knotted but fully healed. The bruises that were so evident and difficult to look at are now gone, and her alabaster skin is once more silken and smooth. She is finally mine again, and I will never let her go.