The thing about expensive cars is that they're too quiet.

In a normal car—the kind I'm used to, the kind that rattles and wheezes and has a broken radio stuck on the classic rock station—there's noise. Distraction. A buffer between you and the person in the driver's seat.

Dominic's car is a Mercedes, all leather and whispered engineering, and the silence is suffocating.

I can hear him breathing.

I can hear myself not breathing.

"You don't have to drive me home." My voice sounds too loud in the hushed interior. "I'm perfectly capable of calling a cab."

"I know you are." His hands are relaxed on the steering wheel, those elegant fingers that I've been trying not to think about for three hours. "But I'm driving you anyway."

"Control freak."

"Guilty."

The streetlights slide over his profile—sharp jaw, that mouth that shouldn't be as distracting as it is. He's removed his bow tie, and his collar is open, revealing the hollow of his throat. I've been staring at that hollow for the last ten minutes, wondering what it would taste like.

I'm losing my goddamn mind.

The gala was torture. Three hours of Dominic's hand on the small of my back, his breath against my ear when he leaned in to whisper commentary about the speakers, the way his eyes kept finding mine across crowded conversations. The dress Victoria sent fit like it was made for me—because it probably was, knowing her—and I watched Dominic's pupils dilate when I first walked down my apartment steps.

He looked at me like I was water and he was dying of thirst.

I've been returning the favor all night.

"You were good tonight," he says, breaking the silence. "With the board members. With Victoria."

"Your mother hates me."

"My mother is terrified of you." His mouth curves slightly. "There's a difference."

I touch the compass on my wrist, tracing the familiar lines. "She sent me the dress."

"I know."

"Did you ask her to?"

"No." He glances at me, and even in the darkness, I can see the intensity in those gray eyes. "But she's strategic. She wanted to see if you'd wear it. If you'd accept something from her."

"And what does it mean that I did?"

"That you're smarter than she gives you credit for." The car slows as we turn onto my street. "You wore her armor to her battlefield. She respects that, even if she doesn't want to."

My apartment building looks especially shabby in the Mercedes' headlights. Peeling paint, cracked concrete, the perpetual smell of garbage from the bins around the corner. It's a world away from the gilded ballroom we just left, from the world Dominic inhabits so effortlessly.

He puts the car in park but doesn't kill the engine.

Neither of us moves.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For the ride."

"Elena."

Just my name. But the way he says it—low, rough, like it costs him something—makes my pulse spike.

I should get out of the car. I should thank him politely, walk up those stairs, lock my door, and take a very cold shower. I should maintain the careful distance I've been constructing between us, the walls that keep me safe.

Instead, I turn to face him.

Mistake.

His eyes are molten in the dashboard light, fixed on me with that focus that makes the rest of the world disappear. The scent of him fills the car—bergamot and cedar, expensive and warm and utterly intoxicating.

"You looked beautiful tonight," he says quietly.

"Dominic—"

"Let me finish." He shifts, and suddenly he's closer, his arm along the back of my seat, not touching but there. "You looked beautiful. You were brilliant. And I spent three hours wanting to touch you and not being able to, and it's driving me insane."

My heart is trying to break through my ribcage. "We can't—"

"Why not?"

"Because." The word comes out breathless. "Because this is complicated. Because your mother wants me gone. Because Marcus—"

"I don't give a fuck about complicated." His voice is rough velvet, and his hand—God, his hand is on my jaw now, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "And Marcus isn't here. I am."

I should pull away. Every instinct I've honed over years of self-preservation is screaming at me to retreat, to deflect, to make a joke and break this moment before it breaks me.

But his touch is so gentle. Reverent, almost.

And I'm so tired of being careful.

"This is a bad idea," I whisper.

"Probably." His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, and I actually shiver. "Tell me to stop, Elena. Tell me you don't want this."

I can't. Because I do want this—want him—with an intensity that terrifies me.

So instead, I lean in.

The kiss starts soft. Tentative, like we're both testing the waters, seeing if this thing between us will burn us alive.

It will.

His hand slides into my hair, angling my head, and the kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and demanding, and I hear myself make a sound that should be embarrassing but isn't, because he groans in response, his other hand finding my waist and pulling me closer—

The gearshift is in the way. The whole goddamn car is in the way.

"Inside," I gasp against his mouth. "Come inside."

I don't remember getting out of the car. Don't remember walking up the stairs, though I must have, because suddenly we're at my door and I'm fumbling for my keys with shaking hands while Dominic stands behind me, so close I can feel the heat of him through the thin silk of the dress.

His breath is against my neck. "Elena."

The key finally slides home, and I push the door open—

And then his hands are on my waist, spinning me around, pressing me back against the doorframe. His mouth finds mine again, hungrier now, and I'm kissing him back with everything I have, my hands in his hair, his jacket, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between us.

He tastes like whiskey and want.

His hands are on my hips, my waist, sliding up my ribcage, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire. I arch into him, and he makes a sound low in his throat that does things to me, his mouth moving from my lips to my jaw to that spot just below my ear that makes my knees actually buckle—

His hand is on my thigh. Under my dress. Sliding higher.

And suddenly I can't breathe.

Not in the good way. In the wrong way.

The doorframe is hard against my back—too hard—and his body is caging me in, and his hand is moving higher, and somewhere in my brain, the wires cross. The present bleeds into the past, and it's not Dominic anymore, it's him, it's Ryan, and I'm trapped, and I can't move, and—

"Stop." The word tears out of me. "Stop, stop, stop—"

I shove him. Hard.

Dominic jerks back like I've burned him, hands immediately raised, eyes wide. "Elena—"

"Don't." I'm shaking. Actually shaking, my whole body trembling like I'm going to fly apart. "Don't touch me."

He takes another step back, and another, putting distance between us. His chest is heaving, his hair disheveled from my hands, his mouth swollen from my kisses. He looks wrecked.

He looks concerned.

"I'm sorry." His voice is careful, controlled, nothing like the rough desire of thirty seconds ago. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—are you okay?"

I can't look at him. If I look at him, I'll see pity, or worse, understanding, and I can't handle either right now.

"I'm fine." The lie tastes like ash. "I just—you need to go."

"Elena—"

"Please." My voice breaks on the word, and I hate myself for it. "Please just go."

For a long moment, he doesn't move. I can feel his eyes on me, that intense focus that misses nothing, and I know he sees exactly how not-fine I am.

But then he nods. Slowly.

"Okay." He takes another step back, toward the stairs. "I'm going. But Elena—" He waits until I look at him, and his eyes are so gentle it physically hurts. "This isn't over. We're going to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's everything to talk about." He's at the top of the stairs now, and even in the dim hallway light, I can see the concern etched into his features. "When you're ready. No pressure. But we're talking."

Then he's gone, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell, and I'm alone.

I make it three steps into my apartment before my legs give out.

I sink down right there in the entryway, my back against the closed door, and I can't tell if I'm laughing or crying or both. The dress—Victoria's beautiful, strategic armor—pools around me like spilled ink.

I can still taste him. Still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.

Still feel the panic that crashed over me like a wave, dragging me under.

"Fuck." I press my palms against my eyes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Five years. It's been five years since Ryan, since I finally got out, since I rebuilt myself from the ground up and swore I'd never let anyone make me feel powerless again.

And I don't. I'm not that girl anymore. I'm strong, I'm independent, I'm fine.

Except apparently, I'm not fine enough to let someone touch me without my brain short-circuiting.

Not someone. Dominic.

Dominic, who backed off the second I said stop. Who looked at me with concern instead of anger. Who apologized like he'd done something wrong when all he'd done was give me exactly what I'd been asking for.

I wanted him. God, I wanted him so badly I could barely think straight.

But wanting isn't enough when your body betrays you. When your past reaches up and drags you down just when you're finally reaching for something good.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out with shaking hands.

*Dominic: I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry.

Dominic: You don't have to respond. I just need you to know that.

Dominic: Sleep well, Elena.

I stare at the messages until they blur.

Then another text comes through. Different number.

Unknown: Saw you leave the gala with Dominic. That dress looked good on you. His mother has excellent taste.

My blood runs cold.

Unknown: We should talk. Soon.

Unknown: -M

Marcus.

Of course. Because this night wasn't complicated enough already.

I let my head fall back against the door, still tasting Dominic on my lips, still shaking from the panic attack, now staring at messages from the other man I can't seem to stop thinking about.

Somewhere in the building, someone's playing music too loud. A car alarm wails in the distance. The radiator clanks and hisses.

Normal sounds. Normal life.

Nothing about this feels normal.

I pull myself up, strip off the dress, and stand under a scalding shower until my skin turns pink. But I can't wash away the feeling of Dominic's hands. Can't scrub off the memory of his mouth on mine, or the look in his eyes when I pushed him away.

Can't stop wondering what Marcus wants.

Can't stop hating myself for wanting both of them and being too broken to have either.

When I finally collapse into bed, exhausted and wrung out, my phone lights up one more time.

Dominic: You're not broken, Elena. Whatever you're thinking right now, you're not broken.

I stare at the message.

He can't possibly know what I'm thinking.

Except somehow, he does.

I type and delete three different responses before finally settling on:

Elena: Goodnight, Dominic.

His reply comes immediately.

Dominic:* Goodnight, beautiful.

I fall asleep with my phone clutched in my hand, tasting cedar and regret, and dreaming of gray eyes that see too much.