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We went to her apartment. She didn’t speak to me on the drive. She stayed plastered against her side of the car, face turned away.

I opened my mouth to speak several times, but made myself stay silent. This was the most I’d gotten from her since the divorce, and I was trying hard not to blow it. Besides that, I preferred not to have an audience even if we were just going to talk.

I was dead wrong. She wasn’t interested in talking at all.

We didn’t make it to her bed; we didn’t make it beyond her entryway. The moment the door closed, she gripped me to her, her hands buried in my hair, lips crushed to mine.

I pressed her to the door, taking handfuls of her everywhere. I couldn’t touch her enough, couldn’t taste her enough. I was deprived of sex in general, but worse I’d been deprived of her. The ache was so complete and familiar by now that it had its own pulse, and its own stark place in my soul. I bit her lower lip. She sucked on my tongue.

I shoved her skirt out of the way, ripped her panties, and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around me. I didn’t undress myself, just braced her with one arm and pulled my dick out. I grabbed her ass with both hands and shoved hard and deep with one desperate, harrowing thrust.

When I was seated balls deep I paused, but only long enough to jerk her top off her shoulders, baring her tits. I moaned at the sight. I wanted to bury my face there while I fucked her, but it was impossible. I was too far gone, needed to fuck her too hard. I took her there, a hell-bent, stand-up fuck powered by unrequited longing and unprecedented abstinence.

I used to turn her away, to avoid the intimacy of eye contact when I took her. It was the opposite now. I made her look at me. Every time she tried to look away I forced her eyes back, bouncing her on my cock with ruthless precision while our gazes drank each other’s souls with desperate adulation. “I miss you,” I panted at her.

She flinched, dragging my mouth to hers.

So this was not forgiveness. I’d take it anyway. Drink every drop of attention she deigned to toss my way.

In spite of my efforts, she kicked me out of her apartment exactly thirty seconds after I pulled my dick out of her.

I’d always been stubborn, so I still saw it as progress.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

NOURA

I worked on myself. I took a few days off a week, my attempt at having a life outside of modeling. I was sought after enough that I could afford to be more selective. I took some online college courses. I thought I would’ve been good at school if I wasn’t so busy trying to conquer the world.

I even went on a weekend vacation to Mexico with Jovie that had nothing to do with work.

I started eating solid meals, putting my health and nutrition before the next days’ photo shoot.

I gained ten pounds and that was hard, but I gradually allowed myself to accept that it was good weight. Most of it went to my boobs and hips, which photographed better than I was expecting. The designers who complained or put me down for it went solidly on my blacklist for the future.

And there were more slip-ups. Of course there were. I’m only human.

I gathered my clothes hastily. I needed to get out of there. It was week twenty-one post-divorce, and I’d impulsively let Banks take me home after drinks at The Plaza.

“This can’t happen again,” I said without looking at him.

“Why not, Duchess? Quit doing that. Drop your clothes and come back to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

I shot him a look. “No. We’re not doing this. This was a mistake. I can’t get over you like this.”

“Good,” he said, standing up. “I don’t want you to get over me.”

“Then what do you want exactly?”

“You know. I want you to give us another chance.”

I went completely still. I thought I was over the bitterness of his betrayal, but there it was, rising in me again. “Do you think you deserve another chance? If the roles were reversed, would you give me one?”

“Yes.”

“Easy to say when you’ll never be in my position.”