“Give me a little show, Cerise. Break me.”

With a grin, I lift my body and slide down, and then a little faster, and a little faster, mesmerized by the tiny wrinkle between his brows as he watches my face, concentrating. He angles his hips, satisfied when I gasp, and reaches between us to touch me, pet me, stroke me, and quietly whispers to ride him faster and rougher.

“Let me hear the fucking,” he growls, pushing up into me. “Let my little wild one out.”

He watches with rapt attention as I start to come—and he whispers, “Oh, Mia, that’s it”—my hands planted on his chest, my eyes focused on his parted lips and I beg him, “Please, oh, please.” I feel my head begin to fall back as the pleasure climbs. “I’m there, I’m there.”

He gives me a tiny nod, a tiny smile, and presses his fingers harder against me, watching as I shatter into pure sensation, bucking on him and finally closing my eyes against the intensity of it, the silvery, blinding release as I collapse against his chest.

The world tips, the soft sheets are at my back, and I feel his hand between my legs, touching me before guiding himself back inside and then he’s moving on top of me—long, sure strokes—his chest pressed to mine. He’s warm and his mouth moves over my neck, to my mouth, where he sucks and tastes, growling low curses and words like wet and come and sweet wet skin and deeper, so deep, so deep.

I slide my hands down his back, gripping his ass and relishing the bunching of the muscle in my hands as he moves, curling into me and moving hard when I spread my legs wider, dig my nails into his skin, and buck up beneath him, feeling another orgasm take shape at the edges.

I gasp his name and he speeds up as he glances at my face, grunting out a quiet Yes. Fuck.

His brow is sweaty, his eyes on my breasts, my lips, and then he pushes his body away just enough that he can watch where he’s moving in me. He’s wet from me, so hard everywhere—muscles tense and ready to snap, ready to explode. The position has always been our best, the friction, the fit of him against me, and he circles his hips, looking between our bodies and then at my face, back down and up again, finally exhaling a tight burst of air as I whisper, “Oh.”

He groans in relief when I push my head into the pillow, wild beneath him and coming with a sharp cry.

“I’m close,” he growls, arching his head back and closing his eyes. “Oh, God, Mia.”

He collapses on me, hips pivoting so wild and deep in me that we’re nearly pressed to the headboard, his hands curling into fists around the pillow beside my head. He cries out as he comes; the sound echoes off the ceiling and the quiet, still-blank walls.

My senses come back to me one at a time: first the feel of him still inside me, the weight of his body, warm and slick with sweat. My own body is tender, leaden with pleasure.

I hear the sound of his labored breath in my ear, the quiet I love you.

After that I can taste and smell the salt of his skin when I kiss his neck, and I begin to make out the shape of his shoulders above me, the slow rocking as he begins moving again, just feeling.

He brushes the hair from my face and looks down at me. “I want to pretend,” he says.

“Pretend?”

“Yes.”

He pushes up to hover above me and I run my hands down his sweaty chest, touching where he disappears inside. A tremor moves up my spine and I feel the heat of his gaze, the pressing weight of his attention as he scans my face, dissects my expression.

“Pretend what?” I ask.

“That it’s six months from now.” His fingers comb through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. “And I’m living here. I want to pretend that I’m through with the case and we’re together. Permanently.”

“Okay.” I reach up and pull his face to mine.

“And maybe you have a showgirl costume and have finally learned how to juggle.” He kisses me and then pulls back, brows drawn in an expression of mock seriousness. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“That’s your fantasy?”

He tilts his head, his smile a little mischievous. “It’s certainly one of them.”

“And the others?” I ask. I’d wear anything for him, but I know I could be myself for him, just as easily. I want to spend every night loving as much as I love right now.

For the hundredth time I wonder if the words I haven’t said are written above my head, because his smile widens, reaching his eyes in that way that sucks the breath straight from my lungs.

“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

Acknowledgments

FINISHING A BOOK is a weird feeling . . . since we’ve done this a few times now, we recognize it: we’re happy to be done with something we’re proud to put our names on . . . and never really ready for it to be over.

As always, thanks to our agent, Holly Root, who is one of our most favorite people. You just get us. You laugh at our dirty jokes, roll your eyes in all the appropriate places, and every once in a while surprise us with your own closet pigletry. Becoming part of #TeamRoot is still one of our best days ever, and we are so amazed at the balance you have found in the past year. You inspire. Thank you, ninja.

We say it in every book, and we’ll say it again: our editor, Adam Wilson, is captain of this crazy ship, and the laughing we get from reading his comments is probably the only abdominal workout we get all year. (Don’t worry, it’s not that sad a state—he’s really funny.) Don’t forget what you gave us permission to do. We certainly haven’t.

So much love to Jen Bergstrom, Louise Burke, and Carolyn Reidy for rocking the XX chromosome and showing the world how it’s done. You listen to our ideas, push when you need to, and support us tirelessly. We can’t imagine anywhere better than Gallery Books and are so proud to be part of the Simon & Schuster family.

Thank you to our publicists Kristin Dwyer and Mary McCue. When do we get to do it again? (We won’t write too much here because otherwise we’ll get sappy. You did so good, girl.)

Cupcakes for Liz Psaltis, Lisa Litwack, John Vairo, Jean Anne Rose, Ellen Chan, Lauren McKenna, Stephanie DeLuca, Ed Schlesinger (for just being Ed), Abby Zidle, and everyone we got to hug when we took over the thirteenth floor of the Simon & Schuster Building. Sup, Trey. LOL Y U SO AWSUM?

Writing a book is hard, but writing a good book would be impossible without our amazing pre-readers: Tonya and Erin, we basically owe you each a shirtless cabana boy and a lifetime subscription to Harry and David’s Fruit of the Month Club (aka Lo’s dream gift). Thank you for your honesty, always. Thank you, Monica Murphy and Katy Evans, for reading, loving, and pointing out what worked, and what didn’t. Margaux Guyon-Veuillet is the mastermind behind the French translations of the Beautiful series, and she made sure we not only got the language right here, but the details of the city as well. That said, any remaining errors are ours entirely.

Lauren Suero, you rock our world. Thanks for everything you do, Drew.

Thank you, Nina and Alice, for December and every day after.

Thank you to every blogger for your love and enthusiasm. Writing a book is only one step; helping it find its way into the world is another. We’re so grateful for every one of you.

To those of you who read our books, come to see us at signings, show us your tattoos, hug us, tell their friends to read our books, tweet us, flail with us, yell at us, post on Facebook, share your TMI, leave reviews, send us dirty jokes/pics/videos, and just let us be a part of your lives—the biggest, warmest, most sincere thank-you ever.

Kiddos, you give us a reason to do what we do and pulling ourselves away from these books at the end of the day is easy because we get to see your faces. Dr. Mr. Shoes and Blondie, thanks for a hundred, million things every day that are way too personal for public consumption.

Christina, there could be only one you for me. “<— quote powers activate.

Lo, remember that day in Paris when we came up with this idea? As tired as I was, I wish we could do it all over again. And I promise not to flip you off this time. I love you more than words can say. Thanks for being the other half of my ”<—