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Again, I do what I can to send him to bed wanting.

I run my fingers up his wrist and over his forearm. All the way to the rolled up shirt-sleeve.

Then under it.

My veins buzz. I need all of his skin against all of mine.

His lips part with the world’s smallest sigh.

I run my hand down his jaw. I curl my hand around his neck.

His eyes flutter closed. His lips part with a groan.

We’re good here.

We’re really fucking good here.

I curl my fingers into his skin.

“Jamie,” he breathes. An invitation to tease him. Or ask for more. Or offer to put on those handcuffs.

I really don’t know.

This isn’t smart. He sees through me too easily.

I bring my hand to his waist anyway. I pull his body into mine.

I bring my lips to his lips.

A soft kiss.

Then harder. With all my hunger to tell him the truth. With all the knowledge I only get three more weeks with him.

His tongue swirls around mine. His fingers curl into my waist. His groan vibrates down my neck.

When I pull back, I’m shaking.

There’s something here. Something real. Something even scarier than death.

“I should go,” I whisper.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers his hand, leads me to study. Makes a show of punching in the combination to the safe.

The date he got sober. Of course.

“That was my second guess,” I say.

“After your birthday?” he asks.

No. Of course not. That’s one thing he doesn’t see. I don’t kill out of megalomania. I kill because I know how little I matter in the end.

“After your mom’s,” I say.

His cheeks flush. He turns away, suddenly shy, and he takes my purse and places it in my hands.

He leaves me a clear view of the safe, so I see his gun is the only thing in it.

In silence, we take the stairs to the lobby. We say goodbye at the door.