With Aida, it was totally different.

Sex with her always is.

Fucking used to be about release for me. It was a manual act, that could be good, bad, or indifferent.

I never imagined it could feel so good that it takes me over, body and brain. The sheer, physical pleasure is insanely intense. Bizarrely stronger than what I’m used to.

And then there’re the psychological factors. Aida attracts me in a way I can’t understand. It’s as if every one of her features was formed with some kind of secret code designed to burrow into my brain. The long, almond shape of her smoky, gray eyes. The insane curves of her body. Her smooth, cedar-colored skin. The way her teeth flash at me when she grins. The way she bites the edge of her bottom lip when she’s aroused, or trying not to laugh.

Isn’t that the same thing with her? She loves passion of any kind. She loves to be angry, stubborn, joyful, or mischievous. The only thing she doesn’t like is a lack of feeling.

Unfortunately, that’s what I am. Cold. Restrained. Lacking in pleasure.

Until I’m around her.

Then my senses crank up to a feverish degree. I smell and taste and see more acutely. It can almost be too much.

It scares me, how I lose control around her. In the few weeks I’ve known Aida, I’ve lost my temper more times than in all the years preceding.

Yet, I don’t want it to stop. I can’t imagine going back to dull indifference. Aida is the doorway into another world. I want to stay on her side forever.

Jesus, what am I saying?

I’ve never had these thoughts before, let alone allowed them to form into words.

How am I getting so wrapped up in this girl, who frankly is out of her fucking mind? She tried to shoot Jack! In my kitchen! If she did that at a campaign event, I’d be royally fucked. And I wouldn’t put it past her, either.

I’ve got to calm down and keep my head on straight.

That resolution lasts about five seconds, until I press my nose against her hair and inhale that wild scent of hers, like sunshine and sea salt, dark coffee, pepper, and just a hint of honeyed sweetness. Then I feel that jolt again, that adrenaline shot, that switches off the governors on every one of my impulses.

When Aida’s phone rings, I almost jump out of my skin.

Aida jolts awake, having drifted off on my shoulder.

“Who is it?” she mumbles.

“It’s your phone,” I tell her.

She rolls out of the bed, amusingly clumsy. She doesn’t even try for grace, tumbling off the edge of the mattress like a panda bear. Then she roots around for the phone, finally locating it halfway under the bed.

“Dante?” she says, holding it against her ear.

She listens for a moment, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl rather like the default expression of the person to whom she’s speaking.

“Cavalo!” she exclaims. “Sei serio? Che palle!”

I’ve never heard Aida speak more than a word or two in Italian. I wonder if that’s what she speaks at home with her family. She’s obviously fluent.

Aida has a lot of hidden talents.

I underestimated her when we met. I thought she was spoiled, young, wild, careless, uneducated, unmotivated.

Yet she’s shown me several times now that she’s absorbed far more of her father’s business than I gave her credit for. She’s astute, observant, persuasive when she wants to be. Clever and resourceful. She knows how to handle a gun—my throbbing bicep can attest to that. And she’s brave as hell. The way she stared me down when she threw my grandfather’s watch over the railing . . . it was a dick move, but actually pretty smart.

She and Sebastian were outmatched. If she had handed the watch over, I could conceivably have shot them both and walked away. By throwing it in the lake, she goaded me into acting impulsively. She created chaos, and she split her opponents.

Aida can be rash and rageful, but she doesn’t panic. Even now on the phone with her brother, though something is obviously wrong, she hasn’t lost her head. She’s getting the information, responding quickly and concisely.

“Capisco. Si. Sarò lì presto.”

She hangs up the call, turning to face me.

She’s glowing like a bronzed goddess in the watery light coming in through the shutters. She doesn’t notice or care that she’s completely naked.

“Dante says somebody torched the equipment on the Oak Street Tower site. We’ve lost about two million in heavy machinery, plus whatever damage to the building itself.”

“Let’s go down there,” I say, getting out of the bed.

“You don’t— I was going to go over, but you don’t have to,” she says.

“Do you not want me to come?” I ask, standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom.

“No. I mean yes, you can, but you don’t . . .” she shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. My little Aida, not embarrassed by nudity, but blushing from a direct question on the topic of what she wants.

“I’m coming,” I say firmly. “We’re on the same team now, right?”

“Yes . . .” she says, unconvinced.

Then, seeming to commit to the idea, she follows me into the walk-in, where I’ve put back all of her clothes. A job that took me all of five minutes.

I’ve ordered Marta to buy Aida a proper wardrobe of professional clothing. By the end of this week, Aida should have a full complement of gowns and cocktail dresses, slacks and sundresses, cardigans, blouses, skirts, sandals, heels, boots, and jackets. Whether she’ll actually agree to wear it or not is a different question.

For now, she pulls on a pair of jean shorts and an old Cubbies t-shirt. Then she sits down on the carpet to tie up her sneakers.

I pull on my own clothes.

Aida raises a shocked eyebrow.

“Jeans?” she says, hiding a grin.

“So what?”

“I’ve never seen you wear jeans. Of course they would be Balenciaga,” she adds, rolling her eyes.

“Aida,” I say calmly. “I do not pick out any of my clothes, including these jeans. I don’t even know what Balan— what that brand even is.”

“What?” Aida says, eyes wide and only one sneaker on her foot. “You don’t buy your own clothes?”

“No.”

“Who does?”

“Right now, Marta. Before that it was a different assistant named Andrew. We agree on an aesthetic, and then—”

“So you never go to the mall?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be leaving?” I say.

“Right!” Aida pulls on her other sneaker and jumps up.

As we hurry down the stairs, she’s still pestering me. “But what if you don’t like the color, or—”

I hustle her into the car, saying, “Aida. I work literally all the time. Either on campaign projects or one of our numerous businesses. Some of which, as you very well know, are more difficult and hazardous than others. When I socialize, it’s at events where I need to network. I can’t remember the last time I ran an errand or did anything for entertainment.”

Aida sits quietly for a minute. Far longer than she usually stays quiet. Then she says, “That’s sad.”

I snort, shaking my head at her. “I like being busy. It’s not sad, it’s purposeful.”