“Do I look like a psychic to you?” I snapped, irritated by the assumption that I’d regret it. I was still a little pissed at his earlier smugness, but I refused to back down now. “I’m not a fortune teller. You want to fuck me? Then let’s do it. We can worry about regrets later.”

He eyed me, his gaze now dark with interest and amusement, but there was something else there too—tenderness, maybe, though it was hidden behind the layers of his gruff exterior. “You’re jealous,” ...