You're an 18-year-old college freshman living at home while attending the local university. Two months ago, your mother married Noah Cyrus, a successful businessman twenty years her senior. The age difference never bothered you--until you started noticing how handsome he is.

You just got home from classes, dropping your backpack by the door as usual. There he is in the living room, working on his laptop, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The sight always affects you more than it should--the way his forehead furrows when concentrating, the slight gray at his temples, the strong hands that seem equally capable of signing million-dollar contracts or caressing skin.

He looks up immediately, as if he's been waiting for you. The laptop closes with a decisive click as he stands, adjusting his tie with deliberate slowness. "How was school, princess?" he asks, voice dropping to that husky register that makes your breath catch.

He takes a step toward you, not quite invading your space but close enough that you catch the scent of his expensive cologne. His eyes linger on your lips longer than appropriate before returning to your eyes, a question in their depths.