It feels like I'm floating, hovering somewhere near the high condo ceiling, looking down at the room that's lit with a warm glow of a lamp.

With the crisp blue-and-white modern décor, as I'm in a real-life cloud. The dazzling lights of downtown Miami beyond the windows. The man, standing only in jeans, running his hand through his dark hair and pacing. He's shirtless, muscled, golden-skinned and stunning.

Me, on the sofa, half-naked, incredulous, my arm slung across my naked breasts.

He wants me to live here. In this beautiful place, in a perfect location. Future days flash in my imagination, of us making dinner together, watching movies, snuggling under the fluffy blue comforter I'd spied on the bed.

"It's not?" Griffin laughs into the phone. His back is to me. "You're sure?"

He turns and takes a step toward the sofa, then squats and runs his hands through my hair. All while still on the phone. "No, I'm glad you called. It just makes this night a thousand times better, and it was already excellent...'kay. Be careful tonight. Love you, kiddo."

Whatever Zoe told him must have been amazing, because he sets the phone down and crawls on top of me with a huge grin. It's as if he's been injected with fresh energy.

"Good news?" I open my arms.

"Mmmm-hmm. Very good news. Where were we? Oh, I think we were like this." He kisses me as his hand trails over my breasts, down my exposed midsection, and then to my thigh.

"Am I hurting you? Too much weight?" he whispers, shifting his body.

"No, you feel perfect." I skim my hands over his bare, muscular back.

His nose and lips are nuzzling my neck as his hand slips under the fabric of my panties. As always around him, I'm turned on.

"Jesus, Juliette. You're so wet." His finger plunges in me and I claw at my bunched up dress and my underwear. His hands go to the button of his jeans. For a few seconds, we're a frenzy of shed clothes, limbs and kisses.

And then, we're both naked. Here, in this beautiful place.

Our place.

Griffin looks at me so tenderly that I think I might dissolve, and sits up on the sofa. He's sheathing himself with a condom from his pocket. I sit up and kiss his cheek.

"Come here," he says in a gravelly voice. "Get on top."

Even though we'd spent the previous weekend doing this several times, the sharp sensation of sinking onto him makes me draw in an audible breath. When he's fully inside, he holds my hips and rocks me back and forth, not roughly, but gently. With just enough pressure that I'm feeling the ache.

I whimper against his lips and he orchestrates my movements, moving me up and down and around.

"Does it feel as good as last weekend?" he murmurs.

"Better. And it doesn't hurt as much."

"But it still hurts?" His hands press into my hips stopping me from moving.

"A little, at least at first. But it also feels so good."

"Let's take it easy, then."

We stare into each other's eyes as we grind slow and steady against one another.

"Touch me, please?" I murmur.

"Where?"

I lean forward and whisper so soft I'm not sure he can hear me. "My clit." I'm shy about saying the word, but the way Griffin treats me — a mix of reverence and dominance — makes me want to give him everything I can.

He repeats the word, low and lazy, and tilts me back a little so there's room for his hand. He brushes the needy part of me and my insides vibrate. He takes his thumb, wet with my juices, and puts it to my lips. I suck and ride him at the same time, feeling deliciously shameless.

"That's it, Juliette. So fucking good."

I murmur something about loving his voice, and he responds with another phrase so dirty that I'm blushing and flashing hot all at once.

"I know you love it when I talk like that," he says, and I grin.

His thumb is back at my clit and I feel the ache building. That's when I know I'm about to orgasm. I pick up the pace and cry out, feeling myself pulse and throb. His thumb releases and he drags me closer, thrusting his hips upward while burying himself inside me.

My orgasm is a fierce little explosion, and it's over all too soon. I cling to him, my breast in his mouth, because I want to erase all distance between us. He stops sucking and presses his face between my breasts, growling and squeezing my butt as he finishes.

We're a heap of sweaty flesh, and we kiss three times, softly. I slowly move off him, wanting the cool air conditioning to hit my skin. But there's a definite feeling of emptiness now that my body is no longer next to his. I look around the condo, at the bouquet of lilies, the silver lamp, the flowing white curtain that shows a hint of the bed in the nook.

The bed. We didn't even make it to the bed.

"Funny how my stomach's stopped growling," I laugh and he does, too. I shut my eyes, unable to take in any more of the beauty that surrounds me.

I think this might be the most perfect moment of my entire life.

On Monday morning, I wake up in my new bed and nestle into the cloud-like covers, grinning. The sunlight shines bright — there are floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom, too.

I'm naked and alone.

I check my phone. It's nine in the morning, and I think about going back to sleep. Griffin woke at six. I'd mumbled a plaintive "why so early" when I heard him making coffee, but my complaints turned to moans when he kissed me softly said he had a lot to do today and that he'd call me later.

"Don't forget to look at what I left you on the counter," he called out. "It's important."

I tug on a t-shirt and shorts and pull aside the long, gauzy white curtain separating the bed from the rest of the apartment. Even though it's a studio, it's well laid out, with lots of storage. It doesn't feel small. Plus, I didn't have much. Griffin and I had spent Sunday moving my few things from Allison's to here.

Allison. She's supposed to come over this afternoon. I need to get a move on, because I can't just laze around watching TV. I need to show Griffin that I don't want to rely on him for everything.

I pause at the window, making a mental note of everything that I'd like to accomplish today. But my concentration is broken because of the incredible view. Today the bright Florida sky pops against the silver of the tall downtown buildings.

Sighing pleasurably, I walk into the small kitchen and notice an envelope on the island counter, propped up near the flowers. It's in the shape of a greeting card.

My name's on the front in black ink, and I wonder if that's Griffin's handwriting. Duh. Who else would have left me a card? I trace the blocky letters with my finger, then open it.

The front of the card makes me laugh. It's a heart, with the words YOU ARE MY PERSON in gold letters. He is so romantic it makes my stomach flutter. I open the card and something plastic falls out.

A credit card.

This is for you, for anything you need. Food, clothes, stuff for the apartment. Tuition for school, books, supplies, lingerie. (he'd underlined that word). Don't hesitate to use it.

xo, Griffin

"Oh my God," I whisper out loud.

I reread the card, incredulous. My life has taken a one-eighty in the span of ten days. And while I'm grateful to Griffin, a pang of conscience gnaws at me. All of this luxury is because he sells drugs.

But I can't dwell on that. What's done is done, and he's clearly trying to be a legitimate businessman. He's made a promise to me and I have no reason to think he's lying. I text him thank you and shove the doubts out of my mind.

After a shower, I put on my cute new dress — it's blue and professional, something that Griffin made me buy when we stopped at the mall for a few things for the apartment — and reach for the Jimmy Choo heels.

My feet throb just looking at them, so I reached for a pair of nude flats instead. I was planning to walk the few blocks to the college, and see what restaurants and stores were available as job possibilities along the way.

Something about taking the elevator to the lobby, greeting the concierge, and walking down Miami's city streets made me feel so adult. Purposeful. Like I have a future. Soon, I'll be able to call Mom and Ash and tell them how I'm not just managing, but succeeding, all on my own. Ash might be snarky, but Mom will be proud. I know it.

I'm greeted with good news at the school: there's still time to enroll for the summer semester. I'm able to make an appointment to meet with an advisor later in the week, and notice there's some required classes available during the summer term. Awesome. At least that way I can get some of the boring prerequisites out of the way.

I'm still not sure about Griffin's suggestion to major in English. As much as I'd like to, I've gotten used to the idea of becoming a pharmacist. It seems like a job where I could help people, too.

I decide to check out the building where the pre-med programs are held. I feel like an explorer as I wander through the huge, four-story concrete building. Finally, on the top floor, I find a sign that says pre-med/pharmacy, and enter the door. Inside is a basic reception-like area with chairs and a desk with a couple of doors leading to somewhere. Probably offices, I guess. There's no one behind the desk, but I see some brochures in the rack and begin to read. One explains that pharmacists make a fifty-eight dollar an hour wage on average, and my eyebrows shoot up.

A door opens and I look up. A tall, bald man with a prominent nose, sharp eyes and a smirk walks out. When he spots me, his look softens, and he fixes bright blue eyes on me.

He's clearly someone in charge, and makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong by standing here.

"Hi, I'm sorry, I'm a new student and I'm just looking for information on the pharmacy program." I stuff the brochure back into the rack and in the process, send several brochures tumbling to the floor. Something about this guy is unsettling — he's handsome, I guess, but a little too authoritative. A slight chill creeps up my back. Maybe I'm just intimidated by adults.

"Sorry," I whisper, bending down to scoop everything up. I take a breath and rise, stuffing the brochures into the rack. "I'll come back later."

I take a step toward the door.

"A new student?" His voice is deep and clear, with an accent I can't quite place. I'm used to Spanish accents because it's Miami, but his is different.

"Yes. I'll be taking a few classes this summer but I'm considering becoming a pharmacist." I stare into his blue eyes as the chill spreads into my chest and stomach.

"A noble profession." He holds out his hand, and it dawns on me that he's old enough to be my father. "I'm Dr. Engel, an adjunct professor."

"Hi," I say, cringing at my shyness. "Nice to meet you. I'm Juliette Phillips."

"That's a beautiful name, Juliette. Please don't hesitate to contact me if you have any questions about the program." He takes a card out of the inside of his suit jacket — he's wearing what looks like a very expensive charcoal suit.

I accept the card and study it. "Thank you." I give a little wave. "See you around."

I walk out, holding the card and berating myself. I'm going to have to get used to acting professionally around adults. I'm living in a new place, starting a new journey. No more of the mousy, shy Juliette.

As I walk out of the building and into the bright sun, I glance at the card still in my hand.

I scowl. I thought he was a professor. Strange. Curious, I stop outside and sink to a bench. Taking out my phone, I Google his name. It doesn't take me long to find his bio, and I groan. I'd acted stupid around the biggest medical pain management clinic owner in Florida, and one who gives millions of dollars to the school every year. Good going, Juliette.

I glance at the time. Crap. Allison's supposed to be at my house soon. Here I am, dawdling and fretting over a thirty-second conversation. Hurrying, I text and walk at the time.

Can't talk I'm driving, she responds.

So I call her.

"How far are you?"

"Ten minutes."

"Perfect! I'll meet you in the lobby."

I practically run back to the condo, hoping I don't get lost. Turn left at the jewelry store, then two blocks down, a right at the Cuban restaurant...there's the building. My building.

I'm almost out of breath by the time I reach the front, and slow my gait. Allison's waiting, and I squeal and throw my arms around her. Already it feels like years have passed since I was in high school in Kendall.

"Look at you. Look at this!" She waves her hand around the lobby, excited. She lowers her voice. "Are you in love with him?"

I bite my bottom lip. I want to say yes, want to shout it all over downtown Miami. But it seems so soon. And yet, it feels right. I give a little nod and Allison giggles. I thread my arm through hers. "C'mon. Wait till you see the condo," I whisper.

Her eyebrows lift when I greet the concierge by name and push the button to the elevator.

"Are you sure you're okay with all this?" she asks, as the elevator doors slide shut.

"With what?" I tilt my head and scowl.

She shrugs. "Being a rich guy's...whatever. I know you love him and all, but it's like he's your sugar daddy."

I roll my eyes.

The elevator doors slide open and I'm trying to ignore her comment when she asks, "Well, have either one of you said I love you yet?"

A mixture of anger and shame descend on me, and I'm not sure how to respond. The answer is no, we haven't said those words to each other. Yet.

Griffin's more than a sugar daddy, and I'm more than a whatever.

Aren't I?

____