I change into the running clothes and trainers I keep at work. Moments later I’m out the door, heading down the elevator.

  As I exit onto Market Street, I check my phone for a text. Again.

  Nothing.

  I don’t even know if he’ll text me. He might call. He might just show up on my doorstep and say yes to my offer.

  Or say no.

  I’m not used to this kind of waiting. All I can do is distract myself.

  Putting one foot in front of the other, I pick up the pace until my light jog turns into a run. I meet Christine as planned at the Ferry Building, and we take off, flying along the bay.

  My trainers slap the pavement as Christine pulls ahead. “Catch me if you can,” she taunts. “But we both know you can’t.”

  “Those are fighting words,” I shout, all my competitive spirit telling me to catch up.

  But an uncharacteristic early evening fog wraps around us as we run, and my mind hovers between here and New York.

  I’m not used to being this obsessed with a person. I’d forgotten what it was like to want someone this intensely.

  This passionately.

  Is this how I felt for Lucas?

  Not even remotely close. You asked him to marry you. This is just sex.

  I grit my teeth, swat the comparison from my mind, and pump up the pace.

  Gunnar is simply a man my body craves. That is all. This obsession is only physical. I refuse to let it be more.

  I move faster, run harder, and catch up to Christine. We race the last half mile, breathing fast, strides lengthening, two ferocious cheetahs trying to best the other. Then Christine pulls ahead on the final stretch of pavement outside the Ferry Building, finishing mere feet ahead of me.

  “Nice try,” she taunts.

  I laugh. “You always win.”

  She paces to cool down and nudges me with her elbow. “Does this mean you’re still off in la-la land, thinking of your new man?”

  I groan and roll my eyes. “How do you know me so well?”

  “It’s my special skill. So, what’s the latest? Has he got your heart all twisted up?”

  I shake my head. “This one can’t possibly involve my heart.”

  “Good.” She nods decisively. “But how is it going?”

  I wish I knew. “I haven’t heard from him.” I try to sound offhand but I’m not sure it comes out that way.

  “When did you last connect with him?” she asks.

  “Last night.”

  She laughs lightly. “That’s not so long ago.”

  “Exactly.” I shake my head in frustration with myself. “It’s too soon to want to hear from him so badly.”

  She smiles sympathetically. “It not too soon if you like him.”

  “That’s the rub,” I say with a resigned sigh. “I don’t want to like him, Christine. I don’t want to develop feelings.”

  She squeezes my arm. “I know, love. But have you considered that you already have?”

  I scoff. “It’s been less than two weeks. I’m only out of sorts because I haven’t heard from him, so he has the upper hand right now. I don’t like giving up control. I made him an offer for sex. I’m simply waiting for his yes.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a romantic.”

  I laugh. “See? I told you I won’t develop feelings.”

  Her eyes spark. “Ah, but you said you don’t want to develop them, not that you won’t.”

  “You should have been an attorney,” I grumble.

  She reassures me with a pat on my shoulder. “Relax. This impatience? The feeling of wanting him? You just want to win him.”

  I laugh. Perhaps she’s right, and I simply want a yes. If he agreed, I would make every single second of those thirty nights worth his while.

  We walk toward her penthouse. “So, what’s the latest with your fitness empire?”

  She tells me about some new projects she’s working on. “One of them unfortunately involves my ex,” she says, her jaw ticking.

  “Why is it that we have such awful exes?”

  “Because we give too much of ourselves,” she says knowingly.

  There’s good advice in there. “Are you saying I shouldn’t give so much of myself?”

  “I’m saying that if your guy says yes, you need to be careful with your heart. I don’t want to see you broken again.”

  The thought chills me. “I don’t want that either. Nor do I want it for you,” I tell her and drop a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll keep looking out for you and you’ll keep looking out for me.”

  She kisses my cheek. “Always,” she says.

  I walk her home, say goodnight, and head back to mine. Gunnar still hasn’t contacted me by the time I return, and I decide if he doesn’t, that’s all for the best.

  A little distance has to be a good thing.

  When I get out of the shower later that night, though, my phone is vibrating across the bathroom counter. I grab it before it goes off the edge and see Gunnar’s name blinking at me.

  26

  MIDNIGHT CRAVING

  Rafe

  I stare at my phone, my heart thrumming too quickly, my pulse pounding too hard. All this intense reaction to Gunnar’s name on my screen.

  The bathroom is tiled in black and white, its sleek modern design hand-selected by me to be a sanctuary, a haven of hot showers and self-care. But instead of reaching for aftershave or my favorite lotion, I clutch the phone like I could break it and stare at my reflection in the mirror. “Who have you become?” I rasp. “Less than two weeks, and you are fucking obsessed with him.”

  I close my eyes.

  I. Am. Obsessed.

  I give in, unlock the phone, and open his message.

  Gunnar: I wrote you a long text on the plane a couple hours ago. I hit send over the Midwest, but when we landed in New York I saw that it had never gone out. It made me wonder if fate was trying to tell me something. Do you believe in fate?

  Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. What is he trying to ask me? What does he want?

  I know what I want—contact. With him. So, with a towel slung around my waist and my body still dripping wet, I write back.

  Rafe: I don’t believe in fate. It seems like an excuse to be irresponsible. Life happens. Things don’t always go your way. It’s not fate. It’s just life.

  I hit send.

  He replies instantly.

  Gunnar: Whoa. Are you okay? Hope I didn’t touch a sore spot . . .

  I reread my note. I suppose that was rather intense. He can’t possibly know I’m thinking about my parents. I’m not sure now is the time to tell him. But I give him this much . . .

  Rafe: Just thinking of people I miss. Family members I’ve lost. I don’t like to think fate was out to get me.

  I hit send then catch my reflection in the mirror. The tic in my jaw spasms. A vein in my neck throbs.

  I should get dressed, go sit on the couch. But I can’t make myself move. I feel like if I walk away, this conversation will end, and I don’t want that.

  Seconds later, there’s a reply.

  Gunnar: I’ve lost people I love too. It’s hard, man. It’s really hard. And I know what you mean. It’s not fate.

  Rafe: Sorry about your loss. Or losses.

  Gunnar: Same to you. Also, it’s weird to talk about this over text.

  My heart squeezes. Is he going to call me? I don’t know that I want a deep, Friday night conversation about missing. I do my best to stave it off with my reply.

  Rafe: It is difficult, true. So, why did you ask me about fate?

  There. I’ve directed the conversation back to the present, away from the past and the people in it.

  Gunnar: I wonder if fate was looking out for me.

  My stomach twists. I wish he’d just be direct, but at least he’s being honest, it seems.

  Rafe: What was in this text you didn’t send me? Since you keep mentioning it.

  Gunnar: What happens if I say no to you?

  I grimace as a weight sinks in my gut. Taking the phone, I head to the living room and sink onto my couch, defeated and resigned. I should have prepared for this answer, but I didn’t think it would happen. Maybe that makes me a fool.

  I stare out the window, where the evening is shrouded in fog. It’s fitting, really.

  Rafe: If you say no, that will be that.

  I look at the note. That’s really all there is to say. I hit send, and his reply pings back almost immediately.

  Gunnar: You wouldn’t try to convince me?

  Rafe: No.

  Gunnar: Why not?

  Rafe: Because I respect you.

  My heart hammers painfully. I close my eyes and drop my head back onto the couch cushion. I wish he’d said yes. I had so many delicious plans for him.

  I need to hear it—read it—to make it official, so I open my eyes and write:

  Rafe: Is this your way of saying no?

  The message flies into the ether and I wait and I wait and I wait. I can barely stand it. I turn on music on my phone. Play Prince’s “Purple Rain.” I look down at the towel I’m wearing. I should change. I should open up my laptop and dive into work. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. But as soon as I make that decision, my phone trills in my hand.

  Gunnar’s name flashes beautifully across the screen, followed by his face.

  I answer the call. The moment the video connects, Gunnar’s eyes pop wide, then they travel up and down, cataloging my frame. “Are you wearing only a towel?”

  I smile. “I am indeed only wearing a towel.”

  “Fuck, babe,” he groans, low and raspy. He stares at me from the middle of his hotel room like he wants to eat me up. Looks like he’s in The Luxe in Manhattan. I recognize the low blue lighting, as well as the crisp white decor. There’s a desk by the window. Gunnar scrubs a hand along his jaw. “You look hot,” he rasps.

  I’m smug for a moment, but it doesn’t last. My obsession is stronger than my pride. “Thanks. But what does it have to do with why you’re calling?”

  I don’t feel like playing games. I don’t think he is toying with me, per se. But I want to cut to the chase.

  “Rafe, I wrote a whole text on the plane,” he says, guileless, unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand as he talks and paces. “But I didn’t send it.”

  “Yes. You told me that.”

  “I want to tell you what it said.” His voice sounds strained, like this is hard for him.

  I sit up straighter. This is exactly what I want. His honesty. As much as I crave his yes, I crave the truth.

  He paces the other way, finishing the buttons as he goes. “You said no lies. You don’t want to chase me. I hear you. So I’m just going to lay it all out there.” Then, he shucks off his shirt.

  I blink, trying to process both what he’s saying and his state of undress.

  “Go for it,” I say, focusing on the conversation rather than his gorgeous golden skin and his outrageous abs.

  Gunnar stops pacing his hotel room and locks eyes with me. “I can’t stop thinking about your offer. And I should say no. I need to focus. I have to play well. It’s early in my career, I make just above the league minimum, and I take care of tuition for Jamie and Charlie.”

  “Who?” I ask, intrigued to know more about Gunnar.

  “My little brother and sister. My dad died when I was twelve, my mom worked hard to take care of us, and it’s my job now to look out for my siblings.”

  “It’s good that you do that,” I say, my heart thundering a little harder with everything he reveals.

  “I love them,” he says. “I want to be there for them. Mom’s flying in to see a few games this weekend, and Charlie’s coming from college. They’re my reasons for what I do,” he says, sounding as desperate as I feel. “I don’t want to get distracted.”

  “You love them. It’s wonderful you take care of them.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Of course not,” I say. I take a beat and turn to what I want to know next. “So, the question is, then, do I distract you?”

  He licks his lips. His eyes are dark, needy. “Rafe,” he pleads, then he angles the phone down and begins to unbutton his jeans, popping open the top button.

  The family conversation is done. We have moved on. He’s said his piece and now he wants . . . me.

  The pleasure I alone can bring him.

  I groan. “Gunnar.”

  “Take your towel off,” he says.

  “Are you forgetting who gives the orders?” I ask, keeping my face stern.

  He nods, looking lost in lust. “I remember now. So let’s do this. Tell me to take my clothes off. Tell me to get undressed. Tell me to get naked on this big hotel bed, and I’ll do it.”

  I was already ridiculously turned on.

  Now my entire body is strung tight with lust.

  I sit up straighter, and I tell him what I want from him tonight.

  27

  COME TO THE WINDOW

  Rafe

  I rake my gaze over Gunnar via FaceTime, murmuring my appreciation for his hard body. Then, I give him his first order.

  “Set your phone on the nightstand. I want a good long view of you. I want to watch as you strip down to nothing for me.”

  He complies, moving the phone and angling it to give me the view I crave. All of him.

  “You spoke to me from the heart tonight. That means the world to me,” I tell him.

  His blue eyes are earnest, vulnerable. “I knew you’d want that. I should say no to you. But I’m having a really fucking hard time right now.” He fingers the next button on his jeans. “Can I take off my clothes for you?”

  I groan my approval. “Yes.”

  He pops open another button, then another. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, then he pushes his jeans off, leaving on a pair of purple underwear with my name on the waistband.

  “When you wear my underwear, I feel like your body belongs to me.”

  “It does,” he rasps.

  “Good. You’re mine tonight. You know that, right?” I ask him roughly, my tone clearly requiring an answer.

  “I’m yours,” he says, waiting patiently.

  “Stroke the outline of your cock,” I tell him.

  He listens, gripping himself roughly, moaning savagely. “Rafe,” he grunts. “What do you want me to do next? I’ll do anything.”

  I give a small smile. “I appreciate your attitude. You’ll be rewarded for it.”

  His mouth falls open, and a staggered breath escapes those lips. He grips his cock, squeezes it through the fabric. “I want your rewards.”

  I keep my tone measured, controlled. That turns me on. That turns him on. “What kind of view does your room have?”

  “It looks out over Park Avenue.”

  Wicked delight fills my heart. “Go to the window, then. I saw a desk there. Set your phone on it and stand with your back to the window. I want to see Manhattan behind you.”

  He obeys, bringing the phone, putting it down on the desk, and angling it just so. I can see the building across the street behind him. Anyone walking by on the same floors can see his back, and soon, they’ll be able to see his ass.

  What a bunch of lucky New Yorkers.

  “That’s perfect,” I say as I indulge in the view. It’s nearly midnight in Manhattan. Gunnar stands in front of the window with New York City about to watch him strip.

  For me.

  “Don’t move from there,” I command.

  “I won’t,” he says, so obedient, so full of desire.

  “Take off your underwear,” I tell him. In a hot second, he strips the purple underwear. His gorgeous cock springs free. There’s a bead of arousal waiting at the tip, and I nearly lose my mind. “Is that why you couldn’t turn me down on the plane?” I growl. “Because you know how much you want me? You know what I would do to you?”

  He nods, gripping his cock, running his thumb over the head. “That’s why I couldn’t say it. I want you too much.”

  “Get out some lube. I don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

  “How do you know I brought it?”

  “Because I know you need to jack off several times a day. Your sex drive has been sky high since you met me, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He steps out of the frame briefly and returns in seconds with a bottle of lube.

  “Less than three ounces?”

  He smirks. “You know it.”

  “Pour it into your palm. Slick up that shaft.” My mouth waters at the sight of him. His erection is thick and proud, and it belongs to me.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll show you my dick when I’m good and ready,” I snarl. “I want to see how hot you are for me.”

  In front of the window, the gorgeous athlete drizzles lube onto his palm, takes his dick in his hand, and grips himself hard. His eyes slam shut, and he lets out a feral groan. “This isn’t going to take me long,” he says.

  “This is why you couldn’t send me that message. It’s not fate, Gunnar,” I tell him, fueled by a rabid desire to show him that I’m not the only one who’s obsessed.

  As his fist races up and down his hard length, my cock jumps under the towel, eager to get in on the action. I’m dying to bury myself in his body the next time I see him. To introduce him to the otherworldly pleasure of being fucked by a man who knows how. “Open your eyes,” I order.

  He obeys, his jaw going slack as he gazes at my chest, my arms, my face.

  “You need my hand, my cock, my words.”

  “I do. I really fucking do,” he moans. He’s already panting, his voice telling me he’s close as his fist flies. He pumps his hips, thrusting into his slick palm.