By the power vested in me as your bestie, I hereby order you to take a new dating challenge, the hero says.

  Give the order, the heroine replies.

  Do something that scares you.

  Perhaps it’s time I take my heroine’s challenge tonight—try something that scares me.

  I don’t mean in bed, though. I mean before.

  20

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  Ellie

  The thing about a honeymoon is it’s temporary. Then you go back to real life and make the relationship work when you don’t have room service.

  No matter what Maddox says about how great Gabe is for me, we only have a honeymoon. There’s no relationship to make work.

  But even though this is a temporary fling, I can tell Gabe something tonight. Something real. I’m still working out what to say exactly though as I hunt for a parking spot at the park.

  That’s the challenge I set for myself tonight. Be more than sexy. Be vulnerable.

  I find a parking spot, cut the engine, and grab the two slices of pie I picked up for our evening picnic.

  I get out of the red convertible, then shield my eyes against the fading sun. I peer past a group of guys in their thirty-somethings playing volleyball, then some college dudes tossing a frisbee.

  In the distance are picnic tables, and a six-foot-three, strapping, tattooed man unpacking food at one of them.

  My heart scampers in my chest. My skin warms. Is this infatuation? Or more? I just like him so much I barely know what to do with these feelings.

  Is that what I want to say?

  Hey, Gabe, I dig you.

  Hey, handsome, I’m totally into you.

  Hey there, this has been the best week ever and I’m not just saying that because of your dick.

  Yeah, maybe not those.

  I’ll need to workshop this confession like it’s a scene in my TV show. But as I cross the park, I hit pause in my scare myself into opening up challenge when my gaze catches on a wicker basket on the table. Then the red checked tablecloth underneath it. And, at last, I settle on the man.

  Sure, I knew we were having a picnic, but I didn’t expect him to have an actual picnic basket. It’s such an incongruous image—the big, burly man reaching into the old-fashioned basket.

  And it gives me butterflies.

  How will he react when I tell him I like him? I think he might like me too, but he was so clear about the week limit. But that’s why I’m going to take my own challenge.

  Toting a pink pie box and a belly full of nerves, I cross the final stretch of spongy grass, then reach him. After I set down the pie box, I point, flabbergasted, at the spread. “You have a basket.”

  “Don’t tell a soul,” he says gruffly as he takes out a container of olives, putting them next to some Marcona almonds. They’re keeping company with hummus, carrots, and blueberries. My mouth waters.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I say, then I lift my chin in a very obvious request for a kiss.

  I need a kiss for courage.

  He hauls me in for a hot, searing one while his hand grips the small of my back. He devours my mouth. This is not a picnic kiss. It’s nightclub devastation. We’re not a red-and-white-checked-tablecloth kind of couple. We are satin sheets and blindfolds.

  When we separate, I’m dizzy. Then, my pulse soars when he slides a hand down my back again, stopping at my ass, spreading his hand across it. He squeezes, harder than he has before.

  Wild thoughts race through my mind.

  New ideas.

  New fantasies.

  Ones that kick things up another notch.

  When I take you out in public, I get a thrill that I’m the only one who knows the private side of you.

  Yes, I know what I want in bed tonight. Something that makes me even more vulnerable.

  “I like the basket,” I say in a low and sensual voice, but I’m not just talking about the accouterment. I’m talking about him. I cover his hand on my ass with mine, pressing his palm more firmly against my flesh.

  His eyes glimmer. “I can tell,” he says, and the double meaning isn’t lost on him. Then he grabs me roughly.

  I gasp.

  When he lets go, he kisses me once more. This one is sweet. Like icing. Maybe now is the time to say: this is more than fun and games for me.

  He tips his forehead to the table. “I bought the basket for you today. As part of our practice,” he says.

  He bought a picnic basket.

  For me.

  He shopped for vegan food.

  For me.

  I can’t ignore the happy bubbles floating up through my bloodstream any longer.

  I made a promise to be real tonight, and it terrifies me. But that’s the point. “Gabe,” I say tentatively as someone in the volleyball game shouts, Nice one.

  “What is it, sweetheart?” he asks.

  I’m shaking with nerves, but I’ve gone on stage and performed for thousands. I can confess how I feel to one man.

  I gulp, then think, Screw the nerves. “I’m having such a great time with you, and I just wanted to let you know—”

  “Duck!” someone shouts.

  I flinch at the warning, spin around for the shouter when I see a red frisbee’s flying right at Gabe’s head, like a missile.

  “Gabe!” I cry out, but he’s already blocking, shoving his body in front of me, and sticking out his right arm.

  Then boom.

  He catches the frisbee before it whacks his head.

  My pulse is racing when a guy—maybe twenty—stops short, panting. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  Gabe tilts his head, studies the guy with dark, angry eyes. Ohhhh. Is he going to rip this guy to pieces like he did the redhead at the bar?

  “You almost hit my woman,” he warns in a low voice.

  My woman.

  Gawd. Those words heat me up. Gabe doesn’t even care that the frisbee was heading for him. He’s bothered that I might have been collateral damage.

  The guy turns to me, his eyes guilty. “I’m really sorry. I was just playing a game.”

  He sounds so earnest, so devastated.

  “I’m fine. We’re fine,” I say.

  Then Gabe breathes out like he’s letting go of the irritation. “Yeah, just be more careful,” Gabe says, and he’s no longer the man about to rip off heads. He knows how to handle situations. He knows when to issue a warning and when to go caveman.

  As the guy trots off with the frisbee, Gabe turns to me, concern etched in his irises. “You okay, sweetheart?”

  My heart is sprinting. “I’m great,” I say.

  He runs a hand gently down my hair. “You sure?”

  “I am,” I say, resolute.

  “Good,” he says, then kisses my forehead before sitting down. I join him. “You were saying something?” he prompts.

  I’m so frothy and turned on I don’t remember what had been on the tip of my tongue. I need a moment to reset. “Just…this is nice. This is all really nice,” I say, gesturing to the picnic.

  “Good. You deserve nice things,” he says.

  Nice things like him?

  Deliberately, I recall the purpose of our deal. We’re here to practice for the party. Maybe it’s best if I zoom in on that while I clear my head of that uptick in desire from seconds ago. I pluck a blueberry from the carton and pop it in my mouth. “And we’re supposed to be a nice girl and boy tomorrow night,” I say.

  “I don’t think the cop scene last night was very good practice.”

  I laugh. “Not one bit…So, let’s pretend Aunt Tilly just asked how we met again.”

  But Gabe doesn’t take the bait. He eats a few olives with a thoughtful frown. “Actually, I don’t want to practice for the party right now.”

  I sit up straighter. “Oh. Why?” My radar beeps in a gentle warning.

  “About last night…”

  Does he regret the role play? I ask warily, “What about it?”

  “It was incredible—like I told you then. Like I told you again this morning.” He’s emphatic and reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “And I keep thinking about why. Why I liked it so much. Besides the obvious.”

  “That it was hot?” I ask.

  “Yes. Besides that,” he says, his tone still serious. “And I started thinking about that first night we went out.” He draws what sounds like a steadying breath. “I was planning to leave you when we got to your house.”

  I flinch. Maybe it’s a good thing I haven’t told him my feelings. “You were?”

  “I was trying to exit gracefully,” he admits, and I’m not sure I like where this is going. “I was sure if you knew I liked it rough, you’d throw a shoe at me.”

  My worry slinks away, replaced only by concern. I wish he hadn’t felt that way, even for a brief while. “Why would you think that?”

  He swallows and glances away like maybe he’s embarrassed. “My ex did,” he mutters. “And I thought if you knew what I wanted to do to you, that you might chuck your helmet and scooter at me.”

  “Oh Gabe,” I say gently, feeling terrible that he thought that even for a few hours. “No, of course not. But what happened with her?”

  He’s quiet for several long seconds. Then he answers heavily. “I asked to spank her, and she just freaked out. That’s why we split. I mean, it’s for the best. At first, I thought we were a good fit. It’s not like the bedroom issue was some deal breaker for me when I started seeing her. But over time, she started questioning me and accusing me of being interested in other women.”

  I snort. I literally snort. “You’re pretty single-minded, as far as I can tell.”

  He kisses my cheek like my compliment means everything to him. “Damn right, I am.” He sighs and goes back to his story. “But it just told me we didn’t have a lot of trust. I guess I thought we could build it in the bedroom. But when I asked, she lost her shit and went off on me loud enough to let my neighbors know she thought I was a pervert. I felt stupid, and honestly, kind of awful,” he says, wincing. He’s still feeling the sting of that indignity she’d dealt him?

  I run my hand through his hair, comforting him. “I hate that you felt that way,” I say.

  “Thanks. I even got her handcuffs as a gift, thinking it could help.” He gives a humorless laugh.

  I linger on what he just told me about handcuffs, then on his text messages earlier about how it was an ultimate fantasy for him. I get it now. Last night was a big deal for him.

  “And just so you know, I bought the ones from last night just for you,” he says, and the self-mocking tone has vanished. There’s a fierceness in its place. “I’d never use secondhand cuffs on you.”

  I smile softly, then he continues.

  “Anyway, when we split up, Brittany’s sister came to get her things, and she shoved the cuffs at me like they were diseased. Like I was a freak.”

  My heart squeezes. “Sex is so much more than bodies tangled together. It’s about our hearts, and our minds too.”

  His sigh sounds relieved. “Yeah. It is, Ellie.”

  “It’s about desire and freedom and need,” I say, unable to let it go.

  “Yes.” He nods in strenuous agreement. “You’re saying exactly what I’m feeling. But see, when I met you again, I thought if you knew how I liked to fuck, you’d rip me to shreds.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry she made you feel that way. I like everything about the way you touch me. Actually, I love the way you touch me.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I love touching you. I’m glad you told me how you like it. You’re a fucking dream, Ellie,” he says, that rough and smoky tone returning to his voice.

  I pull away so I can meet his eyes. “I’m glad I told you too. And thank you for being honest with me.”

  And finally, I know.

  I know what the be vulnerable challenge means to me.

  Being real doesn’t mean I have to say I like you.

  It’s obvious we like each other. There’s something deeper at play with Gabe. Something that matters more.

  “Gabe, these last three nights have been incredible,” I begin.

  “They have,” he says, tightening his grip on my hand.

  “And I’ve had some trust issues with guys. A lot of trust issues, to be honest. I’ve picked poorly before, like I told you. But it’s different with you.”

  A small smile forms on his lips. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “I trust you so much,” I say, and finally, this feels right.

  This admission is scary.

  But it’s true, and it’s something I want him to know. “I feel safe with you, Gabe. At first, I didn’t know the reason—I just felt it. Safety.”

  “Good. I want you to.”

  “But now I know why,” I say, giddy with understanding.

  “Tell me.”

  “Because of how you treat me out of bed. You treat me like a queen,” I say, holding his gaze. “And that’s why I feel safe with you. I’ve always been fascinated with my own limits,” I say, and I’m not scared anymore. It’s a thrill to tell him my truth. It’s freeing to share my desires with a man who wants me to feel safe all the time, in and out of bed. “And there’s one more thing I’ve been wanting to try,” I say.

  “Anything. Tell me anything,” he says, desperate.

  I take a beat, run a hand down his arm. “I’ll tell you…in confession.”

  21

  FORGIVE ME, FATHER

  Gabe

  Her heels click against the white tiled floor, then the sound muffles when she comes into my bedroom, the plush carpet absorbing the noise. She must have brought those shoes with her. She wore sandals at the park. She packed for this scene, and that excites me.

  Seated in a high-back chair on one side of the open closet door, I’m wearing a black button-down and slacks. My priest costume.

  There’s a chair on the other side of the door.

  “Good evening, Father,” she says, in a soft voice.

  “Good evening,” I say as she sits.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she begins, her tone contrite. “It’s been…oh gosh. Oh no.” She sounds so terribly worried. “Actually, I don’t know how long it’s been since my last confession.” She lets out a shuddery breath. “I can’t focus though. I can’t think.”

  This wasn’t scripted. But fuck it. She’s always been the director of our scenes, throwing me for loops. She makes the choices. I just roll with them. “Why can’t you think, my child?”

  “Because…Father,” she says, her tone a little trembly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  It comes out borderline sensual.

  “I’m new,” I improvise.

  “Ohh. That’s good to know,” she says, breathy, almost a purr.

  This woman is going to push all my buttons tonight. When Ellie role-plays, she fucking plays. She is all in. And I have to hold my own. Adjust to her character. Clearing my throat, I adopt a stern voice. Tonight, I’ll be the merciless priest.

  “Why don’t you start by confessing your biggest sins,” I command.

  There’s a rustle of clothes. The sound of movement. She’s fidgeting with something, maybe that new necklace she’s wearing tonight. “Gosh, there are so many, Father. I don’t know where to begin. I’ve had such a busy week.”

  Me fucking too.

  I tug on my collar, like that’ll turn down the temperature that’s rising in me. “Start with your sins from the last week, my child.”

  “Are you sure? I was pretty bad. Do you want them all?” There’s a teasing lilt to her words.

  “Yes, I want them all,” I say crisply, matching her vixen with my domination. “Start now.”

  I can’t see her face, but I can see her legs. She crosses those toned calves, one heel resting on the other.

  My breath races along with my thoughts. Those legs spread-eagled on my bed. Those heels on my shoulders. Her standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

  It’s like she can read my mind, the way she rubs the red toe of her shoe against the inside of her calf. “I had impure thoughts about a man,” she begins, like she regrets her dirty mind.

  “Just thoughts? Tell the truth, my child,” I order.

  I can hear her swallow nervously. “Fine. They were more than thoughts.”

  I sit up straighter. “Tell me what you did. Don’t leave out a single, salacious detail,” I tell her. “This is your penance. You must confess every filthy, lascivious tidbit.”

  She lets out a nervous breath. “He spanked me, Father. And I liked it. I liked it so much when he hit me, and he marked me, and he made me hiss,” she coos in a rush.

  And the temperature hits Death Valley levels or higher. The admission that she likes it—even though I know, I fucking know, I was there—cranks my engine.

  I adjust myself in my seat, then hiss out in a mean voice, “You’ll need penance for that, but I can’t give it to you until you finish describing all of your grievous sexual sins to me.”

  She gasps. “As you wish, Father.”

  Ellie goes on to recount our nights in excruciatingly sensual detail, torturing me with her story of the filthy, beautiful sex we had. As she talks, my head goes hazy with longing. My chest tightens, glowing with this slow-burning fire.

  I ball my hands into fists.

  She’s seducing me all over again with the story of us, and I want to lunge at her and punish her with pleasure.

  This time with her has been such a rush, such a wicked thrill. These last few nights have been a revelation. But I try to stay in the moment, not get lost in the haze of my own aching desire for her. When she’s done, I dig my nails into my palms as I ask, “And what else, my child? What else do you want to confess?”

  She sighs nervously, making little gaspy noises like she’s struggling as she leans into her role as the naughty penitent. I bet she’s nibbling on that gorgeous lower lip. “Father, that’s only the start. There’s something else I can’t stop thinking about. Those impure thoughts I mentioned? I need to tell them to you. Now.”