“Maybe you still are?” she asks with an arch in her brow and a hint of sultry in her voice.

  “Maybe I am,” I say, sensing an invitation in the air between us. It crackles with the same energy as when we met.

  The same energy that’s damn hard to resist.

  The car in front of me slows. I try to peer around the cars ahead to get a read on the situation. But it’s kind of pointless in this city.

  I turn to Brooke, and she’s nibbling on her lip again. Dirty thoughts seem to flicker across her brown eyes as she says, “How are you a troublemaker these days?”

  Fuck holding back. “I want to get into all kinds of trouble with you,” I say as I turn my gaze fully to her, my eyes roaming up and down her sexy frame. When our eyes lock, heat flares between us and I’m rumbling her name. “Brooke.”

  “Drew,” she whispers, her voice threaded with desire.

  “Do you like trouble?”

  Her breath seems to catch, then she nods shakily. “A lot. Especially right now.”

  “Same here.”

  I lift my hand, reach for her face, and cup her cheek. She gasps, and before either one of us can say another word—before I can evaluate or analyze—I dip my mouth to hers and kiss those delicious lips. Her tongue darts out, and she nips me back, running her teeth along my bottom lip, and out of nowhere a quick kiss turns into a hot, dirty one.

  A car horn honks behind us, and we pull apart. But the white sedan in front of me has only moved ten feet. I drive slowly, running one hand along Brooke’s leg, down to the edge of her dress. My fingers play at the hem, and she murmurs as we slink along at a snail’s pace. My eyes drift to her legs, so toned and strong. The whole look she’s working tonight is killing me.

  Maybe one touch will satisfy me.

  Or maybe I’m just a troublemaker.

  I inch my finger under her skirt. She lets her knees fall open the slightest bit.

  It’s an RSVP to trouble and I take it. “I’m not feeling friendly toward you whatsoever,” I rasp.

  She’s quiet for a beat, then she whispers, “Don’t be friendly.”

  And I run with it.

  My fingers travel up the soft flesh of her thighs. Then, higher still.

  She tugs her skirt up farther, then spreads her legs.

  14

  THE GOOD KIND OF TROUBLE

  Brooke

  Surrounded by cars but totally alone behind tinted windows, this is trouble, but the good kind.

  I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve had a hard enough time coming with a guy in bed, so I’ve never tried to steal an O out of the boudoir. But when Drew touches me, I feel daring.

  The man is focused on me, on helping me finally get out of my head.

  His fingers slide along the damp panel of my panties, then he flashes a wicked grin as he slips one under, rubbing against my wetness. I arch into him.

  “Oh, honey, I’ve missed this,” he says in a dirty purr.

  “Me too,” I admit, my breath coming fast.

  “Traffic rocks,” he says, as he paints dizzying strokes up and down my center.

  My hips seek out his hand.

  I spread my legs wider.

  A rumble escapes his lips. “Yeah, do that. Love seeing you get so turned on you spread your legs for me.”

  His dirty words are a charge, as if someone plugged me in, and I’m now electrified. The pleasure builds, rippling across my skin.

  He drags a finger down me slowly, then brings it to his lips and sucks off the taste. “Fucking delicious,” he murmurs as he returns to me.

  I whimper as he strokes.

  “If we weren’t stuck in traffic, I’d go down on you.” His voice husky. “Bury my face between those pretty legs.”

  “I’d grab your hair, pull you close,” I say, getting into the scene.

  “You’d fuck my face hard—wrap your heels nice and tight around me, and I’d devour you,” he says in a low, dirty growl.

  I’m lost. I’m absolutely lost as he touches me, faster and impossibly faster still. Every muscle tenses blissfully as an orgasm charges through me.

  I cry out as I come undone in his car.

  When the release subsides, I blink my eyes open, and wow.

  Suddenly, the cars are moving. Traffic is unstuck.

  Drew licks his fingers once more then grips the wheel, navigating through moving traffic like a pro. “Maybe you have superpowers. One orgasm and you broke through the traffic jam.”

  “Just call me Miss O,” I say, breathless.

  A satisfied smile lights his handsome face. “By the way,” he says, his tone full of pride and happiness, “I still owe you.”

  “You do,” I say with a dopey grin. Only, I’m not thinking about my pleasure. I’m thinking about his. “But I owe you too.”

  “I can think of a few ways you can repay me.”

  In less than ten minutes, we’re at my house.

  He’s right behind me as I close the door to the world, taking our brand of trouble inside.

  We collide in my living room. His hands grab my face. His mouth hunts mine ruthlessly. My hands are busy too. I grip his hard-on over his jeans, then quickly unbutton and unzip the denim.

  I free his cock.

  “Ahhh, yes,” he mutters the second I clasp my hand around his dick.

  I shudder at the feel of his hot, pulsing length, at how turned on he is. I play with him, relishing each tight stroke of my fist along his shaft. I’m dying to wrap my lips around him.

  I indulge, dropping to my knees, pushing his jeans down his thighs as I go.

  I kiss the head. The sound he makes is animalistic.

  “Fuck, Brooke, that feels good,” he says, all throaty and deep.

  His words spur me on. With him I feel daring, and that’s new for me. All day, I’m the cautious one, the woman who reads on the beach rather than riding the waves. But Drew unlocks the gambler in me. My thumb slides over the head of his dick, and I swipe off a drop of his arousal, then spread it over my top lip.

  He growls. “Yes, you look so goddamn sexy,” he praises, then wraps his hand tighter around my head. “Now suck my dick. You know you fucking want to.”

  His mouth is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to my sex life. When he unfurls filthy phrases from his lips, I let go of the racing loop of thoughts about my day, about work, about bills. I want to say the dirty words too—such a contrast to the legal ones I write and speak all day.

  “You taste so good,” I say as I return to his cock.

  “And you look so hot on your knees.”

  As I draw him deeper, I cup his balls, squeezing gently.

  “Yeah, do that again,” he hisses.

  I obey, fondling his balls, then stroking the base of his cock. He pulses in my mouth, and I savor him, sucking and delighting in his dick. Because his dick is an absolute delight. Thick and hard and eager.

  Have I ever enjoyed giving head so much? No. I don’t think so. This is new too, and my core aches as I lick him. My mind crackles as I suck his shaft.

  “Now, lick the head. Tease me with that wicked tongue,” he commands, and I follow his orders, flicking my tongue over his crown.

  I grow wetter with everything he says, and soon, I’m rocking my hips as I go to town on his cock.

  “Been wanting to fuck that sweet mouth of yours since the day I met you,” he murmurs, and pleasure pulses hot in my center.

  For a second, I let him fall from my lips. “So do it.”

  Shaking his head, he reaches for my shoulders, pulls me up, and kisses my lips. “Need to fuck you right now. Get on your hands and knees.”

  God. Yes. Now.

  Spinning around, I stumble over to the couch and get on the cushions, lifting my skirt.

  He grabs a condom from his wallet, sheaths his cock, then kneels behind me, positioning himself at my entrance.

  “Please, fuck me hard,” I say, my temperature spiking as I talk too. I think I’m discovering my kink with Drew.

  He shoves deep inside me with a long, possessive growl.

  “Yesssss,” he murmurs.

  My kink is words.

  Dirty, delicious words said to me. Said by me.

  That first night he unlocked something inside my body. Now, my mind is getting in on it too. I’m connecting all the dots to discover the way I crave him in bed.

  I crave his body and his mouth.

  He grips my hips, and he delivers on his promise. With long, deep thrusts, he fucks me hard.

  Pleasure twists inside me in a fiery swirl as I brace myself on my palms. Ideas flash before me in a heated reel.

  “Smack my ass,” I say, taking another chance.

  “Fuck yes,” he growls, raising a hand and swatting the fuck out of me.

  Oh!

  That hurts so good.

  “Again,” I urge, craning my neck to watch him. It’s erotic and wicked as he lifts that strong arm, raises that big hand, and his palm connects with my flesh again.

  It stings, but the pain radiates straight to my core, thrumming through my clit.

  “More,” I beg.

  Again and again, he swats me, cheek to cheek. “You like that? You like it hard and rough?”

  “I do,” I pant as I spiral into a wild, crescendo.

  Electricity flares in me, then throbs in my center.

  One more hard smack. I fly off the cliff, losing my mind to this moment.

  Seconds later, he’s nailing me, and it’s intense, so intense I’m not sure I can withstand the pleasure.

  He’s groaning, mumbling oh fuck, yes, so good.

  Then he slams into me on a deep, dizzying thrust and roars, “Yes, fucking yes.”

  A new wave of pleasure crests as if a heightened aftershock of my own orgasm mingles with his. Is that a thing? As I curl my toes, it feels like a thing.

  Everything feels wild and passionate as we pant and moan.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever float down from this high. But there’s a new high coming my way when he gently moves my face so he can press a tender kiss to my lips. Then the back of my neck.

  Now my hair. “Be right back,” he whispers.

  When he eases out and heads to the kitchen to toss the condom, I sink onto my side on the couch.

  A few seconds later, he returns, his jeans pulled up but still undone. His hair is a mess. His clothes too. But his lopsided grin makes my heart squeeze.

  I pat the couch. “Stay.”

  He flops next to me. “I want to.”

  “Because you want me to cook for you,” I tease.

  His expression turns fully earnest as he shakes his head. “I like your cooking. But I really like you.”

  My heart squeezes harder. “Same here,” I say.

  That is the real trouble.

  15

  TEACH ME

  Drew

  This hardly feels like a bad idea—hanging out in her home, helping her cook.

  And since I don’t want to leave our parallel universe yet, I yank open the fridge and declare, “I want to help you. Give me orders.”

  Brooke wiggles her brows. “You want me to turn the tables on you in the kitchen?”

  I tap my chin, giving her a doubtful stare. “Woman, I believe you gave me orders in the bedroom too. Need I remind you of your demands? Smack my ass. Fuck me hard, and so on,” I say as she reaches for some asparagus from the crisper.

  She stops mid-grab. “Hmm. That’s a fair point. I’ll continue bossing you around, Mister O Dealer,” she says.

  I pat my chest. “I delivered two tonight, so I’m feeling pretty good,” I say as she sets the veggies on the counter, then reaches for a carton of tofu.

  “Guess what? So am I,” she says in a sultry purr.

  “Good. You deserve to. In the real world and in our parallel universe,” I say.

  She tosses me a soft smile, but it’s a little poignant, recognizing that we’re stealing this night together.

  Pretending this could be us.

  But I’m not in the mood for a world where being together is a risk. “How are you such a good cook? Gimme details,” I say.

  “Necessity. Mom and Dad worked late a lot, so I learned to cook for Cara and me in high school.”

  “Sandwiches wouldn’t do? Or frozen food?”

  She shudders as she crosses to the nearby pantry. “No way. Mom and Dad were foodies before foodies were a thing,” she says as she grabs a can of chickpeas. “They’d have flipped their lids if I made sandwiches. Plus, I liked taking care of Cara.”

  “That tracks. You were a mama bear tonight at the movies. But a softie too.”

  Her nose crinkles as she sets the can on the counter. “That describes me to a T where she’s involved.” Then she points to the cupboard beneath the stove. “Your first order. Grab the frying pan.”

  “Same one you used the first time I was here?” I ask.

  “I’ll be impressed if you can identify a pan,” she says, doubtful.

  “Prepare to be impressed,” I say, bending to open the cupboard, then rooting around for it. Boom. Got it. I waggle the pan. “I told you—I’m multi-talented.”

  “Yes, your pan identification skills are top-notch,” she says, setting it on the stove but not turning on the heat.

  “So, growing up you had to learn to cook,” I say, returning to the conversation.

  “I did, but somewhere along the way, something surprising happened,” she says, an impish grin on her face as she snags a bottle of olive oil from a cabinet, stretching to reach it. Mmm. The view. The delicious view of her exposed back as her tank top rises. She’s wearing sleep shorts too, and the whole casual just-been-fucked look is turning me on again.

  But I’ll have to service my stomach first. “What’s the surprise? Also, order me around to find the can opener.”

  “Drawer next to the stove. And the surprise is I learned to love cooking,” she says with a casual shrug. “It’s fun for me now. I find it both challenging and relaxing.”

  “Like a recipe is a puzzle?” I ask as I rinse the top of the can then open it.

  “Exactly.” She grabs a cutting board from the counter. “You hope it’ll turn out the way you intended, but you never quite know.”

  “Sounds a lot like a football play.”

  She gives an approving smile. “It kind of is. And sometimes you have to call an audible.”

  That’s speaking my language. “Cooking and football. I love it. What’s next? Teach me to cook like we talked about. I want to learn.”

  “It’s all about the knife,” she says, spinning around to snag one from the knife block, then wielding the sharp blade.

  “Got it. Good knives rule.”

  “And a little seasoning goes a long way,” she adds as she sets the asparagus on the cutting board and chops a few stalks. But she stops mid slice. “Wait. You were raised by a single mom. She never taught you to cook?”

  I wag a finger. “Brooke. Did you just assume all single moms cook?”

  She holds up a down, boy hand. “No. I make no assumptions. But your mom raised a smart, thoughtful man, who holds doors for women and calls when he says he will, so I deduce she taught you life skills, like laundry and how to balance a bank account,” she says, returning to her chopping.

  I waggle my fingers toward the knife. “My turn. I learn by doing.”

  She hands me the utensil.

  I slide in next to her and take over chopping the asparagus. “Mom did teach me. Or rather, she tried to teach me, but I was a sports-obsessed, high-energy kid, so guess what happened at dinnertime?”

  “She sent you out to race around the block?” she asks as she turns on the stove, drizzles some olive oil in the pan.

  “Welcome to my childhood. I was like a dog who needed to be run.” I finish the asparagus, then nod toward the frying pan. “Just drop it in?”

  “You got it, handsome.” She takes over, sautéing the asparagus with some pre-cut tofu. “Why don’t you grab some pepper and salt? Top cabinet to the right.”

  “Just pepper and salt?” I ask as I comply.

  “Sometimes simple is best.”

  “Like hanging out here in your house with you,” I say, and wow. I sound like a lust-struck fool.

  But I don’t mind.

  Ten minutes later, we finish cooking, and together we plate the food, grab some drinks, then sit at her counter.

  She hands me a bottle of pale ale, then pours herself some chardonnay. “To trouble,” she says, raising the glass to toast. “Our parallel universe full of good, dirty trouble.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I say, my chest tingling at those words. After our toast, I take a bite and moan. “Damn, I’m a good cook.”

  She laughs. “It’s all you, Drew.”

  “Maybe I had a little help,” I concede. “Now, tell me more about you and Cara.”

  “Because Patrick is sweet on her?”

  I scoff. “I’m not his keeper. He can be sweet on whoever he wants. I want to know more about her because”—I stop, lean closer, and dust a kiss to her cheek—“I’m into her sister. I want to know more about the important people in your life.”

  She dips her face, then purses her lips like she’s hiding a smile. As we eat, she tells me more about their antics growing up. She asks about my sisters and I chat about them.

  Then, I ask if she’s liking her new job. “Is the promotion what you want?”

  “It is. I love it. Checking out contracts, looking for loopholes and technicalities. It’s just my speed.”

  “That’s so very you,” I say.

  “It is. I’m still a little shocked I got the job,” she says.

  “I’m not. You’re brilliant,” I say.

  She blushes. “I just mean because it’s such a good gig. Working for Carlisle Enterprises has always been a bit of a dream. It’s sort of the perfect amount of lawyering for me. No courtrooms,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

  “Not your style?”

  “No way. I like the details of law, the puzzle of law, but I don’t want to go fight or roll the dice,” she says.

  Another thirty minutes of talk passes in a flash as we get to know each other and continues as we’re cleaning up. How is this only our second night together when we already have such a natural rhythm and flow?