“Ah, so that’s what that was.” Then I stare at her. “My point is, I bet you were so wound up with pleasure that you wanted more.”

  “Hmm. I do recall being rather thirsty when I got home,” she says.

  I’ll take that as a victory. “Good. Now, you were saying you want to come to my parties.”

  “I do. Try them out. See if they work,” she says, earnest and straightforward.

  I scrub a hand along my jaw, picturing her circulating at a Carpe Diem event. Seeing other men eyeing her. Worse, watching her chat them up. The thought cuts through me like a sharp blade. I both love and hate the idea of her at my parties. Love that she’ll see the magic of what I do. Hate that other men might have a shot with her. I detest that more than traffic, the Boston Red Sox, and littering.

  Yet it’s not my role to tell her what to do. She just got out from a situation where a man she worked with exerted improper influence. I’m not her boss, but I am a guy she’s working with. Ergo, I say, “Okay. And what do I do?”

  Her grin is way too satisfied. “I’ll make you an online dating profile.”

  I cringe.

  “C’mon,” she says. “All you have to do is try it. Just go on one date, okay?”

  I growl.

  She cracks up. “Do you only communicate in grunts and facial expressions now?”

  “Seems I do,” I say. “But I’m not interested in dating. Serious dating, that is.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I gathered as much.”

  “You did? How?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t need to be a genius to read the open book of you,” she says, flapping her hand in my direction.

  “And what does the book of me tell you?”

  “That you’re quite content as the swinging single man about the city.”

  That’s true. That’s been true since Anna died. I don’t want the kind of dates that could lead to a serious romance. That kind of love carries too many risks. Too much potential for hurt. I’m not interested in going through that pain again.

  Which means I shouldn’t be too bothered that Bellamy will be looking for love at one of my parties.

  And yet I am.

  But I need to let that go since I’m not ever going to be the man for her.

  She wants love. I don’t.

  “Yes, I am quite content with life as I know it,” I say.

  “Like I said, you’re easy to read, Easton. So, do you want me to make you a Tinder profile then? Just get you on a hookup app?”

  I’ve no choice but to scoff.

  “Right. Of course. A smart, sexy, charming, rich guy like you doesn’t need any help getting online,” she says.

  I lean back in the chair, soaking up the compliments. “You think I’m charming.”

  “That’s the trait you keyed in on? Not sexy? You are not like most men, Easton.”

  “Got that right. And yes, charm matters more than those other things. Charm wins hearts,” I say, before I think better of it.

  Why did I mention winning hearts when that implies I’d want someone’s?

  Nothing gets past Bellamy. “But I thought hearts weren’t on the table? At least, not yours.”

  “It’s not,” I say. I’ve got to remember that, especially around her. Because Bellamy’s too easy to like.

  “So, we’ll set up this online dating profile—just for one little date,” she says, holding up a thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.

  I’d rather set my shorts on fire. But a bet’s a bet. “What are the stakes?”

  Her lips twitch in a grin. The most satisfied one she’s fired my way. “A public reckoning,” she says, then details what she envisions.

  This woman’s mind is deliciously dastardly.

  “And how do we determine the winner or loser?”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “Whoever’s happiest with their romantic situation at the end,” she says.

  That seems fair but hard to measure. “How do you determine happiness?”

  “I guess we’ll just have to share with each other how we feel. I’ll let you know if I am, and you do the same. We’ll have to trust each other to be honest,” she says.

  “Fair enough,” I say, then we shake hands.

  Most worthy adversaries indeed.

  She picks up her pen and writes something in her notebook.

  “Why do you use a pen?” I ask.

  “It comes in handy when I want to write.”

  “Cheek is your native language.”

  “It is.”

  “What I mean is, you’re such a digital woman. Why a pen rather than an iPad or computer?”

  She smiles like she has a secret. “I kind of have a thing for handwriting.”

  I sit up straighter, eager to gobble up this detail about her. “I need to know more about this thing of yours.”

  “Why do you need to know more about it?” she asks with a laugh.

  “Because it’s interesting.” Like you. Everything about you is interesting to me.

  “I like the way it looks. I like the way it feels. But it also helps me think in different ways. So, I like to take notes by hand. It makes me use a different section of my brain.”

  “It would make me use the Da Vinci code section of my brain to decipher my own handwriting.”

  “Meanwhile, mine is at a Dear Diary level.”

  I tip my forehead to her notebook. “Show me.”

  “Do you want me to write you a love note, Easton?” she asks, all over-the-top flirty.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  She rips out a piece of paper, nibbles on the corner of her lips. The whole look is just so fucking intoxicating. Lowering the pen, she writes a few words, then folds up the paper and hands it to me.

  A part of me is hopeful it’s a very dirty note.

  After I unfold it, I laugh out loud both at the overly sweet and girly style, and also at the message.

  “Really? I have frosting on my chin and you’re just telling me now?”

  She shrugs a shoulder. “It was kind of adorable and I wanted to see how long it would take before you noticed it.”

  I wag a finger at her. “Mark my words. I’m going to take you out for dinner some night. And you’ll have a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth. And I’m going to let it be there all night long.”

  She leans across the table, swipes her thumb over the frosting on my chin and whispers, “And you know you’d still be turned on by the green leaf in my choppers.”

  Then she licks the frosting off her thumb.

  “You’re right. I would be turned on. Like I am now,” I say, my eyes locked with hers.

  “Join the club,” she says.

  My mind flickers to gift bangs, to large bathrooms, to anything and everything with her.

  I’m about to ask if she wants to do anything about that when the door opens, and a half-dozen fit, trim guys and gals in wheelchairs roll into the shop. A running group, from the looks of the Lycra and athletic tops.

  Immediately, Bellamy stands. “Want our table?” she asks a toned blonde with a high ponytail.

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” she says. “We’re taking off anyway.”

  “Enjoy your cake,” I say as I rise, moving the chairs to make room.

  A minute later, I’m on the street with my erstwhile adversary.

  “Are we done then?” I ask Bellamy, hoping her answer is a big, fat no.

  “Don’t think you can get rid of me that quickly,” she says, bumping my shoulder.

  It must be my lucky day. “In the mood for a coffee?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Me neither. But if you want a water, I live around the corner,” I suggest. “That is, if you’re still thirsty.”

  I expect her to draw a line in the sand.

  She licks her lips. “I’m so very thirsty.”

  So am I.

  27

  All the Upper Hands

  I had a plan.

  It formed perfectly in my head as we rode the elevator to my place. It involved stripping her slowly and seductively, then worshiping her body with my tongue.

  Spending a good, long amount of time between her legs and getting to know her pussy with my lips and my tongue.

  But with Bellamy Hart, I’m not in charge. Whatever agenda I might have devised, she simply flicks it away with one red, polished fingernail.

  She does what she wants, and at the moment, I can’t complain.

  I’m pressed against the wall in the foyer as she undoes the zipper on my jeans, tugs them and my boxer briefs down to my thighs, and gazes up at me with those big, lust-filled brown eyes. “My official peace offering. See if you like it better than that cake,” she says.

  “Pretty sure I will,” I rasp, but the sentence dies in my throat when she licks the head of my shaft.

  I groan as she takes me into her warm, wet mouth, a tremor of pleasure skating over my skin as she licks. My fingers tangle into her hair and I rope them through those lush strands. She seems to relish that, since she hums as she teases my dick with her tongue.

  My body wastes no time heating up. The temperature shoots twenty degrees higher as I watch her suck my cock.

  As if I’d look away. The sight is dirty-dream perfection. This beautiful woman on her knees, one hand gripping the base of my cock, pumping it as she licks and swirls that wicked tongue along my length.

  “You tricked me,” I rasp out.

  Her eyes twinkle with mischief.

  “I planned to get you naked,” I say on a grunt, urging her to take me a little deeper as I thrust, electricity pulsing down my spine from every mind-bending suck.

  “And now look at you,” I murmur, threading my hand tighter into her hair, holding her close.

  She pops off my dick so she can rub my cock against her chin, her cheek, her lips. “Yes, look at me with your cock on my face,” she says.

  I nearly explode as I watch her play with my dick, the fucking showoff that’s letting Bellamy know all the metals it can imitate—steel and iron, for instance.

  “So filthy. So fucking beautiful,” I praise.

  A storm of lust gathers in my stomach as she brings me back to her wicked lips, then flicks her tongue up and down my length. “And when you look at me, what do you see?”

  Before I can even fashion an answer, the woman swallows my cock whole, filling her mouth with my dick.

  That’s it.

  I’m throwing in the towel on ever trying to gain an upper hand with her. She can have all the upper hands if I can just keep having her.

  Because she’s having me like I’m all her meals.

  Like I’m every dessert.

  Desire bursts inside of me in punishing waves, crashing over me. What do I see? How do I ever answer that? The sexiest woman I’ve ever seen seems an obvious answer, yet that’s barely enough. That barely scratches the surface.

  “The woman I want,” I tell her, and that’s completely true. “I’ve wanted you since the night I met you, and I want you more every single fucking time we meet.”

  Perhaps in an answer, she grips the base of my dick hard, then sucks me deep, her lips stretched wide, her tongue an instrument of rapture as she works me over from root to tip.

  Over and over.

  And I just can’t get enough of this beauty taking my dick deep into her throat.

  A groan rips from my mouth, and my breath quickens.

  I’m on the verge of coming, and I both want to climax soon and want to make this moment last as long as I can. I want to live in this blow job as she reduces me to grunts and shudders.

  I’m fucking trembling as my knees weaken and my body becomes a goddamn lightning rod for pleasure.

  She runs her hands along my exposed thighs, her fingers exploring the hair on my legs as she destroys my hold on reality with her determined mouth, delivering lust to every cell in my body. All my muscles tighten, and the tremors turn into a quake. Tension curls around my spine, a helpful warning, then my orgasm rattles through my body.

  I growl out a warning then come hard down her throat, my bliss blurring out the world.

  She swallows my climax with a very satisfied groan. When she lets go of my dick, I’m still gasping for air, floating above my body.

  “That was . . .” I can’t even finish the thought.

  Especially when she rises, dusts her soft lips over my cheek, then says, “Your turn.”

  One crystal-clear thought lodges in my brain—I have met my match.

  28

  This Orgasm Thing

  At last, I execute my best-laid plans.

  Caressing her soft, honeysuckle skin with my lips, I explore the dip of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the landscape of her belly. I journey through the hills and valleys of her breasts, sucking and savoring. My only guides on the most erotic tour ever are my instincts and her moans.

  They lead me on.

  After I travel along her thighs, I settle between her legs so I can suck and eat her sweet pussy till she’s unraveling.

  She’s ridiculously wet, her taste coating my jaw. She can’t seem to get enough of my mouth. Hooking her legs around my head, she yanks me closer. Every move she makes kicks in one of my own. When she clutches at my hair, I sweep my tongue faster along her heat. As she hauls me closer, I grip her ass tighter, squeezing the soft flesh.

  A tremble erupts somewhere in the vicinity of her knees, then she ropes her fingers even tighter in my hair as she detonates in a symphony of sex—moans and cries, babbles and curses. Her entire body shudders and she doesn’t stop groaning for a long time.

  Beautiful.

  Just fucking beautiful.

  Every note lands gorgeously as I slow my sensual assault, then ease off and drag a hand across my lips.

  I hitch myself up her body, braced on my elbows, enjoying the sight of her flushed face. Her parted lips.

  She smiles at me, all sex-drunk and satisfied. “That was . . .” she begins, and I expect her to say amazing, but instead, she finishes with a cheeky, “. . . not too bad.”

  Pretty sure her ability to knock me down a peg is another reason I like her so much. “You were pretty adequate too, when you blew me.”

  I flop next to her, and she laughs softly from where she’s starfished on my bed as if she’s unable to move. Fine by me. I like her on my bed. I like her in my apartment. Don’t want her to leave at all, and that’s an unusual wish post-sex.

  But I go with all these new feelings, having fun with Bellamy. “I might need you to suck me off again and try a few new things,” I suggest drily. “Just to see if anything improves.”

  “I was going to say the same. You could benefit from a few more times between my thighs,” she says.

  I turn my head, glancing at her, smirking. “Practice makes perfect.”

  “Sign me up.”

  Scooting closer, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, then plant a soft kiss on her cheekbone. This post-orgasm moment is so damn necessary, and I don’t want it to end, but something nags at me, so I put it out there. “Is this going to affect things with us?”

  “This being orgasms? More orgasms? Or your post-orgasmic cuddling?” she counters.

  I will never be a step ahead of her. “All three. Will all three affect things?”

  “Things being our bet, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  She shrugs. “Why would they? We can have orgasms on one hand and a bet on the other.”

  But there’s a bit of an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before. Is she bothered I asked? Still, I needed to ask. We have a working relationship and, it seems, a bedroom one. Better to navigate these twin tracks with some honesty.

  “I only ask because I thought you didn’t want to complicate things,” I say, reminding her of the words she threw my way the night she walked out of Spencer’s bar.

  She smiles slyly. “This is already complicated.”

  “That is true.”

  “And life is complicated. Orgasms don’t have to be,” she says, patting my chest. That sharp edge to her tone is gone, replaced by acceptance. But then she scoots away, and I’m sure she’s about to make a fast exit.

  Instead, she props her head in her hand. “Is this because of Anna?”

  Ahh. I figured she’d come up eventually. I don’t like to talk about her with women who share my bed. And yet, I want to tell Bellamy. But how to start is the question. One I haven’t grappled with before—maybe because I haven’t reached the point where someone deserved to know.

  “We don’t have to talk about it, Easton,” Bellamy offers. “It’s just that your grandmother showed me her picture. I know from my podcast research that you started Carpe Diem with her. Beyond that, I haven’t asked because I didn’t want to pry.” She sits, scans my room for clothes, I presume. But the thought of her leaving is horrifying. I have no choice but to tackle her, drag her close.

  “Don’t go. Please.” My request borders on a plea and my tone makes that clear.

  She softens in my arms. “Make it worth my while to stay.”

  I’ve never met someone like her. Someone who asks for what she wants. Who knows her worth. Bellamy Hart’s attitude is wildly appealing, and it unlocks my story.

  “I was with her for three years. I was going to propose,” I say. These are the details that aren’t available online in my bio.

  “Oh wow. That’s intense.”

  “We’d just started Carpe Diem together. We were making preps for one of our first parties. She had some lights to pick up. Those flickering ones that you hang all over a window?”

  “Window curtain lights, they’re called,” Bellamy supplies. “They make everything very romantic.” Her voice is soft and wistful.

  “I was supposed to pick them up at a party supply company, but then I got last-minute tickets to a baseball game with my friends. My friend TJ’s brother pitches for the San Francisco Cougars, and they were in town playing the Comets. Anna insisted I go, and she went to pick up the lights instead.” A pang of guilt lances through me as that day flashes before my eyes, the memories sharp and clear.