And mark her.

  I slow down, move her ankles off my shoulders, and pull out. I grab her hips, and flip her over onto her hands and knees.

  “Down on your elbows, beautiful. Ass in the air. I’m going to fuck you hard and make it hurt.”

  She bends her back, lowers herself, and shoots me a naughty and grateful look. “You know what I want.”

  “I do. And I promised I’d give it to you. I promised I’d give you everything,” I say, as I rub the crown of my cock against her slippery heat. “And I will.”

  Her ass sways, an invitation. A gorgeous invitation to sink into her, to bury myself in her, and take us both to our next release.

  I RSVP, filling her to the hilt.

  Then, taking everything she has to give, I fuck my woman to the edge of pleasure, making it hurt as I smack her ass, as I tug her hair, as I band a hand around her throat.

  Not too tight, but not too loose either.

  Just right.

  Just right to set her free.

  To let her feel everything.

  And as my Ivy moans and groans, shouts and cries, I am as certain as I could ever be that breaking my golden rule is the best choice I’ve ever made.

  Since it gives me permission too.

  To be free. Free to love this woman with everything I have.

  After she comes hard, shouting my name, I follow her there, my climax spilling all over her back, just how she likes it. She sinks under me, collapsing, panting, but laughing too.

  I flop next to her, spent. “What’s so funny?”

  She props her head in her hand, smiling. “I’m laughing because I can. Because I love laughing with you. And I love talking to you. And I love making love to you.”

  I draw her in for a gentle kiss. “Then you can have it all.” I run my hand along her side, over the curves of her body. “But let’s clean you up.”

  This time when I run a bath, she doesn’t have to ask me to join her. I do it on my own, sinking into the water with her, bringing her into my arms and kissing her hair, her neck, her shoulders.

  And savoring every moment to be free at last to love her the way I want.

  With everything I have.

  23

  Stone

  I still can’t believe it—this blasphemy I’m hearing.

  I set my empty glass on the table, staring hard at Jackson. “You can’t possibly count Imagine Dragons as alt.”

  “I can, and I do,” Jackson says.

  I shake my head. “That’s wrong. That’s sacrilege. That’s like what my sixteen-year-old sister listens to.”

  He rolls his hazel eyes, laughing. “You don’t have a sixteen-year-old sister.”

  “That’s my point,” I say, sputtering.

  He narrows his brow. “Your point is you just made up a sister you don’t have?”

  I smack a palm on the table. “Yes, because that’s who listens to Imagine Dragons. Therefore, they’re not alt-rock, even if they started on college radio stations.”

  Jackson crosses his arms over his beefy chest. “Ah, I get it now. You don’t like music that teen girls listen to. If a teen girl listens to it, it doesn’t count as quality.”

  “No, that’s not what I said,” I fire back.

  “It kind of is, and that’s kind of judgy. I actually have a sixteen-year-old sister, and she is quite the music aficionado. She likes Imagine Dragons and Nirvana, The Beatles and Alanis Morissette, and show tunes and Greyson Chance. Also, Beethoven. She has wide and varied tastes. Also, incidentally, Imagine Dragons’ ‘Radioactive’ was first released on alt radio before major labels picked it up.”

  I huff, dragging a hand through my hair. This guy. He is killing me. “Whatever. You are suddenly, like, the music oracle. And the teen oracle. Also, why are you just now mentioning you have a younger sister?”

  He picks up his club soda, drains the glass, and sets it down. “You never asked.” He sighs heavily, then runs a hand through his dark blond hair. “Come to think of it, you’ve never really talked about anything besides yourself.”

  I sit up straighter, pointing a finger at him. “That is not true. Say that’s not true. Because that is a bald-faced lie. We talk about every city we go to. The restaurants, the clubs, the vibe.”

  He gives a careless shrug. “Yeah, true. But I know you have a little brother, and you didn’t know I had a little sister.”

  I roll my eyes, spreading my arms out wide. “Disqualified. That comeback is disqualified. Everyone knows I have a little brother.” I stab my finger against my chest. “Everyone knows everything about me. So that doesn’t count.”

  “Fine, now you know I have a sister. Do you know where I grew up?”

  I rack my brain, cycling through cities. Savannah? No, he has no accent. Los Angeles? Maybe, but he seems too tightly wound for Cali. New York? He doesn’t talk like a New Yorker.

  Jackson smirks. “I guess that’s a no.”

  “Fine,” I say, with an aggrieved sigh. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Oh, that’s how we’re doing it now? Playing little breadcrumb games? You giveth and you taketh away?”

  Jackson laughs with a smile that spreads across his carved face and shows off his straight white teeth. “That’s me. Doling it out like the cannibalistic witch in Hansel and Gretel.”

  “Yeah, I’d say. And I bet the witch told Hansel and Gretel that she had a little sister who was a teenybopper.”

  He leans forward, elbows on the table. “You do know there is nothing wrong with teenyboppers? I mean, do you actually look at the audience at your shows? You don’t only attract the twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings. There are plenty of young girls calling your name in the crowd.”

  I shoot him a satisfied smile. “As it should be. As it absolutely should be.”

  “So cocky, from a man who acts like he needs no one, but texts his mom before nearly every show.”

  “Like I said, you know everything about me. Not fair, man, and not cool.”

  “Some things in life aren’t fair,” Jackson says, then he looks at his watch. “My shift ends soon. Are you going to your suite?” He swallows roughly, his jaw tightening. “Or are you going back to your private party?”

  My forehead knits as I try to figure out the subtext of his question, but I’m not sure I can read between his lines.

  I’m not sure at all.

  And it’s making me a little bit crazy.

  24

  Jackson

  I shouldn’t care what Stone says.

  His answer as to his whereabouts shouldn’t bug me in the least.

  But tell that to my body, tight with tension, as I wait for my client—dammit, he’s a client, that is all—to tell me where he needs me to take him.

  Stone screws up the corner of his lips, drags both hands through his shaggy hair, and blows out a long stream of air.

  “Let’s see. Where do I want to go? On the one hand, I could go to Rapture, because I hear that club is killer,” he says, then stares at the ceiling, lost in thought. “Or I could go to a diner. Get a burger and fries.”

  “You don’t eat that. You’re a health guru. You’re all kale salad and carrots, twenty-four/seven.”

  A knowing grin curls his lips. “Ah, you’re paying attention.”

  “I always pay attention. That’s what I do.”

  He shifts his neck back and forth, stretching it. “Maybe I need a massage to work out the kinks.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, work out your kinks. That’s what you did tonight.”

  Stone lifts one brow, parting his lips like he’s about to say something. But then he seems to think better of it, saying instead, “I tapped out. And now I’m ready to get acquainted with the thousand-thread-count sheets and my big-ass bed overlooking the Strip.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, and the tension in my body releases.

  Somewhat.

  Once we’re out of Speakeasy, I escort him through the casino, making quick work of the short route to the elevators that’ll take him to his suite. A few fans spot him along the way, shouting their hellos, and he waves, but mostly we avoid the spotlight.

  I half expect him to change his mind.

  To say he wants to return to Ivy and Callum.

  Even when he reaches his room, I wait for that change of heart, since he’s a capricious son of a bitch, but those words never come.

  He’s been uncharacteristically quiet the entire way.

  At the door, he turns, a curious look in his eyes. “Why did you ask it like that? If I was going back to my private party?”

  “Because that’s where you were.” I try to say it like it’s no big deal.

  His eyes call bullshit. “Let me ask again, Jackson. Why did you ask it the way you did? Like it bothered you?” There’s a challenge in his voice, but a vulnerability in his eyes as he asks the question, like he’s letting me see a part of him that others don’t see.

  Still, I don’t want to let on. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Just asking.”

  Stone shakes his head, his jaw tight. “I don’t think so. I don’t think you were just asking. I think it bothered you.”

  He licks his lips, looking at me like the answer is important.

  More important than anything else.

  Maybe I do want him to know why it bothered me. Maybe I do want to give him the satisfaction of knowing.

  In a heartbeat, I shove him against the door, holding him in place with my arm banded across his pecs, stepping into his space. His breath hitches, and I take that as my cue to push my forearm even tighter against his chest. No one else is around, but still, my words are only for him. So, in a low voice, I tell him exactly why it bothered me. “Because you didn’t need a different bodyguard for your fantasies.”

  There. I said it.

  He blinks, parting his lips. Shock crosses his eyes. He’s speechless for several long seconds. “You’re . . .?”

  He doesn’t finish the sentence. I know what he’s asking.

  “Yes.”

  His jaw stays unhinged. “I had no idea . . .”

  My face remains expressionless. “I think we’ve established that you don’t know anything about me. Maybe now you’ll ask.”

  He licks his lips. “Are you out?”

  I nod. “I am.”

  “How did I not know?”

  I stare hard at him. “Because this is work. And because, like I said, you never asked.”

  He swallows roughly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “So, you were bothered because you think I touched him? Callum?”

  “I don’t know what you did in there.”

  His answer comes out swiftly, like he needs me to know. “I didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch me. I was there for her.”

  This thrills me more than it should, but this is also where I can’t bend. I say nothing, and Stone stares at my arm still pinning him in place, like he doesn’t want me to let go of him.

  Fine by me. I wouldn’t mind pinning him down.

  “It was all about her,” he explains, his tone a little desperate. “I was helping out a friend.”

  “You were helping?” I parrot.

  He sneers. “Yeah, asshole,” he says, pushing my arm off him with some force. I take a step back. Maybe I’ve gone too far.

  “Sorry,” I say, meaning it.

  But my apology isn’t enough for Stone. He shoves a hand against my shoulder. I don’t move. Still, he continues, “I was helping him. He needed a kick in the pants to see that he was in love with her, and guess what? It worked. He’s with her now. He’s my best friend in the whole damn world, and some men need to shake things up to see what’s in front of them.”

  “And is that what you did for them in the suite? Shake things up?”

  Stone’s green eyes are on fire. And I’ve never seen him this worked up. “Yes, that’s what I did when I touched her, and only her.” He grabs his skull, staring at me like a crazy man. “What the hell? Why are you getting in my head like this? Get out of my head, man.”

  I scoff. Shake my head, trying desperately to clear it. I need to get my shit together. I can’t step over the line with Stone. Business is business, and pleasure is pleasure, and you should never mix the two. But I’m still pent-up from standing guard over his private party. And annoyed as hell too that I’m so damn glad he didn’t touch his friend.

  I move closer to Stone, cataloging the way he responds when I’m inches from his body. I’m sure he wants to get closer to me.

  I take my time before I leave him with a parting thought. “Your head isn’t where I’d most like to be, Stone.”

  I back off, but not before my eyes roam up and down his body, making my meaning clear.

  And making my intentions clear too, when I walk away.

  Being with Stone would be playing with fire for far too many reasons.

  Epilogue

  Ivy

  * * *

  A few months later

  * * *

  My red-soled shoes click across the marble floors as I gesture to the casino floor, packed with guests.

  “As you can see, occupancy has not only remained strong—it’s exceeded all our expectations,” I say to the board members around me.

  Marjorie smiles. “It’s good to see. The numbers have been impressive.”

  “Revenues are up at the casino. Profits at the restaurants, bars, and clubs are too,” I rattle off as we walk and talk, Russ by my side, scanning the joint.

  “And best of all, everyone is talking about the one-night-only engagements,” Jeremy, another board member, adds, clearly pleased with all the progress my sister and I have made with the revamp.

  “They are indeed,” I say, since the concert series Stone kicked off has been the talk of the town. We’ve lured other big-name performers, bands, and solo stars, and their shows have been sold-out, must-see events too.

  We pass the jewelry box in the lobby, and my eyes swing to it, as they always do. Beauty, such beauty. I love this sculpture in the midst of this palace of luxury and sensuality. I love what it stands for, both for my family and for myself. Home. This place is home. And this hotel has given me a place for my public self and my private one too. A place where I’m whole and happy.

  A place I love every day.

  Except for the next seven days.

  Since I’m taking off for a little well-earned R & R in Paris.

  I thank the board members, then make my way to the portico, where Russ escorts me to a waiting limo.

  The driver opens the door and Callum emerges from the back seat, looking so damn handsome in slacks and a button-down shirt. No suit, since he’s off-duty.

  My gorgeous, caring guy takes my hand, then turns to Russ, saying, “Thanks, Russ. I’ll take care of Ms. Carmichael now.”

  “Have a safe trip, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “We will.”

  I slide into the back seat with the man I love. He stares at me from head to toe, like he’s drinking me in, committing to memory my eyes, my lips, the sapphire-blue dress that hugs my curves.

  “You look like a jewel,” he says, brushing a possessive kiss on my lips as the car pulls away from the hotel and onto the Strip.

  “You make me feel like one,” I say.

  He shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe I’m here with him. Which is absurd, since we planned this trip a few weeks ago. I run my hand along his arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m great. But I can’t wait.”

  I furrow my brow. “Can’t wait for what?”

  “To get to Paris,” he says, then he moves off the leather seat, bends down on one knee, and takes my hand in his. “I was going to ask you in France, along the river Seine with the streetlamps flickering and nighttime surrounding us. I waited too long to tell you I loved you, and I won’t wait another moment to ask you to marry me. I love you with all my heart and soul, Ivy Carmichael, and I want you to be mine forever.”

  My heart soars. It spreads its wings and flies across the sky, doing a loop the loop before it lands in his hands, where it belongs. “I’m yours, always and forever. And I would love to be your wife.”

  Twin tears slide down my cheeks as he takes a gorgeous box from the pocket of his charcoal slacks, flips it open, and nearly blinds me.

  “The jewelry box in our lobby has nothing on this,” I say, awed by the sparkling diamond solitaire.

  “A jewel for a jewel,” he says, then slides the ring on my finger.

  I stare at it, loving everything about it, but mostly what it means.

  That we’ll be together always. Loving, living, and exploring all sorts of fantasies together. Safely, and with trust.

  I reach for him, tug him up next to me on the seat, and kiss the hell out of the man who’s going to be my husband.

  Then I go to Paris with my fiancé.

  Where we fuck and make love every day and every night.

  Epilogue

  Callum

  * * *

  One balmy evening eight months later, I whisk my fiancée away for the weekend. We fly to New York, swapping the City of Sin for the City of Dreams, and as the wheels touch down on the tarmac, I whisper filthy words in Ivy’s ear, taunting her. Teasing her.

  As our car makes its way into Manhattan, jammed in Friday evening traffic, I tell her what I can’t wait to do to her later tonight. How I want to taste her. Eat her. How damn good it will feel when I sink inside her, feel her clench around me, and drive her wild with my cock and my hands and my mouth until she’s writhing in the throes of ecstasy, begging to come undone.

  We reach our hotel room and the door closes behind us. She slams my body against it, a tigress, fierce in her longing, and as she unbuttons my pants and takes me in her mouth, lust barrels through me faster than a freight train. Her swollen red lips work around my cock. She rips open the buttons of her shirt, exposing the black lace of her bra, and as she teases her nipples to a peak, as her hand travels lower between her legs until she’s writhing in pleasure too, I hit the edge. I tangle my fingers in that blonde hair, fucking her face until my orgasm builds in the base of my spine and I come all over her breasts.