She slams a hand over my mouth. “Quiet!”

  How can I be quiet when she’s rubbing the evidence of her need all over my dick? She lowers her pussy onto me, enveloping me, and I’m so fucked when she’s all the way on me.

  So unbelievably fucked.

  I grip her hips, meet her dark gaze, and whisper one word. “Haven.”

  She shivers, a full-body shudder that runs beautifully from her shoulders, down her arms, to her hips. “Josh.”

  “Yes,” I murmur. “Fucking yes.”

  Then we’re off.

  I grab her ass, thrust inside her. All my nerve endings are alive, invigorated, and my hips move at a wild pace.

  Her fingers thread through my hair as she swivels up and down. Up and down. It’s frantic and needy, and so fucking powerful.

  She drops her head, her face burrowed against my neck, her lips on my skin. She’s moaning and kissing my neck, and I can’t take it. I can’t take the overload of sensations, the prickles of lust, the wild flames of heat. And I can’t take her voice in my ear, a sexy little moan, whispering, “I’m about to come.”

  I sizzle as I bring her down hard, and she cries out, climaxing.

  Seconds later, she murmurs a demand. “Give me another.”

  I’ll give her another and another. I’ll give her everything.

  I slide my hand between her legs, feeling her clit, and stroking until she’s whimpering, crying, panting.

  She’s a hot, needy mess, riding my cock on a pristine white bed in the guest room. I’m sweating with lust, pushed to the brink of white-hot desire as I punch up into her. She moans then unleashes a keening sound, carnal and wild. I’ve never heard anything sexier in my life. “Baby. You’ve got to be quiet. You have to be.”

  Nodding, she lowers her mouth to my neck and bites.

  I shudder as her teeth dig in. “Yes, like that, baby,” I tell her. “Just like that. Give it all to me. Give me all your pleasure.”

  She shakes, and she bites me harder as she comes again. I follow her there, right to the other side, fighting like hell to stay quiet, when all I want to do is throw back my head and roar.

  I purse my lips to swallow the sound of losing control.

  And I know I don’t want to go back.

  I don’t want to return.

  This is where I want to be.

  Afterward, when we’re flopped down on the bed, I’m the one to haul her in close.

  I’m the one to kiss her gently.

  I’m the one to pepper tender kisses across her neck, her cheek, her lips.

  And she takes each one like it’s a gift, receives it like I’ve given her something precious.

  Her hand slides down my back, and it feels reverent. Her touch does so many things to me. It turns me on, it riles me up, and it sends me soaring. And now, it makes my heart thunder like a wild animal in my chest. One that wants to be with her, next to her, beside her.

  “More,” I whisper. “Give me more of your kisses.”

  “Take them all,” she tells me.

  I am ravenous for her. I don’t know if I will ever be sated.

  Not with her scent in my head, her body curled around me, and her kisses on my lips and in my soul.

  We might have come in here for one final hurrah, but as we kiss like we can’t ever get enough, this doesn’t feel like the last time for either of us. It doesn’t seem like the end run down the slopes.

  I should keep that thought to myself. But when I’m with her, when she’s close like this, I can’t think rationally. It’s too hard to lie or to pretend like she’s the enemy.

  My rival, yes.

  The competition, yes.

  But she’s also the woman I can’t quit.

  The woman I don’t want to quit.

  My lips travel up her neck, leaving a soft trail of kisses in their wake as I whisper, “It doesn’t feel like the last time.”

  “I don’t want it to be,” she says in a needy rush of breath.

  And like that, with her words, I throw in all the towels. I wave all the white flags. I give in to the opposite of hate.

  We kiss like we’re alone until the end of the world, like nothing else on earth matters.

  Right now, nothing else does.

  Because I just don’t know how to quit her.

  Or that I want to.

  But when a voice echoes through the house, I have to.

  20

  Haven

  Think fast. Alicia is back. Time to MOVE.

  Scrambling out of bed, I tell Josh I’m jumping in the shower and he needs to get dressed like he’s about to escape the zombie apocalypse. You know, if zombies were fast.

  He leaves, and I wash off the smell of sex, get dressed, and swipe on some mascara in minutes.

  Deep breath.

  There.

  No one can tell I experienced the most intense Os of my life. And that’s saying something.

  Slapping on a smile, I stick to the simplest lie. “Oh hi, Alicia. The water was great, thanks so much for suggesting a dip. It was just what I needed. Now let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  Well, it was what I needed. I do seem to need orgasms from him.

  Stop lying to yourself. It’s more than orgasms you need. It’s more than orgasms you want.

  The truth is it’s so incredibly much more. It’s everything. But I can’t have everything.

  Or really, I can’t have anything . . . with him.

  21

  Josh

  There is a whiteboard in the living room. And colored markers—pink, purple, lavender, and mint green.

  Alicia’s four favorite shades, because why pick one, she’d said when the games began.

  Oh, yes. There are games.

  It’s Agent Bingo.

  Alicia bounces on her sneakers and points at the three of us on the living room couch. “A watchmaker calls and asks for Jackson to be the spokesperson for a new line of rugged underwater watches. You say?”

  Is this for real?

  “Why the hell would a tennis star promote underwater watches? There is zero connection,” I state, going first.

  Vaughn chuckles, shouting to the athlete who’s in the open-space kitchen whipping up a smoothie with Lucas. “Jackson, are you moonlighting as Michael Phelps?”

  “I’m Flipper now,” the man of the weekend calls out.

  “Or maybe he’s going to start playing tennis on a yacht? In which case, I’d suggest modeling life jackets,” Haven offers, a clever, unusual answer.

  Alicia slaps her knee. “You guys! You guys are too much. I love you all.” She clears her throat, straightens, and taps the pink marker against the whiteboard. “But let’s dive into this further. Adidas calls. So does Nike. Puma too. How do we evaluate which is best?”

  Like you’re doing now, I want to say.

  “And I ask because . . .” Alicia stops, centers herself, looks to the sky. “Because we want to maximize Jackson’s opportunity now.” She says it with so much vigor, this woman could be a preacher—the fire and brimstone kind.

  “That’s the name of the game in tennis,” I offer. “You have to analyze a deal down to every zero, to every clause. Your biggest revenue growth in this sport comes from endorsements. You don’t have the luxury of negotiating a yearly salary like in the NFL or NBA.”

  “Exactly. The key is to capitalize on media appearances and sponsorship opportunities,” Haven seconds. “So ruthless analysis is critical.”

  “And don’t forget digital rights,” Vaughn adds. “We gotta secure those for our boy.”

  And so the three-way battle royal continues.

  After the rapid-fire questions, Alicia peels us away one by one, sitting us on the deck to answer more questions.

  She stares at me intensely. “Let’s say there comes a time when Jackson’s skills are fading. What do you say to him, Josh?”

  She seems to think it’s a tough question but it’s not. I’ve known the answer since I started in this job post law school. It’s why my clients stay with me. “You have to be honest with clients. There is never any point blowing smoke up his tennis shorts. With honesty comes trust, and trust is what matters most.”

  She rattles off more questions for me, and so it goes the rest of the evening in this strange Jeopardy! meets Family Feud showdown. We’re all in the fishbowl, and it’s odd, but it also makes perfect sense.

  Our clients are on display every second as they play their games. They have to navigate spectators and media and coaches who pick and pull them apart.

  For a few hours, Alicia does the same to us.

  I can’t say it’s my favorite way to vie for work, but I understand the woman’s strategy. I respect her sharp eye, her keen mind, and the intensity that’s borne from a lioness desire to protect her man.

  He seems to need it, because he’s a total softy, content to rib and have fun with his friends.

  Yes, he needs this woman, and judging from the way he dotes on her, drops kisses on her cheek, and flashes her smiles, he doesn’t plan to let her go.

  At dinnertime, Jackson announces he’s whipped up some grilled salmon.

  Alicia laughs. “Please. As if you can cook.”

  “I know how to work a barbecue,” he says, acting offended.

  “You know how to use Grubhub, sweetie.”

  Lucas claps his friend on the back, stage-whispering, “Confession: I ordered the grilled salmon from an app. And it was Caviar, not Grubhub.”

  “Hey, can I be a spokesperson for Caviar? That app is sick,” Jackson says, his dark eyes twinkling with the possibility.

  Lucas side-eyes him. “Dude, you have literally never used it. I do the ordering when you’re hungry.”

  “That is not true. I order when you’re not around,” Jackson says.

  “No. You call and ask me to order for you,” Lucas corrects him.

  “That may be true,” Jackson concedes.

  “That is completely true.”

  Vaughn clears his throat. “Um, gotta side with Lucas on this one, man. He ordered you the blueberry salad from Whole Foods on the way back to the house.”

  I snap my gaze to them. Vaughn was with them on the beach?

  “Yeah, but he knows the address,” Jackson points out.

  “You could memorize it too,” Lucas suggests.

  “Stop that crazy talk.” Jackson smiles sheepishly. “Bring it in. Give me a hug like you love me.”

  Lucas rolls his eyes as he bro-hugs his buddy. “Go eat your salmon. You know I love you like a brother.”

  “Like a blueberry salad–ordering brother,” Vaughn adds, and I briefly meet Haven’s gaze like I can telegraph Did we miss something while we were screwing for the not-last time?

  But I can’t read anything in her eyes, and there’s no time to noodle on what went down on the beach with the blueberry salad because as soon as we sit, Alicia says, “Soooo, this raises an interesting point. What if Caviar wanted Jackson to be a spokesperson?”

  So begins another round of “How many hoops will you jump through to make this man your client?”

  When we finish the meal, Jackson is staring at me. Studying me. My skin prickles from the intensity.

  He sets down his fork. “Do you need a Band-Aid? Some Neosporin?”

  I furrow my brow. “No. Why?”

  “Because you’ve got one helluva—oh, shit. Dude.” He clasps a hand over his mouth, cackling, then lets go. “You have the mother of all hickeys.”

  Fuck.

  Alicia squeals. “Oh my God. You do. You do. Check it out. It looks like Wisconsin.”

  I don’t hazard a glance at Haven. If I meet her gaze, I might break. “The dairy state, you say?” I ask Alicia, deadpan.

  “Like the dairy state was sucked into a tornado. Also, you did not have that on your neck when you arrived this afternoon,” Alicia adds coyly, like a feline playing with her supper.

  “Josh Summers. You’re a tomcat,” Vaughn says, shaking his head in admiration.

  I meet Haven’s eyes for the briefest of seconds. There are stop signs in them, but that’s not necessary. I’d never let on.

  I rub my hand over my neck. “This? Nah. I just—” But before I can say I fell at the pool or I tripped on a rock, I reel those excuses back in. They make me sound like an uncoordinated dumbass. Instead, I lean back in my chair, preen, and sigh contentedly. “What can I say? I took a little stroll when you all were snapping pictures, ran into an old flame, and yada, yada, yada.”

  “You dog!” Jackson punches my shoulder. “Been here a couple hours and getting some yada, yada, yada. What lucky charm are you carrying?”

  “I want all the details,” Alicia says, waggling her fingertips.

  “Yes, Josh. Tell us everything,” Vaughn adds, batting his eyes.

  I don’t need Jason’s podcasts or advice on this subject. Still, I hear his voice in my head, reminding me what I know to be true.

  A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep Wisconsin all to myself,” I say, and even as the crew tries to pry out of me the story behind the state on my neck and the state of my neck, I keep my mouth shut.

  After all, I’ve become quite good at hiding my feelings for Haven.

  At least, I think I have.

  Somehow, I make it through the rest of the evening without touching her, kissing her, or whispering in her ear.

  Without telling her all the things I want.

  All the things I need.

  They’re one and the same.

  Her.

  And the need hasn’t gone away after this afternoon’s tryst. It’s only grown stronger.

  So strong, in fact, that when we mingle on the deck after dinner, drinking beer and wine and chatting about the Hamptons, I’m counting down the minutes till I can excuse myself.

  It’s unlike me to want to be anyplace else but right where I am—with clients or potential clients.

  It’s not my style to want to jet.

  But it’s my style tonight, even when I learn that Jackson and Lucas had simply caught up with Vaughn on the beach as he finished his volleyball game, then walked back with him.

  That’s all. There was no secret moment between Vaughn and the guys. I can steer this ship home. I can win this client. I know how to do it. It’s what I’ve always done. The field is still wide open, as far as I know.

  Part of me wonders if I should stay out here, hanging with them. That’s what I’d normally do. Be the last one to close down the proverbial bar, cementing my position as head of the pack, first choice.

  And yet, I don’t want to hang here.

  I say good night, head for bed, and find myself plotting the best strategy to sneak into Haven’s room.

  But she beats me to it.

  22

  Josh

  The ocean breeze wafts through the open window. Moonlight streams in, silhouetting her in the dark as she slides the door to the adjoining bathroom closed then stands against the wall, like she’s striking a pose.

  It’s a pose I can’t tear my eyes away from. A vision I don’t want to erase.

  She wears a pink tank top and cotton shorts as she fidgets with the ends of her hair.

  Haven’s not a nervous person. Years in the spotlight trained her. But right now, she seems out of her element.

  I set down the book I was reading on top of the covers next to me.

  A thousand questions form on my tongue. A hundred quips.

  Fancy meeting you here.

  Need some toothpaste?

  Want to share a blanket?

  But for a guy who talks all day, who finesses deals with savvy wordsmithing, I’m at a loss to utter anything but “Hey.”

  “Hey.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips then twists her hair again. “I was thinking I would really like to sleep with my hair in a French braid tonight.”

  Slow and warm, a smile spreads across my face. And that warmth travels farther—down my body, all over my skin.

  “Sure. Call it the midnight special. My overnight service.”

  She laughs. “I’ll take your overnight service. No one delivers quite like you.”

  This is why I called it a night. For this possibility. I’m a thousand times happier that she’s here than I’d be if Jackson and Alicia commanded a private audience with me this evening. I don’t even care if Vaughn is kicking back with them on the deck.

  I don’t give a hoot because this is what I want most in the whole damn world.

  “Come here,” I say softly, patting the bed and the space between my legs.

  Quietly, she pads across the floor, gets on my bed, and scoots back, settling between my legs. She shakes out her hair. I thread my hands through her hair, prepping it.

  I want to lean my face into the strands, inhale her scent, get drunk on her smell. So I do, bringing my nose to her head and enjoying a long, delicious hit of her.

  She laughs lightly. “Does that help you do my hair?”

  “I didn’t do it because it’s helpful,” I say as I finger-comb a section of her hair into three pieces.

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Because I’m addicted to your smell,” I say.

  “Be careful. I hear you might get hooked,” she warns playfully.

  As I weave the strands, I say, “Too late. Already there.”

  Her breath hitches, and she says in the faintest of voices, “Me too.”

  I grit my teeth, willing myself to focus on the task at hand. Her hair. Not this desire to wrap my arms around her, to flip her over, to kiss her from head to toe.

  I’m keenly aware I’m no longer fighting my feelings. I’m not fighting a damn thing with her. This is not Las Vegas. This is not the time we pretended we could barely stand each other.

  This is a whole new ball game, and I don’t have the rule book. But I don’t want it either. I’m making everything up as I go along. Figuring out the new borders and boundaries, and if there even are any.

  Quietly I braid, and with every weave, she slides a little closer.