He lifts his palm and swats my ass.

  Smack!

  The noise is resounding. I cry out from the pain, but the pain ignites me. It shoots through me, transforming into a world of pleasure.

  Then endless pleasure, as he does it again and again, stroking, going deeper each time. Soon, all the sensations spiral into a filthy, beautiful storm. And I’m not thinking at all anymore. I’m not making any choices.

  Except for this one. To let him take me there, as the desire inside of me builds and crests.

  Then it breaks beautifully as I come hard, without any words, with only incoherent sounds and noises of ecstasy in a strangled voice.

  I moan and cry out till I’m so far gone I almost forget what I want most.

  But he doesn’t.

  Because he pulls out, rips off the condom, and grunts. “Watch me. Watch me now.”

  I crane my neck, thrilling at the hottest sight ever. Callum with his hand furiously stroking his length, his forearm muscles flexing as he moves at a fevered pace, his hips bucking. He shuts his eyes, his jaw clenched, then he grits out my name as he comes hard on my ass, groaning as he covers me in his release.

  When he opens his eyes, he takes one big palm and smears his come all over my skin.

  And I swear that sight is as intense as the two orgasms he wrung from the very center of my soul.

  Maybe more.

  Because it’s what I get off to every night.

  It’s as perfect as a night can be.

  The problem is, I don’t know how we’ll return to normal tomorrow.

  Or what normal is after that kind of intimacy.

  8

  Callum

  This is wrong.

  So damn wrong.

  And I should get the hell away from her before I touch her again, take her again.

  I should be far, far away from the irresistible Ivy Carmichael.

  Because once was not enough.

  That did not sate me.

  But it would be more wrong to leave.

  Besides, I know what she needs now, and I want her to feel good, to fully, completely relax. I pull up my pants, grab a tissue, and clean her back, then lift her into my arms. “Come here, beautiful. Let’s run you a bath.”

  “Mmm,” she murmurs against my chest, as I carry her from her office across the plush sapphire-blue carpeting to the massive bathroom in her penthouse suite—a bathroom that’s bigger than some homes.

  I set her on the edge of the spacious tub, and she’s still blissed-out, sex-drunk and happy. God, it’s a great look, and I’d love to put it on her face again and again.

  That’s the trouble.

  I reach for the tap, turning it on.

  “This is perfect,” she says, murmuring.

  “I thought you might enjoy it.”

  She draws a deep breath, sighing happily. “But I think I could also fall asleep right now.”

  “Do you want me to turn this off?”

  She shakes her head. “I never turn down a bath.”

  I grin, then try to hide it. I should not enjoy knowing these things about her so much. I should not be delighting in all the little details my brain is privy to about the hotel heiress. Like how she likes to unwind at the end of the day. How she likes her cocktails and a little music. How she wants a massage or a bath. How she likes warm, fuzzy socks when she gets into bed at night.

  And how so much of that comes from her mom. “She always said take care of everyone else, but at the end of the day, take care of yourself so you can replenish for the next day,” Ivy told me once, quoting her mother.

  Yes, Ivy comes from ridiculous wealth.

  From absolute privilege.

  But she also has a good heart, comes from a good family. She’s tried to do good with what she has, to give back, giving so much of her money away to help others—to charities benefiting children and animals, and to scientific research.

  Those are all part and parcel of why she’s so damn attractive.

  Everything about her lures me to her.

  Including this gorgeous, sinful body.

  Which is why I should leave.

  But I desperately want to stay.

  I want to stay the whole damn night, and into the next day, and the next.

  I clench my teeth, like I can fight off my longing for her with grit and brute strength.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, perhaps sensing the tension in me. She lifts a hand, touching my jaw. “You look wound up.”

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  Her brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” I try to stick to simple answers, because anything more might lead to me cracking open my heart to her, and that won’t do at all.

  “Okay.” Her expression goes a little sheepish. “Do you mind popping out for a second? I have to pee.”

  I laugh at the request.

  “Hey! Peeing is normal,” she says.

  “I’m well aware,” I say, standing.

  “Especially after epic sex,” she adds.

  I groan, half wishing she didn’t just remind me of how utterly amazing that was.

  I make my way to the door. “I can just go.”

  Her expression turns to steel. “No. Come back in a minute.”

  I leave, shutting the door behind me, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. I pace through her suite, stopping at the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Strip.

  It’s barely nine.

  Night is only now beginning.

  Across the way, the fountains at the Bellagio sway in their nighttime dance, arcing over the lake in front of the hotel.

  The sleek Cosmopolitan glitters nearby.

  And in here, I’m surrounded by all this soft sensuality, by beauty, by jewels.

  One man, alone at the top of a luxury hotel owned by the woman he just slept with. A woman he should not have touched.

  I can’t possess the fountains. I can’t have the lights on the Strip, and I damn well can’t keep Ivy Carmichael as mine.

  I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool glass. I want to go to my father and ask him what the hell I should do. Turn to him for advice, as I’ve always done when I’ve needed an anchor, a guide. He’d open the door, let me in, offer me a beer.

  Then tell me to listen to my head.

  But I don’t have to ask him, because I know the answer he’d give me.

  There is only one answer.

  Do your job, son.

  Guilt claws at me, scratching at my chest.

  I don’t have a clear head around Ivy, and I need clarity to do my job. To take care of her.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I force myself to recall the emailed letters from her stalker. Your parents asked me to look out for you. Your father needed me to, since he wouldn’t be here to care for his family anymore. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I watch you.

  They were all lies based on information assembled from public records, from details anyone could glean about one of the city’s best-known families.

  The man who followed her one night, right up to the elevator bank as she was about to step inside a lift, could have been anyone.

  That’s what I have to remember.

  He was anyone, and he got too near to her.

  And I have to make sure no one gets that close to her again.

  I turn around, march back to the bathroom, and rap on the open door.

  “Come in,” she calls out, her voice a siren song.

  Don’t let it affect you, man. Don’t let it affect you at all.

  But everything about her affects me. Including, and maybe especially, the way she looks in that tub.

  Dear God.

  Give me the strength to resist the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.

  She’s in the tub, surrounded by bubbles, her blonde curls piled high on her head in a messy bun, her face glowing.

  Like she’s just been fucked good, and she has. Oh hell, has she ever.

  “Sit,” she says, patting the edge of the tub.

  Rubbing a hand across the back of my neck, I cross the distance to her, my shoes echoing against the tiled floor. I do as she asks.

  She licks her lips. “We should talk. I can tell you’re stressed.”

  I push out a laugh. “That’s what I say to you, Ivy.”

  “I can read you too, Callum. I can tell what’s going on behind those eyes.” Her tone is like a caress, kind and caring.

  I swallow roughly. “Yeah? You can?”

  She nods. “I can.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  Her expression shifts from soft to deadly serious. “That you regret this.”

  I flinch, my voice gruff. “Never. I don’t regret this in the least. Never think that. Because I don’t.”

  She arches a brow. “Are you sure, Callum?”

  “I am positive. Being with you was incredible. It was everything I dreamed of,” I say, giving her the bare truth.

  “Me too.”

  “It was a gift,” I add, my throat tight. I drag a hand through my hair, mussing it up. “I don’t regret it,” I say, heaving a sigh. I hate to do this. I hate to say this. But I have to be honest. “But, Ivy, I have to do my job. I have to protect you. I can’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

  She nods, her lips pressed together, looking so tough, so stoic. And it’s killing me.

  “If anything happened to you, do you know what it would do to me?”

  “What would it do to you?”

  Kill me, I want to say. It’d kill me. “I won’t let it happen,” I say, answering my own question indirectly.

  She lifts a hand from the water, stretches toward me, and cups my cheek. “You’ve never let anything happen to me. You’ve protected me every night for the last year,” she says, her wet hand against my face. A tiny smile tugs at her lips. “You have bubbles on you.”

  I give her a small smile in return. “Because you are the queen of bubble baths.”

  With her free hand, she pretends to splash some water at me. “You should join me.”

  I groan, wanting to, desperate to. Instead, I clasp my hand over hers on my face, holding it there. “That guy could have hurt you. He could have seriously injured you. And his jail sentence was only for three months.”

  “And he hasn’t been here since. No one has gotten near me. Your team is amazing. You’re amazing. I don’t even get creepy emails.”

  “Good. That’s how it should be. That’s how it needs to be.”

  She draws a breath, her tone heavy. “You don’t think we should do this again.” She takes a beat. “Do you?”

  She looks at me, so vulnerable, so open, and I want to rip off my shirt, shed my pants, get in there with her, and take her in my arms.

  Hold her.

  But I don’t want to slip.

  Mistakes are deadly.

  Mistakes cost lives.

  My father taught me that. If you can’t do an important job at 100 percent, don’t do it at all. There is too much risk.

  He worked in security too. There is always risk in our field.

  I bring her hand to my mouth, kissing her knuckles softly and tenderly. “Ivy Carmichael, there is nothing I want more than to have you again. To be with you every damn night. But my mission is to keep you safe. I don’t want to cloud my judgment. I need to focus to do my job.”

  She seems to absorb this, her lips quivering for a second, then she nods, fierce and tough. “And we’re friends too. I’ve come to see you as my friend. You know what? I want you as my friend.”

  My heart squeezes. I don’t deserve her sweetness. “You’re my friend too.”

  “So, tonight was like Stone’s concert. One night only. We won’t let it happen again,” she says.

  “Exactly.”

  I stay there for a few more minutes on the edge of her tub, making small talk about Stone, laughing about him, talking about music and her sister and this city, and it all feels so natural, like we can slide right back into the way we were.

  As if tonight never happened.

  But if I don’t leave soon, I never will. I stand. “Do you want a towel?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I cross over to the towel rack, grab a fluffy one, and return to her. She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “I guess you better turn around.”

  Nothing pains me more than looking away when she rises from the tub. Nothing. All I want is to wrap this around her, carry her to bed, and kiss her everywhere.

  Then take her again.

  I want to make it hurt and then make her feel good.

  Instead, I tear myself away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I leave, and it’s like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. Because there is no way I’m getting her out of my system.

  Ever.

  9

  Ivy

  This is how we return to normal.

  By being . . . business as usual.

  And business as usual includes morning to noon to night meetings.

  The first week is the hardest—the memories are the freshest. Every time I see Callum, I’m plunged back into a reel of images of him taking me on my desk, owning my body.

  In the morning, I wake thinking of his smile, his laughter, his big, warm heart.

  The idea of him lingers with me, floating around me all day long—both sides of the man I want.

  I try my best to stay in the moment with each person I meet. Finalizing menus, organizing cocktails, and confirming our PR.

  Exactly seven days after soul-shattering, mind-bending sex, I finish a breakfast meeting with my floor manager, Jen, patting myself virtually on the back for having only thought of Callum three times during the meeting.

  My daytime bodyguard, Russ, waits outside Jen’s office. The hulking six-foot-seven tree of a man follows behind when we leave, then when I say goodbye by the craps tables. “Have fun at the musical this weekend. I know Madison will be the best Wednesday her high school has ever seen,” I say, since Jen’s seventeen-year-old daughter is performing in The Addams Family this weekend.

  “I can’t wait. I don’t know who’s more nervous. Her or me,” the pretty brunette says with a smile.

  “I’ll send her flowers.”

  I wave, then head to the stairs, making my way to my offices, as Russ walks next to me, earpiece in, saying something I can’t make out.

  For a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s talking to Callum back at the office.

  But I try to flush the thoughts of the man I want from my head.

  When we reach the corporate offices, Russ opens the door, and I step inside.

  “Thank you, Russ.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Carmichael.”

  He is all business, as a bodyguard should be, I suppose.

  In my office I find Sage, Kate, and Raphael waiting for me. Sage and I are fraternal twins. Both blonde and blue-eyed, and both a little taller than average. We look close enough that some people ask if we’re identical, but different enough that most don’t.

  Kate waggles her fingers in a hello. She runs a marketing firm The Extravagant contracts with and is also president of the book club we’re in. “Hey there. Good to see you in between fiction and memoirs.”

  “Yes, we must keep meeting like this,” I say, with my best cheery grin.

  “I’m psyched to get to work on planning this concert,” Kate says.

  “It’s going to be amazing,” Raphael chimes in. He’s on the events team here at The Extravagant.

  “We have our work cut out for us,” Sage chimes in.

  They’re on a soft, plush couch. I sit across from them in a comfy chair. “We do indeed. I spoke with Stone’s manager, and he wants to do the show in exactly five weeks. So, we will be busy, busy, busy.”

  The next thirty-five days will be more like an all-consuming storm. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I’m grateful for both the opportunity and the distraction from thoughts of Callum.

  His hands on me.

  His hands all over me.

  His hands everywhere.

  Squeezing, kneading, grabbing.

  Giving me the hottest, dirtiest sex of my life that freed my mind, that relaxed me, that made me feel like all my wishes weren’t . . . base.

  My late-night desires have always felt a little inappropriate.

  A bit too naughty.

  As if something might be wrong with me for promoting luxury, sensuality, and beauty during the day, and wanting filth at night.

  “Earth to Ivy.” Sage waves from her spot on the couch. “You kind of zoned out there.”

  I blink, trying to center myself. “Sorry, I was distracted for a second.” I fight like hell to shake away the thoughts of Callum.

  After all, I should be this woman. The one I am now. The co-CEO who envisions gorgeous lobby displays, who embraces music, art, luxury.

  Not the woman who loves porn, filth, and muscular men who take matters into their own hands.

  God, I watch too many dirty videos at night.

  My internet is getting to know me far too well.

  And I’m getting to know two-dimensional men far too well.

  But right now, I have to be the public face of this gorgeous hotel, not the freak in the sheets.

  “Anything in particular?” my sister asks, a little coyly. “Don’t make me use my twin mind-reading powers to figure it out.”

  “You wish you had mind-reading powers,” I fire back, praying she never develops such abilities—anyone who could see into my mind would be shocked.

  The woman in Louboutins likes it rough. Likes it to hurt. Likes to be . . . dirtied.

  “I can read you, and I bet you have a crush on Stone,” Sage says, with a glint in her eye.

  I laugh, then cough. If she only knew who all my feelings were for, all my lust, though admittedly Stone is empirically handsome. “A crush on his music,” I say, clarifying.

  “But you have to admit, he is wickedly handsome,” Raphael says.

  “And mega-talented,” Kate adds.

  “What’s he like?” Raphael asks, leaning forward, eyes wide and eager. “I’m dying to know. Is he the playboy they all say he is?”

  I cut that off at the knees. “I don’t think we should be discussing whether he’s a playboy or not. His private life is just that—private. But I will tell you this—he’s a great guy. A wonderful friend. And he has a big heart,” I say. Funny, how I met him once, for only a short while, but I already feel protective of Stone too. There was such vulnerability in him, and it was thoroughly endearing.