“Good. I hope not,” I say, more vulnerable than I like.

  He turns his body toward me, like he’s shielding us from the rest of the dining room. “Know this. I’m not trying to woo someone or win someone over. I’m not asking you for instruction. I’m not actually asking you for anything.”

  I blink, suddenly bloody fucking lost. “You’re not?”

  “No. You assumed I was,” he points out, reaching for his fork and returning to his meal. “I didn’t ask for lessons in seduction. And I’m not going to beg for sex unless we’re in bed.” He takes a bite of his steak, chews, then finishes. “You want to know what I want, Rafe?”

  Desperately. “I’m dying to know.”

  His eyes glimmer with heat and want. “I want to feel good. I want to feel good with you. I want to feel all the things I’ve watched in videos. That’s what I want. And I want it with you. Just you.”

  He’s laid it all on the line, spelling out his desires in a way I can’t miss. It’s so insanely sexy, it’s a struggle not to pounce on him.

  I want to give this man everything he craves in bed, and I absolutely can.

  I inch closer to him and set a hand on his thigh. “I can give you all of that, but I think there’s something you left out.”

  “What’s that?” he asks, intrigued.

  I raise my fork and take my sweet time savoring my salmon, then I meet his dirty gaze. “You want me to get you off in public.”

  He blinks but says nothing. I’ve rendered the mouthy man speechless. Excellent.

  “You have an exhibitionist kink, Gunnar,” I add.

  He swallows roughly. Looks at me with heat in his eyes. “Do I?” His voice is heady, raspy.

  “You do.” I set down my fork, push the plate away, and wipe my hands on my napkin. “And I’ll take care of it right now.”

  20

  UNDER THE TABLE

  Rafe

  I assess the scene at The West House. Servers are in the kitchen; the bartender mixes a drink. A few other couples linger, and they’re caught up in their own worlds, maybe their own plans for seduction.

  But my regular booth affords some privacy, and a tablecloth hangs over the edge of our table.

  Just enough risk.

  I inch closer to Gunnar and curl a hand tightly around his muscular thigh. His breath hitches, which makes me grin. Gunnar is so responsive. The slightest touch and he lights up.

  “I think everything I do arouses you,” I whisper in his ear.

  “Gee, I wonder how you figured that out.”

  “My astute powers of observation,” I say, chuckling at his sarcasm. He won’t be able to rely on sardonic quips while he’s begging to come.

  My hand slides closer to where he wants me. Then, since I’m feeling generous, because he was so open tonight, I dip my face to his neck, and I bite.

  He hisses—a sharp, hot sound. He darts his gaze at me then around the room as if checking whether anyone heard him. I soothe the bite with the tip of my tongue along his neck, and my hand edges closer to his throbbing erection. “You’re going to have to be so fucking quiet for what I have planned,” I say in a smoky rasp. Then I shrug. “Or not, depending on your kink.”

  “You’re the one telling me what my kink is.”

  “I don’t hear you arguing,” I say, flicking my tongue against his earlobe as I squeeze his cock. Then I squeeze harder and bite down on his lobe at the same time.

  My reward is a full-body shudder. A staggered breath. His flush of desire.

  “I wonder if you can even be quiet,” I muse.

  “I can,” he insists. There’s not so much sarcasm now. Just his desire to please me.

  In fact, I’d like him to be silent. That’s my kink—setting the scene. “One rule,” I say, my palm moving up and down along the ridge of his erection. “If you make a noise, I’ll stop.”

  His throat rumbles, but he’s careful not to let out an accompanying moan. He simply nods his understanding.

  Oh, he’s going to be so fun to turn all the way on.

  My fingers travel lazily to the button on his jeans, unsnapping it.

  He turns his face an inch toward me, awareness fully registering in his eyes. They widen farther as I gently tug down the zipper.

  “Are you really doing this?” he whispers.

  “Did you want me to stop?” I ask innocently, taking my hand off his erection.

  He shakes his head.

  “Good. Because I don’t play games when I play games.” Then I shove my hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs—mine, they’re fucking mine, with my name on them—and I squeeze his cock hard.

  He throws his head back, a rough grunt escaping his lips, and I stop. “I can’t go on if you’re going to be so noisy,” I say. “What would happen? I might lose my membership. You wouldn’t want that.”

  Again, he silently shakes his head.

  “Good. Be fucking quiet now,” I instruct.

  He swallows, nods obediently. Mouths, I will.

  “Of course you will,” I say, my hand returning to his cock. “Because you’ve been getting off to thoughts of me since the night we met. You’ve wanted me to touch you since the dance floor.”

  A savage nod is his answer.

  I give him more of what he wants, wrapping my fingers more tightly around his shaft. He’s hot and thick, smooth and steely, and he’s pulsing in my hand.

  “And I know how much you want me because of this.” I drag my thumb along the head of his cock, swiping off a drop of arousal. I let go, bring it to his lips.

  He parts them as I rub the pad of my thumb along his bottom lip. Then I reward my temporary lover with a hard, deep kiss as I set my palm on his shaft again.

  His entire body shakes as I kiss him while I stroke him. He greedily takes my kisses along with the chance to moan and groan into my mouth.

  I pick up the pace on his shaft, using his own arousal to ease the path. He grunts, his right hand gripping the edge of the table, his left, scrabbling for a hold on me, finally settling on the waistband of my trousers.

  As I stroke him, savoring the feel of his throbbing shaft, I reach into my pocket and take out a tin of lip balm. Letting go of his cock, I smear some onto my hand then return to stroking him with wicked intent.

  “You like being watched,” I whisper. “Like when you play baseball. All those eyes on you.” He shudders, and I smile against his ear. “I’m right. Tell me I’m right. You can speak.”

  “You’re right,” he says. Or, really, grunts.

  My hand flies faster. The feel of his shaft in my fist is incredible. “And it gives you a bigger thrill that I’m going to jack you off right here, under the table, at my private club,” I whisper.

  “So much,” he groans, his cock jumping in my hand.

  He digs his teeth into his lip as I work him hard. “If I ever fuck you in my home, you can shout, you can growl like an animal. You can call my name.”

  His shoulders shake and he nods.

  “But right here, don’t say a word,” I tell him. “You’ll do as I require, won’t you, when you shoot all over my hand in a few seconds?”

  He nods at rocket speed.

  “Good. You’re a fast learner,” I tell him, gripping him tight, my fist a hot tunnel.

  He shifts, punching his hips a little under the table, asking for more contact, more speed.

  “You want it faster? Harder?”

  Another nod.

  Both. He wants both.

  I give it to him. My fist flies under his briefs, the makeshift lube just enough with his own liquid arousal helping me along. He’s so fucking turned on I can get him over the edge in a few more strokes.

  “If we were in my penthouse right now, I’d bite the inside of your thighs. I’d smack your ass. I’d twist your nipples,” I say.

  Letting go of my waistband, he slams his fist against his mouth, jamming his knuckles against his teeth.

  Well then, I suppose I should help him out. I bring my lips to his gorgeous, lush mouth, peel off his hand, and whisper, “Come.”

  I seal my mouth to his and I kiss him wildly, swallowing all his sounds, all his noises while he shudders and spills over my hand.

  I’m dizzy with pleasure—the pleasure of making him feel incredible.

  This is another first for Gunnar and it belongs to me.

  All mine.

  Only mine.

  The thought shocks me. Where did that come from, that desire to possess him?

  Do I want him to be . . . mine? Mine at night? Or perhaps mine as part of an arrangement. Something with limits.

  Once his breathing starts to slow, I reach for a paper napkin and wipe off my hand. I tell him I’ll return after I clean up and then he can do the same.

  A few minutes later, we are both back at the table.

  Gunnar still looks drunk on lust, but I’m focused on deal-making. As he finishes the last remnant of his meal and I enjoy another drink, I work through exactly how I’m going to make my proposal.

  21

  SOME KIND OF SEX MACGYVER

  Gunnar

  The thing about hand jobs is you’d almost always rather have a blow job.

  That’s been my belief ever since, well, hormones.

  Until tonight.

  As Rafe and I get up from the table and make our way through the dining room of The West House, I tell him, “I’m going to mark this day in my calendar.”

  He gives me an eyebrow arch, an invitation to go on.

  And I will. A lot.

  “Today is the day I discovered there are two types of hand jobs. Regular hand jobs. And Rafe jobs.”

  He laughs, and that rich, deep sound sets off a burst of pride. I’m glad I can make him laugh. I like the occasional smile I see from the serious man.

  We pass the hostess stand on the way out, and Rafe nods to the woman in skinny jeans. “Goodnight, Bethany.”

  Her expression is cheery and professional, giving nothing away as she says, “Goodnight. Mr. Rodman.”

  How much does she know about the clandestine affairs that go on here? I steal a glance back toward the dining room as we leave. We can’t be the only couple to indulge in under-the-table PDA.

  This night has been a revelation of who I am and what I want when it comes to sex.

  I feel a rush of appreciation for people like Bethany, discreet and poised, who open doors, help make desires come true. “Thanks for everything, Bethany,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.” For a second, I wish she’d add, “Will we see you again?”

  It would be an excellent question and one I want to know the answer to. Would Rafe want to bring me back here? And more crucially, what would he do to me on a return visit?

  Incendiary images flash before my eyes as we leave the club and all its discretion behind. I want another invitation to The West House with Rafe. I want an invitation to . . . everywhere with him.

  I want to try all the things—in private and sometimes in public.

  Rafe was right when he stared me in the eyes and told me he knew what turned me on.

  At the elevator, Rafe presses the call button, then glances my way. “I’m delighted to learn you enjoyed the Rafe job,” he says drily, so very understated.

  But there’s a hint of a smile on his face, and I want to keep it there. “I hope I’ve got my sea legs back by the time I get on the plane for New York tomorrow. It’s kind of a miracle that I can walk right now.”

  “Well, praise the Lord, then,” he says.

  I pat his chest. “You’re also some kind of sex MacGyver. Best life hack ever with that lip balm.”

  “Keeps lips soft and has other uses.”

  “That it does.”

  Then, he turns down the smile and turns up the intensity in his brown eyes. “I wanted to make it good for you,” he says. “I wanted to blow your mind.”

  There’s an unspoken question there, giving me a glimpse of the man behind the walls he’s erected. He truly wants me to be blown away. “Mission accomplished,” I say. I could blather on about how utterly fucking amazing it was, but I leave it at that, trying to keep a tiny bit of cool.

  The elevator arrives, and we step inside. Before the doors even shut, he grabs me, pushes me in the corner, and silences any more conversation with a hot, deep kiss that ends far too soon when we reach the first floor.

  The kiss is full of his distinct kind of possession.

  That’s what made the hand job earth-shattering. I could feel his ownership.

  On the street, I glance up at the sleek, austere building that houses a decadent private club I never knew existed. I take a moment to admire it. To get my bearings too.

  I feel a little . . . unlocked. I know why I’m so intensely drawn to certain things—dancing at Edge like I did the night I met Rafe, posting a thirst trap on my social, then sending that very sexy video.

  Something inside me was urging me on, telling me to go, see, explore.

  But it’s so revealing, so exposing, and I’m not sure I want to linger in this hyper self-aware state around Rafe—a man who’s older, wiser, so much more experienced.

  So, I fall back on what I always do when I feel the ground getting shaky under me: swagger and charm.

  “Well,” I say brightly, “I’m going to give The West House five stars in my online review.”

  Rafe laughs. “Oh, good. I know they were angling for fresh reviews,” he says.

  I put a hand on his shoulder as we head to where his limo idles at the end of the block. “Don’t worry, babes. I know it’s a secret thing. When you joined, did they tap on your door at midnight and drag you off, blindfolded, for an initiation ritual?”

  “Yes. There was a ritual,” Rafe says as we near his limo. “It involved a signature on a big check.”

  The mention of money is another reminder that Rafe comes from another world. I do just fine as a major leaguer, but it’s early in my career. I’m not rolling in dough, and a big chunk of what I make goes to college tuition for my brother and sister, and to help my mom out here and there. She did so much for us growing up after my dad died far too soon. I work hard and don’t take for granted the chance that I have to play ball in the big leagues.

  But Rafe is in another class. Like, private-yacht class—some opulent one hundred twenty-foot thing with a stateroom, a king-size bed, and a private chef. I can picture him on one so perfectly, all sun-kissed and windswept on the deck, staring grandly at the ocean.

  I’d ask if he actually has a yacht, but it would sound like I was angling for him to take me on it. He wouldn’t like that. It would be almost certainly against one of his rules.

  I don’t need a ride on his yacht anyway. I just want to know the guy and learn more about who he is.

  And whoa . . .

  I need to shut that shit down, stat.

  When Barrett comes around and opens the limo door, I slap on a smile, draw a deep breath of night air, then gesture vaguely in the direction of my neighborhood. “It’s a nice night. I think I’ll walk home. Goodnight, babes,” I say.

  Then I head in the other direction.

  22

  CAUGHT STEALING

  Gunnar

  As I walk up the block, night cloaking me in a chill, I wish I felt as ballsy leaving the limo as I do when stealing second base.

  On the diamond, I take no prisoners. I calculate, and then I go for it, muscling and hustling out plays. There, the team depends on me.

  Walking away from Rafe is an act of self-preservation.

  I swear I’m about to pull it off when I hear leather soles slapping the concrete—wingtips, unless I miss my guess, and I won’t—coming closer. With a heavy sigh, I hunt for a plan B. At the corner, though, Rafe darts out his arm and grabs mine, tugging me to a stop.

  “Where are you going?”

  I don’t turn around. “Just walking home,” I mutter.

  “You’re lying.” He says it like it costs him something to control his temper.

  I scoff. “I live in Hayes Valley,” I say, gesturing in that direction. “I’m literally walking home.”

  “That’s easily four miles away.”

  He doesn’t loosen the grip on my wrist. Maybe I don’t want him to. Maybe some part of me wanted him to chase me.

  I shrug, still not facing him. “I like exercise.”

  “So do I. But you’re not walking home for exercise. You’re running away from me.”

  This man is no bullshit. I can’t get away with anything with him. He has X-ray vision, and it’s terrifying.

  I face him at last, head up, man to man. “Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. The private suite, the club tonight. The dinner, the limo—everything. But I do like to walk, and you don’t have to take me home.”

  He sighs, annoyed, and shakes his head. “Gunnar, I’m not going to keep chasing you.”

  Yup. X-ray glasses. Dammit.

  I sigh, shoulders slumping. “Look, I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.” That is true. I don’t want to get caught up in him, and his generosity is part of what makes him so appealing.

  “You’re not,” he says. “I wanted to take you there. I want to take you home.” His exhale is too sharp to call a sigh. “But if you’re going to keep running off into the night, I’m done.”

  I blink. I didn’t expect him to be so blunt, but I shouldn’t be shocked. Rafe has always laid out the choice and said take me or leave me.

  But the choice is still open. I might as well take the second chance.

  “If you insist.” I flash a smile, laying on the charm and hoping it lessens his irritation.

  It does not.

  He rolls his eyes. “Get in the fucking car. And if you keep this up, I will tie you up and smack your ass,” he murmurs.

  And just like that, I’ve got another fantasy to add to my list. “Seems like we’d both win then.”

  “Yes, we would. That’s my point, Gunnar. We can both win. Now, let’s go.”