I slump. “Turns out I’m a terrible spy. I realized about ten minutes into our night that I wasn’t going to be able to extract anything, and I’d also feel like a complete ass if I did. So, there you go. You get two confessions for the price of one.”

  He leans across the table, sets a hand on my head. “Go in peace, my child.” Then his fingers travel a few inches down my hair, sending a traitorous sizzle across my scalp and along my neck. “Also, I’ll tell you all about it. Just come a little closer.” He pauses, tugs me toward him, licks his lips. Those lips. “My presentation is going to be . . . spectacular.”

  He lets go, and I roll my eyes. “You ass.”

  “You spy.”

  “I admitted I spied!”

  “I admitted I’m awesome.”

  “Exasperating. You are still Lucas Exasperating Xavier.”

  “And you are still as fiery as ever. And just as competitive. It’s insanely sexy, so watch out, Dumont. The more you try to spy on me, the more it might turn me on.”

  A grin takes over my face.

  A wicked, naughty grin.

  “Now let’s see how competitive you are on the lanes,” he says.

  We play a quick round, and when I beat him, I can’t help but wonder if that turns him on too.

  He pays for the game and dinner, then grabs the bag of clothes and the guitars and nods to the door. “After you.”

  “Let me carry something,” I say when we’re on the street.

  “Nah, I’m playing a gentleman tonight.” Then he goes quiet for a few seconds. Maybe more. “Unless you don’t want me to be a gentleman?”

  Sparks shoot up my spine, lighting me up, making me hot.

  Is that what I want?

  Or do I want this renewed friendship?

  I want both. That’s the trouble. But how can I have both?

  Especially when there’s something else I need more.

  As I cast my eyes on the guitars, the reminder of tonight’s mission hits me square in the solar plexus. We have three more to-do-list items to complete, and less than forty-eight hours to do so. It’s already ten p.m.

  “That is an excellent question,” I say, dodging the implications for now as I return to Harrison’s jump-through-hoops email. “But another important question is the debate Rowan and Luna had.” I recite from the email. “Remember that debate over who was better at leading and who was better at following? You had it the night you took a certain class. You’ll find your iPad there.”

  “Ah, yes. The mission.” The words are tinged with disappointment, but it’s gone quickly, and then he’s upbeat again as he looks at his watch. “Let’s hope Harrison left it someplace that’s still open. We can knock out a third one tonight, and I suspect from that clue that they took a dance class.”

  My smile brightens. “Yes! That’s what I was going to say too. Ballroom dance. Leading and following.”

  “Because of course they’d argue over who was better at that,” he says as we cross the street, reaching my block.

  “Such an important debate to have.” I cycle through my memory bank, trying to recall if Luna mentioned a dance class. “Salsa? Rhumba? Cha-cha? Fox-trot?” I laugh as I remember Peyton’s teasing texts from earlier. “Maybe it was the tango.”

  Lucas is silent for a moment. “Actually, that may be it. Rowan always wanted to learn to tango.”

  I snap my fingers, wheel toward him, and clasp a hand on his shoulder. “Yes! You’re right. I had tango on my mind because of something Peyton said. But Luna mentioned it before too. She said something about getting a red tango dress. They must have taken tango lessons. But who the hell knows where?”

  He looks at my hand, his voice low and raspy when he says, “Exactly. There are a ton of dance studios in this city.”

  I sigh, frustration coursing through me. “Let me try to get an answer from her.” I grab my phone and send a text to my sister, asking where she took tango. But I know she won’t answer. That stupid boat and its stupid lack of cell service.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket. “You can take ballroom dancing anywhere. Hotels have classes. Broadway rehearsal studios have classes. Freaking nightclubs have classes.”

  “I can try Rowan. I’ll send him a text when we get to your place, but I doubt he’ll reply. I haven’t heard a word from him all day, and I sent a few messages right after I read the original email this morning. No reply.”

  I grit my teeth but push my annoyance aside. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, keeping positive. “We figured out Pin-Up Lanes and the cheese shop. We will figure out the tango place. And I’ll shoot Harrison an email to let him know we’re on track to meet his deadline.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear it. Seems like such a delightful guy.” Lucas flashes a crooked grin. “But we’re kind of brilliant, if you think about it. We can definitely crack the code on . . . tango lessons.” Those last two words roll off his tongue with a Latin flavor. He came to the US so young that he never speaks with an accent. But he can slip into a Brazilian one when he needs to, and the sound thrums through me, igniting another wave of sparks.

  “Tango sounds hot,” I offer.

  His lips twitch into a sexy smirk. “Very hot.”

  I let go of his shoulder, and we resume our pace. My apartment is one hundred feet away.

  Fifty.

  Twenty-five.

  And I ask myself again what I want.

  To look up tango clubs?

  Or do I want to tango with this man?

  Both. All. I want it all. I want this chemistry, and I want the chance at friendship too.

  But first, this.

  When I reach my apartment, I turn to him. “I have the answer to your earlier question.”

  “I’m all ears,” he says, knowing exactly which one I mean.

  I’m not sure where this night is going. But I know where we’re going right now.

  Inside.

  “The answer is—it depends how ungentlemanly you can be,” I say, leaving a brand-new opportunity wide open.

  “I can be incredibly ungentlemanly,” he says.

  When the door falls shut behind us, I find out exactly how much.

  10

  Lucas

  Friendship is awesome.

  Letting go of the past is great.

  Helping my brother is in my DNA.

  But kissing Lola? Yeah, I’d sell half my soul for that.

  Only, I don’t need to. I don’t need to text my brother either. Because this landlord quest is the last thing on my mind right now.

  The second the door closes to her apartment, I set down the guitars and bags, back her up to the wall, and run my fingers down her bare arm. Gooseflesh rises on her skin. Her breath hitches. She flicks on a light. And she arches toward me.

  Yes.

  I’d like a little something just for me right now.

  Not for work. Not for family. And not for any other reason than the simplest.

  Want.

  I wanted her a decade ago. I want her even more now.

  I lift my hand and run my thumb along her jaw. “Just so you know, if I took you on a date tonight, I’d take you out to dinner. I’d walk you home. But I’d also definitely fuck you.”

  Her eyes widen invitingly, and her hand darts out, grabbing my belt, yanking me toward her. “How do you know I’d let you?”

  I wiggle a brow. “I can be very convincing.”

  “Convince me.” Her fingers play with the waistband of my jeans.

  “Let’s see if this convinces you.” I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, and she shivers. Inching closer, I whisper, “I still remember how your lips taste.”

  “How do they taste?”

  “Incredible,” I say, as a rumble works its way up my chest. “So fucking incredible. But I keep wondering . . .”

  I let my other hand travel down her side, along the edge of her breast to her waist. Her sexy stomach. My God, I could not keep my eyes off her whenever she showed a sliver of this fantastic stomach. I wrap my hand around her trim body, as she asks, “What are you wondering?”

  I don’t tell her the whole truth. That I’ve thought about her over the years, remembered our kiss with both desire and regret. That I’ve wondered what would have happened between us—not only on our first date, but after that.

  Now isn’t the time to share those truths, so I stick to a simpler one. “I was wondering how much better you’d taste tonight. Especially since I’ve been wanting to kiss these lips since I first saw you outside my brother’s place.”

  “Don’t wait,” she says.

  “I won’t.” I seal my lips to hers, groaning the second we make contact. Sweet and fiery. That’s how she tastes.

  I slide my hand along her jaw, cupping her cheek, holding her gorgeous face.

  Taking my time, I kiss her slowly, teasing her, taunting her.

  Wanting to hear her gasp, to feel her squirm against me.

  And she does. Oh hell, does she ever writhe and grind.

  And touch too.

  Her fingers have a mind of their own, tap-dancing all along my jeans, playing with my belt, exploring.

  It’s such a turn-on, her eagerness.

  My skin sparks with lust. Desire speeds inside me, racing along as I deepen the kiss.

  And she welcomes it, welcomes me, kissing me back so damn fiercely I can barely wait to get her naked.

  Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, this isn’t college all over again.

  This isn’t a gentle, curious exploration. She’s not a woman who’s simply content to let a man touch her.

  She’s become a woman who owns her pleasure fully.

  And it turns me on more than ever before.

  Because I’m not the guy I was before either, with a one-track mind.

  I have many tracks, and they all lead to her.

  The things I want to do to her now . . .

  My mind runs away with dirty images as I kiss her harder, rougher. Our teeth scrape together. Our hands grab at each other. Our bodies grind, press, push.

  In no time, she’s tugging at my T-shirt. “Take this off,” she commands.

  I grin. “I knew you liked to give orders.”

  “Yes, I’m demanding when I’m turned on. And I demand you get this off right now. Then me.”

  Laughing, I reach for the hem, tug it over my head, and drop it to the floor.

  “Fuck,” she mutters as she stares at my chest, her eyes glossy with sex.

  “Fuck, what?” I ask innocently.

  “Fuck your body. That’s what,” she says, dragging her nails down my chest.

  “Yes. Yes, Lola. That’s the idea.”

  Her fingers travel from my pecs down to my abs, tracing the grooves. “You’re concrete. Sexy, ridiculously hot concrete.”

  “Why, thank you for the strangest compliment ever,” I say, laughing, but my laugh is cut short when she lingers on my stomach.

  I shudder.

  Because fuck, her hands.

  She’s incredible.

  Her touch is otherworldly.

  It’s better than those French fries.

  It’s hotter than our kiss.

  I want to revel in it, linger on the sensation of her eager fingers roaming my body.

  But I’m not a submissive kind of guy.

  I’m a take-charge man. “How about some fair play, Dumont?”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says in a purr that sends a bolt of lust straight down my spine directly to my cock.

  I lift up her shirt, raising it over her head and groaning appreciatively when my eyes drink in her belly, the curves of her breasts, the hollow of her throat. “You are stunning,” I say, all gravel and truth.

  No more toying.

  No more teasing.

  “So are you,” she whispers.

  Roping my arms around her back, I unhook her pink bra, letting it fall to the floor. Then I indulge.

  I cup and knead and squeeze those beauties. I dip my face to the valley of her breasts, licking a line between them, then lavishing attention on the two perfect globes. I don’t play favorites—I make sure each breast receives equal love from my tongue, my lips, and my teeth.

  Since Lola loves bites. Something I’m learning tonight.

  Something I never knew before.

  I nibble on her flesh, and she moans, a long, feral sound. When I draw a nipple into my mouth and bite, she sighs with what sounds like delirious pleasure.

  And as I bury my face between her tits, her hands curl around my head, pulling me impossibly closer.

  “I could spend all night here,” I moan, but then I raise my face. “But that would be so unfair to your sweet, wet pussy.”

  Her eyes widen. “How do you know I’m wet?”

  I reach for her hand and slide it over my jeans, letting her feel the outline of my rock-hard erection. “Good guess that I’m doing to you what you’re doing to me?”

  She smiles like a little devil, then takes my hand and slides it inside her jeans. Her eyes stay locked with mine the whole time, heating me up. She’s so fucking bold, and it’s always turned me on. Even more so now as she guides my hand over the panel of her panties, whispering, “You’re a good guesser.”

  “Fuck, woman. You’re on fire,” I rasp as I touch her, feeling her wetness through the lace.

  “Yes. Yes, I am. So maybe you ought to finish what you started, you ungentleman.”

  As promised, I lift her up and toss her over my shoulder. She squeals my name playfully, and I love that sound.

  I cross the living room toward her bedroom, turning on the light there too.

  I set her on the bed and peel off her jeans as she kicks off her boots.

  When she’s down to only a pair of pink panties, I nearly lose my mind with pleasure.

  She’s spectacular.

  But she also seems to have something on her mind. She holds up a hand, swallows, then speaks, a little nervous. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

  I blink. “Change what?”

  “Anything,” she repeats emphatically. “We’re still going to be friends. We’re going to do this differently. We’re going to get this out of our systems and be friends. Right?” Her voice is pitched toward hope.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, but I’m honestly not thinking about anything beyond here and now.

  And I’m also honestly not thinking at all. I’m feeling.

  And what I feel most is white-hot want.

  I peel off her panties and sigh with pleasure at the sight of her glistening wetness. “Look at you, so turned on.”

  She lifts her chin, owning it. “Yes. I’m ridiculously aroused, Lucas. Now show me how much you want me too.”

  “With pleasure.” I toe off my boots, undo my belt, and shed my jeans and black boxers.

  “Oh God,” she moans as my cock springs free.

  Her reaction is heady. It sends a lifetime’s worth of masculine pride surging through me, turning my dick to steel.

  I run my hand down my length, teasing her.

  “Gimme,” she urges.

  Grabbing my wallet from my jeans, I find a condom. Then I climb up on the bed and over her, parking my knees on either side of her, my cock slapping against her tight stomach.

  “Your dick is hot,” she says, wrapping a hand around my shaft.

  I close my eyes, shuddering as she touches me. “So is your hand on me.”

  “Lucas,” she whispers as she strokes, reverently touching and exploring my length.

  “Yes?” I open my eyes.

  “Do bad things to me,” she says in a dirty whisper.

  “You don’t have to ask twice.”

  I adjust our position, moving between her legs, spreading her open. I roll on a condom, then rub the head of my cock against her.

  Her back bows. “God, yes. That’s so good.”

  “And I’m not even inside you.”

  “I know, and I think I’m going to come in seconds when you are,” she says like a woman who knows her body and her needs.

  She offers herself up, her hips seeking, begging for more.

  But “bad things” are better in other positions. I tease her for another few seconds, rubbing, stroking, until I pull back, grab her hips, and flip her over, doggie-style.

  “Get on your hands and knees, and I promise I won’t be a gentleman at all.”

  “You better not be,” she says, resting on her elbows, sinking deeper, lifting her lush ass in the air. If that isn’t a spanking opportunity, I don’t know what is.

  I lift my hand and swat her once.

  She yelps but finishes the sound with a moan.

  I squeeze her cheeks. Her fantastic, delicious ass.

  My God. What was I thinking that weekend? I should have fucking called from one of the captains’ phones.

  Except now I can have her like this.

  I move behind her, place my hands on her fantastic cheeks, spread her open. Then I grip my dick, rubbing the head against her wet pussy once more.

  “Please,” she moans, lifting her ass higher.

  I have never been more aroused than with this woman who knows exactly what she wants.

  Me.

  And I want her just as badly.

  I push inside, my mind going hazy from that first delicious feel of her warmth enveloping my shaft.

  “Yes,” she moans. “More.”

  “Take it all, Lo. Take it fucking all,” I say, then slide the entire way into her, my hands gripping her hips as I fill her.

  “Yes,” she moans. “That’s so fucking good.”

  It’s more than good. It’s earth-shattering. For so many reasons, but especially this.

  Lola is a talker.

  As I fuck her, thrusting, pulling back, going deeper, she moans and groans and speaks.

  More. Harder. Yes. So good.

  She can’t stop talking, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  Her directions. Her responsiveness. The way she lets go, gives in, and doesn’t shut up.

  “You like it hard and deep, don’t you?” I ask roughly as I push inside her.

  She rocks back against me. “God, yes. Pull my hair while you fuck me hard.”