“What?” Her neck seemed to lack power suddenly, her head briefly lolling to the right, before straightening up. “O-oh. Okay.”

  “You told me before that sex happens too quickly, right? That you never get time to find a rhythm.” He fisted her hair and pulled to the left, exposing her neck, his open mouth dragging up the full length, not stopping until he reached her ear and groaned against the smooth shell of it. “We’re working on foreplay, Rocket. That’s the purpose of making out. You can demand what you need. You can ask for the things that will get you ready.”

  Already, her eyes were glassy, her tits rising and shuddering back down in the neckline of her tank top. “I can ask. Demand.”

  “That’s right.” Never breaking eye contact, he planted his lips on the side of her neck, suctioning, razing his teeth and lapping at the spot almost crudely, all while his hand kept a firm grip on her hair. In charge of her, yeah. In charge of the situation, most definitely. But most importantly, impressing on her that she had a right to speak out loud. To express what she needed.

  Express it with me.

  Temporarily.

  Robbie fought through the steep drop of his stomach. “Do you like that?”

  “Yes,” she said, lips barely moving. “Yeah, I like it.”

  “Then ask for more.”

  “More,” she gasped, her mouth falling wide when he bit the spot that connected her shoulder and neck, raking his teeth up to her ear and breathing hard there. Yanking her hips up and tighter to his lap, looking her in the eye while he humped her once, twice, three times, rattling the dresser. “More, more, more,” she said, teeth chattering.

  Robbie whirled Skylar around to face him, unsurprised when her thighs wound around his waist like vines around a pole, their frenzied mouths meeting to fuck, tongues and lips and teeth clashing in the most sensual battle, his hands finding and massaging her juicy ass, squeezing until she whimpered and let her head fall back, giving him her neck again, shaking in his arms when he attacked it, laving and sucking and kissing.

  “That’s what you need, isn’t it?” He cracked his palm against the right cheek of her backside, baring his teeth against her mouth as she gasped. “Yeah, it is. Tell me that college girl pussy isn’t getting wet right now.” Her thigh muscles rippled around him, her stomach hollowing, lust and censure warring in her eyes, though lust was clearly winning. “That’s how it is, Skylar. I talk fucking dirty.”

  “I like it,” she managed.

  “I know you like it or you wouldn’t be rubbing your cunt on my lap.”

  “Robbie.”

  He pressed a wicked grin against her mouth, snagging a hard kiss. “If only it was Thursday, right? I’d have your knees over my fucking shoulders by now.”

  God. God.

  This wasn’t making out. This was more.

  Everything between them felt like more.

  He walked her backward until he had her flattened against the door, his hips pumping once out of pure desperation to connect to her, to Skylar, to imprint her body with his, to leave a fucking mark. To own her. Give her ownership over him—

  No. No, she didn’t want that. You’re screwing yourself, Corrigan.

  Slow down, slow down, slow down.

  “Slow down,” he said thickly against her mouth. “Too fast. Too much.”

  I’m at the point of no return.

  “Please keep kissing me.”

  Fuck it. A little longer.

  “Okay, baby. Okay.” A slanting of lips, followed by the slowest, most perfect twist of hard on soft, an unbelievable rush of surprise and pleasure inside of him over how they anticipated each other’s movements, rough for rough, savoring for savoring. The taste and texture and scent of her broke into his brain like a burglar and ransacked the place, his heart thumping crazily in his rib cage. I could kiss you for the rest of my life.

  That was the thought that had Robbie breaking away, struggling for breath.

  Struggling not to look at her and start their engines again, mauling her mouth until tomorrow came and went, Robbie ordered himself to let her down carefully, both of them panting as he backed up, putting distance between them that he hated as much as he needed, purely for his own self-preservation.

  “That’s enough . . . for now.”

  She blew a piece of hair out of her face and his heart turned over. “Huh.”

  Leaving Skylar breathing hard, dazed and flushed against the door, was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, including NHL training camp, but he managed to pick up his bag and get out the door with his heart still inside of his chest.

  “Bye, Skylar,” he rasped, unable to resist kissing her temple on the way into the hall.

  “Bye, Robbie.”

  It only took him half a mile to realize he’d been dead wrong. His heart—and apparently all his common sense—had been left behind in Rhode Island.

  What the hell did he do now?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Skylar parted the hanging beads leading into the underground burlesque club, a swanky, swoony, old-fashioned melody guiding her toward the performance area. The Gilded Garden was smoky, but not from cigarettes. The fog machine positioned at the entrance to the club was Skylar’s favorite of Eve’s ideas. I want people to feel like they’re walking through a screen and stepping back into the past.

  You definitely nailed it, Eve.

  As soon as Skylar emerged from the fog, the lights turned a citrine blue, and she was surrounded by Roaring Twenties decor. Black-and-white pictures of performers in various stages of near undress hung along the hallway walls, showcased by golden art deco frames. The entire ceiling was made up of pink feather plumes that hung down, close enough to tickle Skylar’s forehead if she went up on her toes. A familiar brassy and crystal chandelier hung at the end of the hallway, beckoning customers forward, along with the sensual hibiscus fragrance, to the mouth of the club where the stage and tables were nestled into the sapphire darkness.

  Skylar wasn’t a club person. She was the “drink a gallon of water, get a lot of sleep, and wake up refreshed” type. But she envied the creativity it took to start with Eve’s father’s no-frills strip club and build something like the Gilded Garden out of it. To have a vision for something so fantastical and make it happen.

  Her surroundings only drove home the fact that Skylar and Eve had opposing personalities. Perhaps they never even would have been friends, except for the day in middle school Skylar had overheard Joe Logan asking Eve if she planned on stripping at her father’s club after graduation, because he’d be first in line to pay the cover charge. Skylar might have left her defense of Eve as a simple shut up and leave her alone, Joe.

  Then she’d witnessed Joe pinch Eve’s butt.

  Skylar decked him, instead.

  Well worth the three-day suspension during which Eve had arrived at the front door of the Page household with a stack of Skylar’s homework. She’d gone and collected it from all of Skylar’s teachers, saving Skylar from having to do the legwork upon her return to school.

  “Are we even?” Eve had asked, stone-faced.

  Skylar had propped her shoulder against the doorjamb, pretending to think about it. “No, I’m pretty sure I still owe you. I’ve wanted to punch that fucker for years.”

  They’d been inseparable from that day forward.

  Eve attended all of Skylar’s softball games, though she read a book in the stands and didn’t participate in the chants or cheers. Skylar did her homework with Eve in the office of the strip club, too, from time to time, though she’d wisely omitted that truth from her parents.

  Skylar crossed the half-full lounge to the ornate black-and-gold bar, intending to order a Sprite. Somehow the words “vodka tonic” came out of her mouth, instead.

  And didn’t she deserve a stiff drink or two after this afternoon?

  Robbie was not coming back.

  She knew that in her gut, the way she knew the sound of a home run as soon as it connected with the bat. The knowledge that she’d given up a home run usually filled her with the same type of hollow dread. This felt different, however. Not simply disappointment in herself and a growing drive to do better next time. More like a horrible sense that she’d missed something or hadn’t paid enough attention. The feeling also happened to be more concentrated in her chest than usual, too. A horribly uncomfortable sensation that made her desperate to numb the feeling. Or better yet, get rid of it entirely.

  Not easy when she could still feel Robbie’s fist in her hair, his lips skating up the side of her neck. The possessive way he’d licked her. Kissed her. Bit her.

  “What the heck,” Skylar whispered into her first sip of the lime-laced cocktail. Thank God for the way it burned on the way down, distracting her from the heat she still felt everywhere else. Annoying heat that only seemed to multiply her confusion.

  Why did she have to be so attracted to Robbie?

  Did he kiss every girl like that? In a way that was starved and conflicted at the same time? What had caused his sudden need to leave (apart from her highly functioning dysfunctional family, that is)? And most importantly, why did the thought of never seeing him again put her in a state of mourning?

  God, she almost felt . . . disoriented from the sudden loss of his chuckle—

  “Skylar,” someone said to her right. “Hey.”

  No, not someone. Madden.

  Madden was there. In the Gilded Garden. His dark hair had turned blue black in the lighting, his jaw set with tension, along with his wide shoulders. So handsome. Almost . . . debonair in black jeans and a fitted white T-shirt.

  When a weighted flop would normally happen in her belly at the sight of him, so tall and intense, now Skylar only experienced a tiny zing that translated mostly as . . . fondness? The events of the day had obviously taken a lot out of her if she was too spent to get excited at the sight of her forever crush in such a romantic setting, right? The alcohol could be to blame, too, of course.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Madden.

  He shoved both hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Elton mentioned you were coming to see Eve tonight.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I thought I might join you.”

  Two, three seconds ticked by during which she tried to make sense of that answer. Had he come . . . because he wanted to spend time with her? As a friend? Or . . . more?

  She didn’t have time to dissect his behavior because he pulled out a hammered brass stool for her, then himself, signaling the bartender with a curt nod. Somehow the man seemed to know his drink by heart, sliding a frothy beer in front of Madden within seconds. Was the guy a psychic or something? Or had Madden been here before?

  “Robbie left for practice tonight, so?”

  A little chisel hammered her in the throat. “Yes. Playoffs start next week, so they’re mostly resting, but not enough to lose their conditioning.”

  Madden took a thoughtful sip of his pint, that characteristic furrow locked to his brow. “Would you say things are going well between the two of you?”

  Skylar’s pulse started to race, but she couldn’t tell why. Because Madden was showing interest in her love life and finally seeing her as an adult? Or because her relationship with Robbie was a fabrication and she’d have to lie? “I don’t . . . know, actually,” she said, finding she spoke the truth. “How did it seem to you?”

  It seemed to take him an hour to respond, and she couldn’t help but compare Madden’s thoughtful manner to Robbie’s instantaneous quips. “Sure, isn’t it natural for me to feel protective of you, Skylar? I’ve known you years. And this Robbie . . .” He paused. “The sports world is small and in Boston, it’s even smaller. People talk. Men talk. I’m sorry, but Robbie has something of a reputation. With women.”

  Skylar already knew that. Hearing it out loud, knowing Robbie’s playerhood was a definitive fact, lined her stomach with lead, nonetheless. “Yes, I’m aware.”

  Madden nodded, apparently satisfied. “I couldn’t let it pass without saying something to you. You’re not likely to listen to Elton.” Ever so briefly, his eyes twinkled. “For good reason. He can be a right arse, as you well know.”

  A laugh bloomed in her throat. Suddenly, there she was, drinking alcohol with this devastatingly hot and mysterious man, in a smoky burlesque club. It was an odd moment of clarity—oh, I’m truly an adult—that she probably should have experienced long before now, considering she’d been through almost four years of college. But still. This was a sex situation. A situation where the right moves could lead to sex. With Madden.

  The possibility flooded her with panic.

  Too fast. This is moving too fast.

  She hadn’t even finished her lessons with Robbie.

  Dammit, Robbie. Are you coming back?

  “There was something else I wanted to speak with you about, Skylar,” Madden said, cutting the distance between them in half. Before she could stop herself, she twisted forward in her seat so she wouldn’t be facing him and drained half of her vodka tonic. Why are you wasting this opportunity, you clown? “It’s somewhat delicate . . .”

  I’ve finally realized I’m in love with you. That’s what he was going to say.

  “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room—”

  “I’ve been brought up to professional level. I’m going to catch for the Yankees.”

  Skylar sucked in a breath.

  Surprise, elation, and a sense of melancholy crammed into her throat, all at once, and she found herself blinking back a layer of shocked tears. “What?” Without overthinking the impulse, she hopped off her chair and wrapped both arms around him. “Oh my God. Congratulations. Oh my God!”

  He cleared his throat. Patted her gently on the back. “Caught a scout’s eye while training for triple A and . . . well, it’s the perfect storm of the New York catcher getting injured and them verging on busting the salary cap. They needed someone moderately inexpensive, but good.”

  “That’s amazing. Amazing!” Skylar released him, only to shove him full in the chest. “The fucking Yankees, though? Seriously?”

  A rich laugh came tumbling out of him. “I wasn’t given much choice in the matter.”

  “Still,” she said, shivering. “Don’t expect me to wear pinstripes at your games.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Gradually, his amusement faded. “Elton doesn’t know yet. I’m worried he’s going to feel . . .”

  “Left behind,” she finished, his reluctance to celebrate finally registering.

  “Yeah. Exactly that.”

  Skylar deflated slightly under the weight of understanding. She had a love-hate relationship with her brother. They would forever fight like siblings. Competitive ones, at that. And she knew Elton would most likely see Madden’s success as a negative reflection of himself. It would be brief, though. She had enough faith in him to know that. “He’ll beat himself up for not being in stride with you, like always. But one day, he’ll realize this is what motivated him to be better. And long before that, he’ll put aside his own shit and support you. Give him a chance. He’s only an ass, like, ninety-two percent of the time.”

  Tension slowly bled from Madden’s face as she spoke. “I can’t wait to see what you do with your talent, Skylar. You were always impressive as a pitcher, but you’re . . . surprising as a person, too.”

  What did that mean?

  And why did she just want to take it at face value and move on, instead of dissecting every syllable and equating his sentiments to love, the way she did before?

  “Thank you,” she whispered, feeling kind of dizzy. Sad. Adrift.

  Madden tilted his head and started to say something but was interrupted by the crackle of a PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen,” purred a low voice, the music lifting in volume, a spotlight appearing in a perfect circle in the center of the stage. “You’re in for a rare treat. Performing tonight for the first time, the mistress of the Gilded Garden herself. Put your hands together for the electrifying Eve.”

  Glass shattered.

  Close enough to Skylar that she flinched away from the sound, only to realize it was Madden’s beer glass. That it had broken right there in his hand. She stared at him in shock, before gaping at the stage. What to address first? The fact that Madden apparently didn’t know his own strength? Or the fact that Eve was performing—something she claimed she would never do?

  There she was, however, standing in the center of the spotlight, her waist-length blond hair covering her breasts, an oversized feather fan shielding her lower body.

  Plus a teasing smile—and that was all.

  Truthfully, she looked like a mischievous angel. Beautiful. If Eve hadn’t spent their entire friendship vowing she would never perform, because she refused to fulfill the expectations of everyone they’d grown up with—whether they were low or high—Skylar would be thrilled for her. But Skylar recalled all those conversations well. Recalled the relentless bullying Eve had faced at school, due to her father owning the strip club, a source of local vitriol. And so this sudden appearance of her best friend onstage worried her. Not because there was anything wrong with performing burlesque. Even Skylar, who was inexperienced in the art form, had witnessed its empowering and beautiful nature.

  No, she was worried because for Eve, performing was out of character.

  Unexpected.

  Before Skylar could come up with a plan to address both issues confronting her, Madden was off like a shot. One moment, he was slicing through the crowd, the next he was onstage, throwing Eve over his shoulder and continuing through the blue velvet curtain without so much as a hitch in his stride.

  Skylar’s drink remained suspended in the air for two more seconds before she plonked it down on the bar and jogged after Madden and Eve, leaping through the curtain to find her best friend glaring at Madden, feather fan clutched to the front of her body.

  “How dare you, Mads. How dare you.”

  A single word scraped from his throat. “Why?”