Chandler

“Can you manage to keep your dick in your pants for one night?”

Hudson’s question is meant to grab my attention, and it does. To be fair, I heard most of what he’d said up to this point. The parts that were of interest, anyway.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t much.

“Probably not. I don’t sleep in my pants, for one, and I do plan on sleeping.” I pull next to the valet podium at the Whitney Museum of Art, and add, “eventually,” because I know it will rile my brother up.

His sigh is heavy with exasperation. “Can you keep your dick in your pants at the gala?”

I grab my phone from its dock, automatically switching it out of Bluetooth mode, and bring it up to my ear. I pretend to consider as I step out of the car and button my tux jacket. “Hmm.”

“Nice wheels,” the valet says, unconcerned that I’m on the phone.

I pull out my wallet and flash a fifty-dollar bill. “Take care of her and this is yours.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Pierce.”

If Hudson were here, he’d wince at the recognition. It’s possible the valet knows me from the latest list of “Richest Men Under Thirty”—it’s the first year I’ve hit since I only got my trust fund when I turned twenty-four a few months back. But one look at the tattooed, pony-tailed Italian says he isn’t the type to read Forbes, which means he recognizes me from the gossip sites instead. Honestly, I don’t mind that I have a rep. It’s the elder Pierce who seems to care.

Speaking of the elder Pierce…

“Can I keep it in my pants until after the gala?” I repeat his earlier question as I stride toward the entrance of the museum. “I don’t know. How long is this thing supposed to last?” I’m messing with Hudson. It’s too easy not to. And really, what does he expect me to say? It’s not like I’m planning to try to get a girl to blow me on the event premises.

Though, if one were to offer…

“And don’t hit on anyone while you’re there, either.”

Now he’s going too far. “Is that a baby crying?” I don’t really hear a baby crying, but the likelihood that there is one somewhere near him isn’t too slim. The recent birth of his twins is the whole reason I’m stuck going to this stupid shindig in the first place.

“I mean it, Chandler.”

As if on cue, a baby actually does start crying in the background. “Shouldn’t you go put a pacifier in it or something?”

Hudson ignores me. “This is an important event,” he chides. “Accelecom is looking to strike a deal with Werner Media, and it’s crucial we make a good impression.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s not like I don’t know this. He’s told me seventeen times just today, plus several hundred times earlier this week. In fact, every conversation we’ve had in the past few days has been about Accelecom’s charity gala tonight, which is more than a little strange, even for my work-obsessed older brother. Mainly because Werner Media isn’t a company we own. Sure, it belongs to family friends, but the Pierces haven’t been that close to the Werners since, well, around the time I graduated from high school. So why the fuck does he care so much about the impression I leave?

It suddenly occurs to me to ask. “What exactly is it you hope to gain from my presence here tonight? The Werner-Accelecom merger has nothing to do with Pierce Industries, does it?”

A beat goes by. “It’s a good opportunity for you,” he says finally. “There will be a lot of press there this evening, and if you play nice, you could get a good write-up, one that doesn’t involve the mayor’s daughter.”

His answer is irritating. Though he’s easing me into the family business, I’m technically an owner of Pierce Industries, just like he is, and I hate it when he treats me like an average employee. We’re completely different people, from our attitudes about our careers to our physical looks—my eyes blue where his are grey, my hair blond where his is dark. But, despite our differences, I want our company to succeed as much as he does. I want our efforts to bear fruit, just like he does. He slaves away at the job, but I work hard, too.

Well, hard enough.

But I’m not in the mood to argue.

I’m in the mood to deflect. “Man, that kid of yours is really howling. I didn’t know you subscribed to the cry-it-out method. I knew you were old, but 1990’s parenting? Come on.”

“Chandler.” Hudson’s tone is clipped and stern. He means it to be intimidating.

Spoiler: Hudson doesn’t scare me.

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, pushing through the doors of the museum.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. I understand. Dad.”

I expect him to growl about my latest poke, but he’s distracted. “I’ll take him,” I hear him say, his words muffled as though he has his hand over the mouthpiece. Then, more clearly, “Chandler, I have to help Alayna with the babies.”

“Finally. Wouldn’t want to have to accuse you of child neglect.” Without saying goodbye, I click END and, after putting it on silent, slip my phone into my inside jacket pocket. Hudson’s children can only preoccupy him for so long. Sooner or later, he’ll be back to riding my ass, and even though I’m here at this event in his place, as far as I’m concerned, I’m off the clock.

* * *

The thing is, Hudson’s concerns are somewhat legit. Not because I can’t keep my cock in my pants, but because most of the time I don’t want to.

What can I say? I’m a guy who loves women.

Lucky for me, women usually love me too. And why wouldn’t they? I’m charming, young, good-looking, smart. Decent at my job, despite what Hudson tells anyone. Oh, and let’s not forget, filthy rich. I’m shower masturbation material come to life.

Most impressive, though, is my bedroom portfolio—it’s not a secret that I’m a giver. Swear on the Pierce family name, I do not let a woman leave my sheets before she’s received at least two orgasms. The goal is always three, but I’m willing to concede that there are sometimes other factors besides me contributing to that outcome. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe her head’s too into it. Maybe she’s not good at relaxing. Whatever, I get it. But she’s getting two O’s regardless.

Before I start sounding too noble, let me clarify—the orgasms are for me. There’s nothing like the feel of a pussy clenching around your cock, milking you to your own climax—that’s got to be the best definition of heaven around.

But the biggest reason I deliver is because of the cost-benefit ratio. I’m a firm believer in what goes around, comes around. The happier she is, the happier she’ll want to make me. I’m talking Happy with a capital “H.” And while I’m a one-night-only kind of guy—a fact I always make clear from the beginning—I’ve done really well with referrals. Call it a successful “business” model.

Sometimes too successful, considering the way some of the ladies are eyeing me as I glance around the museum.

It only takes one sweep of my gaze to know tonight is not going to create any problems for my brother. The room is filled with the kinds of women I’m one hundred percent not attracted to. Trophy wives looking for a distraction. Cougars who sit on the boards—and the faces—of whatever-and-whoever-is-in-this-week. Rich dames with so much Botox and spandex their bodies don’t even jiggle when they’re supposed to—and if she’s lying underneath me, it’s supposed to.

That just leaves the women I’ve already been with, and I don’t do repeats.

Well then, let’s make this trip an easy in and out, just like I like it. This time when I glance around, I look for the quickest opportunities to achieve the “make a good impression” edict that Hudson has given me. I make a plan. Mingle with the execs from my father’s country club, say hello to Warren Werner who I’ve just spotted by the fondue station, and then put in a bid at the auction in the adjoining room to make sure the Pierce presence is duly noticed.

But first, I need a drink.

A waitress passes by with a tray of caviar. “Excuse me. Is there a bar somewhere?”

She tilts her lip into a flirtatious grin as she checks me out. Now this woman might be an option…

But she’s working, and I’ll have to stick around until she gets off before I’ll have any chance of getting off myself, and I can already tell this thing is going to be a snooze-fest.

Especially when she answers. “There’s champagne floating around. And some punch that should be spiked if it hasn’t been already.”

“Well, shit. I should have brought my flask.” Though, if I had, it would have been filled with a single-malt scotch and not something I’d ever mix, let alone with fruit punch. I wink. “But thanks for the heads-up.”

I can tell she wouldn’t mind more cozy conversation, but I slip away before she gets any ideas, and after a quick chat with some men I’ve done business with in the past, I run smack into Warren.

“Chandler! I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Where’s Hudson?” The man is practically a father to me, or rather, he was around while I was growing up about as much as my own dad was, which is to say, not much. In other words, I have to talk to him, but it’s going to be boring as hell.

I put on my friendliest grin. “Alayna had her babies early. He’s taking some time ‘off.’” I use air quotes around the word off because Warren and I both know my brother works in his sleep.

“Oh, yes. I recall hearing that.” He goes on to deliver heartfelt congratulations and the like before moving to the obligatory inquiries about the rest of my family, which I give, dutifully.

This kind of small talk is the worst. I’m dying inside with every polite word. I only manage to tolerate it by dreaming about the real drink I’ll get later at The Sky Launch or another one of the nightclubs where hooking up is practically an item on the drink menu.

Eventually, after Warren’s told me all about his upcoming plans to retire, I courteously ask about his daughter, Celia—Hudson’s childhood peer/possible lover/almost-baby-mama/part-of-a-complicated-friendship-that-I’ve-never-understood.

Though Warren’s expression remains warm, his eyes harden, and I sense he’d prefer not to talk about her with me. While I was too young to be privy to the rift that happened between our once-close families, I have a feeling most of the bad blood has to do with Hudson not marrying Warren’s daughter.

“Celia’s good,” he says curtly. “She’s in town at the moment. In fact, she was supposed to be here tonight but ended up canceling because of a headache.” Or because she was afraid she’d run into Hudson. “You know she’s married now, and her husband—”

His sentence is cut off by a younger gentleman tapping on his shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Fasbender is looking for you.”

Fasbender. I recognize that name. He’s the owner of Accelecom and probably one of the people that Hudson would most prefer I be seen with tonight.

Which is why I decide not to bother. I’ve done a fair bit of schmoozing already. If Hudson wanted more from me, he could have been more specific when he asked. Besides, he needs to learn to deal with disappointment, and who better to teach him but me.

Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, I head to the area where the silent auction has been situated. I peruse the items up for bid, quickly bypassing the most popular draws—a houseboat, a vineyard in France, a private island off of Malta—and settle on the gaudiest piece of art I’ve ever set my eyes on. Complete with a five-inch thick ostentatious gold frame, the six-foot square canvas is covered with abstract red-hued phallic brush strokes. It’s bold and brusque. It makes me angry just to look at it.

It’s perfect.

I pull a Montblanc fountain pen from my breast pocket and find the next blank line on the auction sheet. Tripling the last amount offered, I fill in my own bid. Then, with a gleeful smirk, I sign Hudson’s name and his office phone number before tucking the pen back in my jacket.

There. I’ll pose for a picture at the door on my way out for good measure, but otherwise my work here is done. And without causing any trouble. Consider it a baby gift, Hudson.

Downing the too-sweet champagne, I turn to search for a place to set my empty glass before making my trek back across the museum floor.

That’s when I see her.

My breath is knocked from my chest the second my gaze slams into her. I swear there’s a spotlight on her. Cliché, isn’t it? But I pull my eyes up toward the ceiling to see if there’s a fixture directed at her and am surprised when I find none. Because she literally shines.

Frozen to my spot, I ignore the people pressing past me coming to and from the auction tables, drinking in every detail I can of the beauty across the room. Her long shapely legs, her lusciously curved hips, her pouty mouth drawn into a tight line. She’s wearing a lace shift dress—my sister owns a boutique, I know these terms—simple in shape, but the pattern is elegant, making her look classier than many of the older women here in their skin-tight bling-bling gowns. She’s on the tall side, but not too tall. With her modest heels, she’s just the right height to kiss. Just the right height to devour without having to bend. Just the right height to be able to look in her eyes as my hand presses gently at her throat.

Jesus, did I just fantasize about choking a woman? What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m the first to admit I’m a pig, but I’ve never had those kinds of kinky thoughts. I’ve never not been a gentleman. Never wanted to not be nice like I want to not be nice looking at her. She’s just so…captivating.

I’m not the only one who notices. She’s surrounded by a flock of men who are not very good at hiding their eagerness to see what’s beneath her dress, and I can’t say that I blame them. She’s that alluring. That hypnotizing.

She’s not even the kind of girl I’m attracted to. Too thin, too brunette. Too young—she can’t be more than twenty-five. But there’s something about her. Something that separates her from the crowd. Something in her gestures as she patiently tolerates her would-be suitors. Something about her posture, which is polished, but aloof. Something about her entire being that keeps my eyes pinned to her like a lion’s pinned to his prey.

I should leave. I know this. It’s not my M.O. to stalk. I prefer to be the one reeled in—again, part of the model I’ve successfully honed. But I’m stuck, glued to the spot, staring at this intriguing creature with graceful movements and delicate features.

And then there’s a clearing in her swarm of admirers, and I’m suddenly not stuck, but moving toward her, drawn as if on the descent of a zip-line. She hasn’t noticed me, and I take advantage of that, circling around her so that I can approach her from behind. It gives me a chance to check her hand, when I’m near enough, for signs of a ring. A ring is a deal-breaker for me. I don’t do infidelity, never have. Once, I came close. Or rather, the situation felt close to cheating, and it was terrible. I won’t do that again.

But that was five long years ago now and not only has that lesson been learned, it also seems to be unnecessary tonight. The slinky brunette that has lured me across the room is ring-less. I’m assuming she’s also date-less, or if not, she should be, because no way in hell would any decent man leave his girlfriend alone around the predators here. Predators like me.

It briefly occurs to me that I’ve never once thought of myself as a predator, and that maybe these ideas in my head are a sign that I need to get the fuck out of Dodge.

But I can’t. For reasons I can’t explain. Reasons that are primal and base and as out of my control as breathing.

As well as being ring-less, she’s also drink-less, and so, as a waiter passes, I drop off my empty flute, and retrieve two fresh glasses.

When my prey turns casually in my direction, I’m ready.

I hold out a glass in her direction. “Champagne?”

Her grey eyes spark when they catch mine, sending a jolt straight to my dick. I’d know that look anywhere—she likes what she sees, and thank god, because now that I’ve seen her close up, I’m absolutely certain that I have to have her. Have to possess her. Have to do unspeakably dirty things to every inch of her body.

Tighten those reins, boy. Get ahold of yourself.

I almost do, but then she narrows her stare and twists her lip. It’s the lip that does me in.

“How do I know you didn’t put anything in it?” she asks, and JesusfuckingChrist, she’s got an English accent. I’m instantly hard.

Okay, semi-hard. I’m not twelve. I have some control.

“Well,” I consider, “I have two drinks. You choose which one, and I’ll drink the other.”

She hesitates, suspicion vibrating from her body. Which is crazy—I’m a puppy.

Except I’m not a puppy. Not right now, not around her, and her distrust increases my interest in her tenfold.

“How about you drink from both of them? And then I’ll choose one.”

Whichever she chooses, she’ll have her lips on the glass after mine. That’s so hot.

Maybe I am only twelve.

With her eyes still caught in mine, I take a swallow from one flute and then from the other. “Now choose.”

“I’ll have this one,” she says, claiming the glass I drank more from. “Thank you.” Her skepticism relaxes slightly, but she’s still wary. As she should be.

I’m surprised how much it arouses me.

Tipping it forward, I clink my flute to hers. “You’ve been surrounded all night.”

“And?” She’s polite enough not to sigh, but I can hear the weariness behind the single word.

I should leave her alone.

I can’t. “I didn’t like it.”

She tilts her head, her expression both appalled and intrigued. “I don’t really think it matters what you like.”

“True, true.” I give her the Chandler grin, the one that drops panties at the speed of light. “Thing is, I don’t think you liked it either.”

She crosses her arms over herself and leans her weight on one gorgeous hip. “So, since I didn’t like a bunch of men trying to pick me up, you thought you’d come over and pick me up instead?”

“When you put it that way, I sound like an asshole.”

“You said it, not me.”

She seems truly put off, and I’m momentarily thrown off my game. Mostly because this isn’t at all the game I usually play. Usually, I’m the target. There are too many already willing women to waste time working for one.

Smile and say goodnight, Chandler.

I take a swallow from my drink. The sweetness is so much more tolerable as I imagine licking it off her lips, and now that I’ve imagined it, there’s no going back.

“How about I make it up to you?” I say, totally improvising. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll escort you out so no one bothers you. Once outside, you can totally tell me to take a hike.”

She gives me the same expression she did before—the shocked and fascinated one—and this time I catch a hint of amusement as well. “You’re really full of yourself, thinking I need you to help me get out of here.”

An unexpected filthy, crass comment about filling her instead flutters on the tip of my tongue, but I push it away. Play nice. “I wasn’t implying that at all. I’m just offering a service that could be mutually beneficial.”

“How would that benefit you?”

“I’d get to be the guy seen walking out with the most beautiful woman in the room.” Yes! Now my brain’s on the right track.

She gives me an incredulous glare, but her icy demeanor has melted. “You American men are such charmers.” She takes a sip from her drink, and when she licks her tongue over her bottom lip? Talk about melting. I’m so hot I’m a puddle of molten lava over this girl.

Somehow I manage to remain charming. “Oh,” I mock groan, clutching my chest as though she’s wounded my heart. “You’ve lumped me with the all the other ‘American men.’ That’s a real low blow.”

She laughs, and it’s so adorable that I want to sink my teeth into the sound and bite, want to mark it and claim it as mine.

“Perhaps it was a little crueler than necessary,” she says, then sobers quickly. “Let me ask you this—is being seen with me the only thing you’re interested in?”

No, it’s most definitely not at all. I’m also interested in fucking her. I’m interested in dragging her into a dark corner so I can feed her my cock. I’m interested in watching her ride me, her petite tits bouncing as she drives up and down the length of my shaft.

And now I am hard. So hard it hurts.

I don’t answer. Which is an answer in itself.

Damn, I need to get out of here.

I catch sight of the crowd that had earlier surrounded her and use it as my excuse. “Your entourage seems to be returning. I’ll let you attend to them.” I will myself to turn and walk away, but my feet don’t move, and before I know it, I’m leaning into her, so close I can smell her natural scent underneath her floral perfume.

“My offer stands if you want it,” I say quietly. “Come and find me. I’ll be here.”

Shit. Now I’ve done it. If she has any sense, she’ll tell me not to bother waiting around. It’s my only hope.

But when I straighten, her eyes lock on mine, and I can’t help but think she might be as twisted up over me as I am about her.

“Genevieve,” she says, holding her hand out to me.

I barely manage to mask the shock that runs through me when my hand clasps around hers. “Chandler. Chandler Pierce.”

Her brow rises in recognition, and for the first time in my life, I’m worried about my reputation. Usually, I wear my name like it’s a designer brand. My name gets me things I like. Gets me out of speeding tickets and into the arms of pretty women.

But I’ve never cared who the pretty woman was—this time I do. This time, I want the pretty woman to be this one. I want Genevieve.

Her expression is unreadable, and I can’t tell if I’ve just sealed the deal or if I’ve blown any chance I might have had.

Then she says, “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pierce,” and turns to greet the gentleman who has just arrived at her side, also carrying two flutes of champagne.

Though she clings to the one I gave her, her dismissal is clear. Mr. Pierce, she said. So cold and detached. So utterly unimpressed.

I take the cue and slip away. I should leave the event entirely, but I can’t force myself to go. I told her I’d be here, and maybe it’s because I really am a nice guy that I can’t seem to bring myself to break my word.

Or maybe I just can’t bear to let her go yet.

I mingle. Some woman I’ve fucked in the past drapes herself over my shoulder and introduces her friend who drapes herself over my other arm. This is my audience. I could take either of them home right now. Both of them.

But as they fawn, my focus is on Genevieve. I watch as she excuses herself from her admirers. My gaze follows her as she approaches a group of men. She taps one on the shoulder, one old enough to be her father. He puts a finger up, telling her to wait, and I bristle at the gesture because it’s rude but also because it’s familiar. Just like I didn’t like the crowd that had surrounded her, I don’t like what this man might be to her. I have no right to care. I’ve only just met her, and every interest I have in her is carnal. Yet I do care. Very much.

Which is why, when I see her heading toward me a few minutes later, I already know I’m about to say or do something I shouldn’t.

Ignoring the women clinging to me, Genevieve looks me straight in the eye. “Does your offer still stand, Chandler? Because I’m ready to go now.”

I don’t hesitate even a beat. “Definitely,” I say, shucking off the women as though they were a well-worn jacket. I slip my hand in Genevieve’s. “Let’s go, shall we?”

Told you I’d do something I shouldn’t. Sorry, Hudson.

Another thing about me—I’m not immune to falling in love.

The first time was that woman from five years ago, the one that felt like cheating. Gwen was her name. I was nineteen. She was ten years older. It was hot as fuck being with an older woman like that, and perhaps that was confusing. I was just a “kid” and all.

I shouldn’t be bitter about it. And I’m not. Not anymore, anyway. She was honest from the beginning. I chased her, and when she relented, she made sure I understood that we were just banging. I got it—I really did.

Until I didn’t.

Looking back, I can see the mistakes I made. I let her occupy too many of my thoughts. Saw her too much, too often. The real error was letting myself care, and when she sobbed to me about the man she really loved, a man who’d left her and broken her, I had the white knight kind of noble thought that I would have been better. Been a better man to her. Been better at loving her.

She ended up with the other guy, and okay, maybe they’re perfect together. And okay, maybe she shouldn’t have been expected to tell me her heart belonged to someone else. It was probably immature to feel like she’d been cheating on him while she loved him and fucked me. Cheating on me while she fucked me and loved him. Who can say? What I do know is that when she chose him? It fucking hurt.

I told myself I was done.

I fell in love again six months later.

She was a girl in my business ethics class. Tessa. Three dates in, and I was a goner. Her response when I told her? “I’m gay.”

The only bright side was when she told me, “The sex was so good, I got confused.” Best compliment ever.

Anyway, two times burned, you’d think I’d learned my lesson.

Nope.

Four months later, I was in love with Bethany. She seemed to be crazy about me as well. I was only twenty, but I pictured us going all the way—two point five kids, a house in the Hamptons, and sex two times a night, even ten years later.

Then she “borrowed” my American Express and racked up fifty-seven thousand dollars before I discovered it. She volunteered to go into therapy in lieu of me pressing charges. I was so crazy into her, I agreed. Which is how she ended up driving off with a handful of my cash in my F12 Berlinetta Ferrari. She ended up crashing it beyond repair. I still miss that car.

I missed her too for a while. Stupidly.

But once my wounds healed, I pulled my head out of my ass and made myself a new plan, a new mission statement: Do not fall in love.

As most anyone who’s had any experience running a business will proclaim—having a mission statement makes decisions one thousand percent easier to make. When a new idea or opportunity arrives, all I have to do is match it against my objective, and then I know whether or not to follow up on it.

Let me demonstrate with a few examples.

Situation: I’m going to Cabo for a week—should I bring someone to spend the nights with or hook up once there?

Response after measuring against objective: Obviously the first option better guarantees I won’t be sleeping alone. But romantic beaches? Sunset walks? Sounds like there could be an awful good chance of falling in love. Better choose the latter.

Situation: A woman offers to exchange phone numbers.

Response: What, so I can fall head over heels for her adorable texts and sexy selfies? Kindly decline.

Situation: The redhead with the cute mole wants me to meet her parents.

Response: If I’ve memorized any of her unique features, I’m already in too deep. Meeting her parents would surely seal my affection. Withdraw immediately.

Situation: There’s a girl at the bar that I slept with a month ago—do I say hello?

Response: Hell no. Repeats are a surefire way to trigger an emotional attachment.

Situation: She suggests I go bareback inside her.

Response: Isn’t that the definition of falling in love?

See? It works. Using this method, I’ve established rules for myself, rules that have protected my heart these past few years, as well as my bank account.

Tonight, with Genevieve, I can’t seem to focus on my objective at all, and I have a feeling if I examined my behavior I’d discover much of it has contradicted my don’t-fall-in-love goal. I’ve pursued her. I’ve let her become too interesting within the space of less than an hour. I’ve given her too much of my attention, noticing each time she smiles or speaks to another guy, my gut clenching with envy. Any risk management assessment report would mark all of those factors in the hazardous column.

But just because there’s a risk doesn’t mean the opportunity should necessarily be avoided all together. Right? The best businessmen are willing to venture. That’s where the most satisfying rewards are found. And because I’m aware of the danger, I’m more likely to avoid it.

Even I recognize it as bullshit.

It doesn’t stop me from escorting Genevieve through the crowd. My skin is on fire through my jacket from the touch of her hand on my arm, and let’s not even talk about how badly I need to adjust myself. When I catch her glancing toward the man she’d spoken to just before finding me, I’m already piqued to react poorly.

“Your father?” I ask, feeling nearly insane from the possibility that he isn’t.

She sighs. “I look just like him, don’t I?”

So he is her father. Thank fucking Christ.

I use her question as an excuse to study her. “No, you don’t. Maybe a bit around the cheekbones. I only asked because the two of you acted so familiar. I worried I’d been flirting with someone who was already taken.”

She rolls her eyes, but the spark in them tells me she’s not entirely annoyed. “Just because he’s my father doesn’t mean I’m not taken by someone else.”

“Are you?” I challenge.

“No. I’m not.”

My instant grin tells her how I feel about this bit of news.

Looking away, she mumbles, “Jesus, I can’t believe I’m being so honest.”

“You definitely should have lied. What a missed opportunity.” I stretch my arm out to hold the door open for her.

“Perhaps.”

She brushes past me. The physical contact is intoxicating. Every nerve in my body sits up in attention. Don’t even ask what my dick is doing.

“There you are perhaps-ing me again. You have no idea what that does to me.”

We take a few more steps before she stops and gives me her full attention, her grey eyes searing into my skin. “All right. I’ll bite. What does it do to you?”

“Well. It’s a ‘maybe’. It’s a ‘possibly’.” I move so I’m facing her. “I’m a pretty optimistic guy, Genevieve. You leave the door open even a crack with possibilities, I’m going to slide on inside.”

There’s no mistaking my deeper meaning. It’s forward and a bit crass, but we’re outside the museum now, and soon I’ll either put her in a cab or in my car. I so want it to be my car that I’m willing to make the bold move.

Luckily, she doesn’t slap me.

She might even like what I’m suggesting, based on the pink blush at her collarbone. As she considers, her tongue swipes across her bottom lip, sending a jolt to the already stiff bulge in my pants, and I’m struck with the sudden strange desire to punish her for it. Spank her pretty ass for making such a sexy gesture. Turn all of her backside red for the ache she’s caused my balls.

Holy hell, where did that fantasy come from?

I inhale slowly, trying to release the images from my mind. I’ve never had such wicked thoughts about a stranger. Part of me is afraid I’ll lose all control if I take her home. A bigger part of me is afraid I don’t actually care.

Seconds pass, seconds so fraught with tension they feel like an eternity. “Do you have a car parked with the valet?” I ask, eager in her silence.

She shakes her head. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

This time she doesn’t hesitate, glancing in the direction of the parking attendant. “Give the man your claim ticket then. You can drive me to my hotel.”

Relief rains through me. She’s only asked for a ride, but ah, the possibilities.

Five minutes later, the valet pulls up with my car. Genevieve raises an eyebrow. “A Bugatti?”

I’m so impressed she can name the model that I practically jizz in my pants. “It’s the best.”

She shakes her head, and I swear I hear her mutter something about rich men and their toys, but I don’t respond, too occupied with inspecting my car and then passing the attendant the cash I promised him earlier for returning my vehicle in perfect condition.

I slide into the driver’s seat, and when I look over at Genevieve as she buckles her seatbelt, a wave of pure, unadulterated lust rolls through me. I’m very aware that I’ve trapped her, that she’s now defenseless to my whims. Not that I’d take advantage, but goddamn, to think that I could…

I nearly shiver at my own vile thoughts.

Glad she can’t know what I’m thinking, I flash her a smile. “So. Where am I taking you?”

“I’m staying at the Park Hyatt on 57th Street.”

“Fancy.” The Park Hyatt is one of the nicest luxury hotels in New York. That means this girl has money, which isn’t a bad thing. Just, the swell of my wallet in my back pocket is usually one of my better attributes. If wealth doesn’t attract her, I hope I’m not shit out of luck when it comes to getting an invitation up to her room.

Apparently, I’m transparent because she asks, “Not impressed?”

“Quite the opposite. I’m worried you won’t have a reason to be impressed with me.” Now I’m the one who can’t believe how honest I’m being.

“It’s a valid worry,” she says after a beat, and I can’t tell if she’s teasing or being blunt. Can’t tell if I should prepare for gut-wrenching disappointment or dive into another round of sexy banter.

I concentrate on my driving instead, speeding up before slipping expertly into a tight opening in the adjacent lane.

I’ll admit I’m showing off.

“Smashing,” she says with a tone that vibrates through my body like I’m a tuning fork.

Then, abruptly, she laughs, and I turn my head toward her, alarmed at the source of her amusement.

“I still can’t believe you drive a Bugatti in the city. I can’t decide if that makes you brilliant or as mad as a bag of ferrets.”

“Brilliant, of course.” Though, with her so close, I feel more like I’m going crazy. “What can I say? I like things that are fast.”

“Of course you do.”

“You don’t?” I raise a questioning brow. “Maybe you don’t understand how awesome fast can be.” I put my foot on the gas and race down the next block to prove my point.

The traffic light turns red as I approach the intersection, and I ease the brakes. “See? Fast is fun.”

“The problem with fast is it’s over too quickly.”

Is that innuendo? Her gaze pierces into me, and the air around us feels tight and charged, and I’m suddenly certain that I will die if I don’t get to taste her tonight.

Even if she didn’t mean anything more when she made her statement, I certainly do when I say, “Don’t worry. I know when to take my time.”

She exhales, slowly, and I swear I can feel it. As though she’s already in my arms and her breath is grazing every inch of my bare skin. No matter what happens after this, I know she at least feels this…this attraction. Or whatever it is.

Her voice is low and sultry when she replies. “You’re not talking about cars anymore. But do you really take your time? I’d guess you bolt the minute you’re finished.” She’s so blunt, so direct, and I don’t know if it’s a her thing or an English thing, but I like it.

I also like this conversation we’re having. Because we’re drawing the lines, and that means the potential for tonight is high. So I answer with a nod, making sure she understands that she’s correct in thinking I’ll bolt. Because I will.

“That’s what I thought.” She presses her lips together smugly.

My grip tightens on the gearshift. “Hey. No one cares about the car when it isn’t turned on. All that matters is how you handle it when you’re in the driver’s seat.”

I don’t add that I fall a little more in love with my Bugatti every time I get behind the wheel, but that’s exactly the reason I bolt from women.

Genevieve shakes her head, amused. “Earlier I felt sorry for calling you an American man. But…”

I finish the thought for her. “It’s hard to argue with a label I deserve.”

She nods as I pull into the driveway of the Park Hyatt and bring the car to a halt. Almost immediately, the hotel attendant opens her door.

She doesn’t move.

The tension in the air thickens. It’s so heavy, I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

Genevieve sweeps her head toward me, and electricity sparks between us when her eyes meet mine.

“No cuddling,” she says firmly, her voice husky. “No staying the night, and you better have a condom.”

I blink, startled by her candidness. “Are you inviting me up, then?”

“Don’t act so surprised. Your reputation precedes you. According to the rags, you’re quite popular with the ladies. I’m curious to see if your notoriety is deserved.” Without waiting for me to respond, she steps out of the car and heads inside.

I hurry after her, stopping briefly to get the claim ticket from the valet before trotting to catch up with her in the lobby.

“I have a reputation?” I ask softly, coming up behind her. “That’s no pressure.”

She hits the elevator button and glances at me over her shoulder. “Is it too much for you?”

“Not even a little bit.” My answer is eager because I’m eager.

“We’ll see about that.”

When the elevator arrives, we step inside, she selects her floor, and then we move to stand at the back so other people can file in behind us. Silently, I grab her hand, wrapping my fingers through hers.

And there it is. That feeling I love so much. The unspoken awareness that we’re about to see each other naked. That we’re about to fuck. It’s like carrying fire. It’s like holding lit dynamite. It’s like a bomb about to go off, and every second that passes feels like hours. Every breath I take in and push out feels like lead, and I’m suddenly obsessed with how soft her skin is. Softer than I’d imagined. How soft will she be everywhere else?

At her floor, I practically yank her arm trying to get out of the elevator.

“Left,” she directs me, her tone equally impatient.

The walk down the hall is endless, and by the time we reach her door, I’m too wound up to wait even a second longer.

“Hey,” I say as she digs in her purse for her key. I’m already stepping closer, and when she looks up, I put my hands on either side of her face, lean in and kiss her.

My mouth is hungry against hers, my lips greedy and aggressive. Surprised, she takes a moment to react, but when she does, she meets my intensity, and I nearly explode.

God, her tongue, her taste!

With a groan, I press against her. My hands wander frantically, trying to touch every part of her at once. I’ve never felt so turned on. Never been so blinded with need. Never wanted to be inside someone like I want to be inside her.

And I know, okay? I know that it always feels like this when I’m horny and about to bang. Like I’ve never been this aroused, never been this hard, never been this into a woman. I know this is just hormones and need. I know I’ll feel this a hundred times over. Probably feel it again tomorrow, even. With someone else.

But right now? As I kiss and grope and grind against her? Right now, this is the only moment that has ever mattered, the only kiss that has ever affected me like this, and whatever my head says about realistic shit, my body says fucking differently.

It’s Genevieve who manages to remember we’re still in the hall.

Untangling herself, she pushes me away. “We should go inside,” she says, breathless, her mouth swollen and her face flushed.

“Yeah.” Dazed, I step away as she works the keycard and shut my eyes tight, clearing my head. I’m on the brink of insanity, just from one kiss. My restraint feels threadbare, and if this is really how I always feel, I can’t imagine how I’ve managed to never go caveman having sex before. Because that’s for fuck sure what I want to do now. Want to swing this girl over my shoulder, carry her to the bed, and then beat my chest before devouring every inch of her.

Bring it down a notch, boy. Or seven.

Genevieve opens the door, and I follow cautiously inside. She drops her purse and crosses the room to the dresser. I hang back, trying to cool off a bit before touching her again. With her back to me, she removes her earrings. Then she reaches behind her to unzip her dress. She lets it fall to the floor, and when she turns around, she’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but panties and heels.

Holy fucking Christ.

I have to bite my cheek so I don’t come right there.

Dirty, filthy ideas flood my mind. Carnal, nasty fantasies. I picture me pushing her against the dresser, my fingers wound tightly in her long hair. I’d yank her head back until she cried out, then I’d pull it harder until she did it again. I’d bite and mark every inch of her creamy skin, starting at her neck. I’d ride her rough. I’d leave bruises. I wouldn’t be nice.

Unlike the feeling that I’ve never been this aroused, these desires actually are ones I’ve never had before. I’ve never had these wild thoughts. Never wanted to be brutal in the bedroom, and the things I want to do to this woman, the vile things I want to say to her—they’re the kinds of things that might be appropriate for lovers who are well acquainted, but certainly not for two people who’ve just met.

As inappropriate as they are, they’re there, pressing against my brain, begging my body to act. It’s tempting. More than tempting—the urge is nearly impossible to fight.

But I have to. I can’t let it win. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I’m into.

Taking a slow breath, I clench my fists at my sides then, as I exhale, I force the vulgar thoughts away. All of them.

When I move toward her, I’ve resumed control. I’m me again. A nice guy. A gentleman. Chandler Pierce—the considerate lover.

It doesn’t take long before I’m in my groove. I’m good to Genevieve, just like I’m good to every woman I’m with. I lick at her ears and along her jaw. I lavish her breasts with attention. I kiss and suckle down the pale skin of her abdomen. I bury my face in her pussy and give her two orgasms with my fingers and my mouth.

Later, when I crawl over her and push inside, she’s warm and tight and the third time she climaxes, I feel her clenching around my sheathed cock. It triggers my own release.

It’s awesome. Like sex always is. Like sex is supposed to be.

I dress quickly after. I clean her up and tuck her in. Pressing a soft kiss to her lips, I tell her I had a good time, and then I leave, just like I promised, just like I do every time.

Her scent clings to me the whole drive home. My body feels hers wrapped around it. My skin still burns from touching her. These lingering remnants of our night will wash away with a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. I know this from experience. Lots and lots of experience.

I am a pro at this. I’ve left many women in many beds, and Genevieve is just another. She’s not the first. She won’t be the last, and tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about her. It’s only tonight that I imagine I still want more.