 
Choose Me

Book One of the Banger Trilogy

By Donya Lynne

Choose Me©

Banger Trilogy

Copyright 2016 Donya Lynne

ISBN: 978-1-938991-38-7

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be resold or distributed without the author's express consent. Contact the author at donya@donyalynne.com.

References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, persons, or locales, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

Contents

Author Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Did You Enjoy the Book?

Excerpt from Covet Me

Books By Donya Lynne

About the Author

Connect With Donya

Author Note

The Banger Trilogy is a rebrand of my former work published as the seven-book Banger Serialized Novel under the pen name Dick Hertz. If you've read those books, this is the same story, just with a new look.

There are several reasons I decided to rebrand this series as a trilogy, but it boils down to the fact that in today's publishing environment, authors experiment with new ideas. Some work, some don't. This was a case where the story itself was a success, but the experiment of how I branded it wasn't, for reasons that were both out of my control and within it.

A word about the story itself:

The Banger Trilogy is a funny, sexy, twisting (and often blisteringly hot) tale filled with startling family secrets, jaw-dropping surprises, and one or two shocking revelations. There are cheating exes, emotional turmoil, and hard decisions to be made if a happy ending is in the cards for our hero and heroine.

I also wanted to turn the "big dick" trope on its head with the Banger Series. In romance books, we find a lot of heroes who are endowed with massive members, yet their "virginal" heroines can still manage to enjoy (often with multiple orgasms) those super shlongs the first time they have sex. Let's face it, real life doesn't work that way. In real life, big dicks hurt, and a virginal maiden is more likely to be glad the ordeal is over than thrilled with all the orgasms she had. So I wanted to explore the concept of a big dick as a detriment, not a gift from God to make women swoon with arousal. In the Banger Trilogy, you'll find a bit of comedy in the results of my big-dick turnabout, as well as some emotional mayhem.

Another literary device I wanted to play with in the Banger books was something called "Easter eggs," which are subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) references made to other works, usually another book. But the reference can also be to a movie or song. Easter eggs are popular literary devices used more often than you might think, and they do not infringe on copyrights or licenses. I won't reveal the two popular romance stories I Easter egged in the Banger Trilogy, but readers of romance shouldn't have any trouble identifying them. And once you do, have as much fun finding all the Easter eggs as I did hiding them. Trust me, there are some you're going to have to look for.

I hope you enjoy the new Banger rebrand. I've learned my lesson. From now on, I'll stick to what I do best. No more experimenting for me.

Thank you for reading,

Donya

Banger

An unconventional love story for an unconventional couple.

The average human male penis reaches its mature size by the age of seventeen and has an average erect length of 5.1 inches and an average erect circumference of 4.8 inches.

This is the story of an above-average man.

A very above-average man . . .

. . . and the above-average woman who will change his life.

Chapter 1

Friday, April 7

Greyson

"Who jumps out of a perfectly good airplane?"

I turn from the window to glance at the thirtysomething brunette sitting beside me. She appears nervous, so I smile. My father always told me that smiles calm people down, and she looks like she needs a heavy dose of calm.

I lean toward her. "Apparently, we do." I have to shout to be heard over the plane's engines. "First time?"

She laughs nervously and nods. "First time solo. I've tandem jumped, though."

She's a local, and she has a strong accent. After two weeks in New Zealand, I'm starting to get used to it.

"Ah, so you're a solo virgin." I lift my chin and pop my eyebrows, remembering she was one of the few who raised their hands back at the base when the instructors asked who the first-timers were.

She sputters out a crisp laugh. "Yeah, that's me, a solo virgin." She presses her lips into a tight line then asks, "How many solo jumps have you done?" It's obvious she's trying to distract herself with small talk.

"This makes twenty-nine for me."

Her eyes bulge. "Shit, mate, that's a lot."

I shrug indifferently. "I've been skydiving for eighteen years."

"Does it get any easier?"

"Not really." A person might get used to the nervous buildup and even come to appreciate the experience, but jumping out of a plane never gets easier. "Do it enough, though, and you might get addicted to the rush." That's certainly the truth for me.

She offers a polite, resigned smile, and I gaze back out the window.

We're at fifteen thousand feet. Noah Logan, our Lake Taupo Skydiving instructor, told the group in our preflight briefing that the brain stops processing distance at two thousand feet, which is less than half a mile. At fifteen thousand feet, we're almost three miles up. I squint at the ground. Does my brain really _not_ comprehend how much farther that is than two thousand feet?

The propeller plane is loud enough to drown out the nervous laughter of those on board, some first-timers, most not. But everyone has tandem jumped. However, jumping solo versus jumping tandem is a whole different beast. When you're solo, it's all on you. There's no one else to blame if you fuck up.

And if you fuck up at this distance, whether it looks like two thousand feet or fifteen thousand, it won't matter. You'll be nothing but a red splat on the grass.

Danger aside, nothing beats the tingling, electrifying adrenaline rush of freefalling at 125 miles per hour. Nothing except for maybe scorching hot sex.

But I wouldn't know about that. I can't honestly say I've ever experienced scorching hot sex. I can't even say I've had boiling hot sex or even just hot sex. When you're equipped with an erect dick that's the equivalent of a baby elephant's trunk, it limits what you can do in the bedroom. Hell, it limits not just _what_ you can do, but _who_ you can do, and how hard you can do it to them.

So, yeah, whoever said bigger is better can suck my dick.

That is, if they can get it inside their mouth.

And if they can, praise Jesus, because then I might actually get to have some fun with something other than my hand.

The brunette is nervously twisting her fingers together.

I lean into her, brushing her arm with mine. "You'll be fine." I give her a reassuring wink.

A fragile, slightly terrified laugh breaks from her throat before she drops her gaze to her knotted hands in her lap. "I don't know if I can do this."

I lay my hand over both of hers, gently squeezing. "Sure you can. Just think that you're tandem jumping."

This time, her laugh is more caustic. "But with tandem jumping, someone _else_ is doing the actual jumping. I'm just along for the ride."

"Touché." I pull my hand away. "But hey, once you get through the actual jump, it's all pretty much the same. You just have to remember to pull your rip cord. Other than that, enjoy the view." I flash her another warm smile, trying to help her through her fear. She looks so vulnerable, as if she doesn't want to let herself down. As if there is some deeper purpose to her insane desire to leap into thin air and plummet thousands of feet to the ground.

I shift in my seat and inch closer to her, leaning my head toward hers, which is about all I can do given how strapped in I am. I gently nudge her shoulder with mine and wait half a beat for her to look at me. "Do you mind me asking why you're doing this if it scares you so much?"

People do things for all sorts of reasons, and, call it a hunch, but I'm starting to sense she's got a personal agenda behind being here today. Maybe if I can get her thinking about why she's doing this, she'll find the courage to see it through.

Her face falls as her shoulders droop. She briefly closes her eyes and expels a heavy sigh. "I got divorced last year." She says it like this is her reason for everything, not just the jump.

I immediately think of my father and stiffen. "I see."

"My ex said I didn't excite him anymore. That I was _boring_." Her expression flattens. "I'm the same person he married four years ago, but _now_ I'm boring. Can you believe that?"

I offer a weak smile. I barely know her, but any woman who jumps out of an airplane is anything but boring. "You're going a long way to prove a point, don't you think?" It's an attempt at humor, and I hope she sees it that way.

She utters a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, I've got a long way to go to prove to myself that I'm not what he says I am."

"Why?"

"Because . . ." A shamed, hurt expression takes over her face. It's the same look everyone who's been cheated on wears at some point.

I rear back, my adrenaline spiking for a whole other reason that has nothing to do with jumping out of an airplane. "He didn't . . .? Did he . . .?" I can't even think the end of my question let alone say it.

She briefly closes her eyes, as if a great weight she's been carrying far too long has grown even heavier, and then her gaze slides to mine as she nods. "He did."

I swallow thickly, turn toward the window, and then clear my throat as I look down at my hands. They've curled into fists in my lap. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"It's okay, I'll get over—"

"No, it's not okay." I lock gazes with her again. "Cheating is never okay."

The chivalrous knight residing inside my soul wants nothing more than to take this woman back to my hotel room and make love to her until she can no longer distinguish night from day. Until she can't fathom what she ever saw in her lousy ex. But I'm not that cruel. The last thing she needs is my mammoth dick scarring her for life when she's already in such a fragile state. And the last thing I need is another blow to my ego.

She sheepishly tilts her head to one side. "Pathetic, isn't it? Thinking I could jump out of a plane and make all my problems disappear?"

"It's not pathetic at all." I take her hand and squeeze. "You're daring to change your life's course midstream. That's incredibly courageous. Most people would give up." I think of my father again. "They'd sink into depression and suffer, maybe even for the rest of their lives." I force myself to brighten and push thoughts of my father aside. "But you . . ." My gaze dances over her face. "Look at you. You're daring to be something else. You're daring to defy your past and your ex-husband by going out and doing something completely new. Something totally insane. Something _interesting_." I give her a wink. "Something like jumping out of a perfectly good airplane."

She lets out a brittle but modest laugh, her lashes fluttering. "You really think so?"

"Hell yeah. That's gutsy. That's exciting. Not even in the same zip code as boring." This time her laugh is more honest and refreshing. "At the end of the day, the only person you have to face in the mirror is you, and all it takes is one step in a new direction to begin a journey toward new discoveries about yourself."

Hope glitters in her green eyes as she nods more enthusiastically and tightens her fingers around mine. "You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that. Thank you." She takes a deep breath and sits a little straighter, her shoulders back. "I needed to be reminded of why I'm doing this."

"Glad I could help . . ." I leave the sentence suspended in the way people do when they're looking for a name.

She tips her head to the side in acknowledgement. "Gail. My name's Gail." Her gaze darts to mine then coquettishly looks away.

"Nice to meet you, Gail. I'm Greyson."

If only I weren't such a nice guy, I could take her back to the Hilton for a quiet dinner . . . and then a nightcap in my room . . . and then I could leave New Zealand tomorrow morning with a big fat smile on my face. But, like I said, I'm not that cruel.

As the instructors tell us to get ready, I glance toward the front of the plane then back at her. "So, are you ready to do this?"

She lets out a shaky exhale but nods. "Yeah, I think so. Thanks to you."

Gail is still holding my hand, and she's got a death grip on it, but she no longer looks scared. Anxious and nervous, but not scared. More like she's ready to do this so she can start the new journey she's decided to embark on and see where it leads.

We're approaching the drop zone and everyone's adrenaline is pushing toward overflowing. One guy a few seats up from me throws up inside an airsickness bag. A woman in the front of the plane is laughing almost hysterically, her nerves finding an outlet in her laughter. Even I feel the anxious surge of chemicals in my blood.

No one is immune to the rush. I've made more jumps than anyone else on the plane—except for maybe Noah and the other instructors—and I still get caught up with adrenaline like everyone else.

Inherent danger keeps even the most seasoned jumper frosty. Every jump could be your last. Every trip from plane to earth could end in disaster. Until your feet hit the ground and your jump is safely over, anything can happen.

But that's why I do this. I've got to get my kicks somewhere.

We're over the drop zone, and Gail and I are moving forward in line as those in front of us fall away from the plane.

The line moves quickly, and before I know it, it's our turn.

Gail goes first.

"Go get 'em, tiger," I say.

She smiles, gives me a thumbs-up, closes her eyes as if she's saying a quick prayer, and then lets out a startled scream followed by quickly fading manic laughter as gravity pulls her away from the plane.

My turn.

I crouch, lean forward, and gravity, along with the vacuum-like pull of air, does the rest.

I'm bathed in the dusky light of the late afternoon sun as I freefall toward the ground.

Euphoria explodes throughout my body as the adrenaline dumps by the bucketful into my blood. This is porn for adrenaline junkies, and I'm riding the mental hard-on like John Holmes.

I vaguely and irrationally wonder if the brain stops registering dick size at two-thousand feet, too.

_________

After returning to the five-star Hilton, I shower and pack for tomorrow morning's flight then head down to the bar for one last nightcap. The lounge is all mahogany and dim lighting, with brown leather seating in front of the fireplace. A cozy fire flickers behind the glass grate.

I'm still high on adrenaline and not looking forward to the long flight home. Hopefully I can sleep through some of it. That'll make it go faster.

Adjusting to the time difference is going to be a bitch once I get back to Denver. It's currently five in the morning there. As in, five o'clock _this_ morning. In a few hours, it will be Saturday in New Zealand. It won't be Saturday in Denver for sixteen hours.

"Good evening, Mr. James," purrs the pretty blond behind the bar as I take my seat at the end the way I've done every night for the past two weeks, at least on the nights I was here and not camping in the wilderness.

"Good evening, Rhian." She's worked all but one night I've been here. "You look like you got some sun." The apples of her cheeks are pink, her skin rosier.

"I did." Her eyes sparkle as if she's happy I noticed. "Armagnac?" Rhian lifts the circular-shaped bottle and twists off the cap.

"Yes, please."

She places a snifter in front of me and pours a portion of the honey-brown liquid into it. "Is this your last night in New Zealand?"

"That's right." I lift the snifter and swirl the liquid before taking a sip.

"That's too bad." She pouts flirtatiously. "You're leaving just when we're getting to know one another."

I love the New Zealand accent. I especially like Rhian's. She's a lovely woman. Even prettier than Gail, my seat mate on the plane. Younger, perhaps twenty-five, with hair so blond it's platinum, high cheekbones, and a pale-pink, heart-shaped mouth. Tonight, her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that extends to the small of her back and swishes side to side as she strolls away from me to wait on another customer.

I'd love to pull that ponytail while I fuck her. Just grab it and wrap it around my fist and crank her head back as I impale myself on her.

Jesus, can I even go ten minutes without thinking about sex?

An article in this month's _Men's Health_ said that, contrary to what people have been saying for decades about men thinking about sex once every seven seconds, men only think about sex an average of thirty-four times a day, which is less than twice an hour.

Yeah, maybe if he's getting lots of sweaty, satisfying sex. Me? Sex seems to be all I've got on the brain. I thought about boning Gail for half the flight. And then again once we got back on the ground. And then _again_ right after I told her good-bye and wished her luck. Now I'm thinking about fucking Rhian.

Twice an hour my ass.

But hell, my fantasies are about the only action I've gotten for the past year. Not that I haven't tried, and not that I haven't had willing partners. I just haven't had much luck finding a woman able to sheath the beast.

Rhian glances over her shoulder, catching me staring at her. She smiles.

I like her mouth. She has straight teeth, and it's almost as enjoyable to watch her talk as it is to listen to her.

I'm going to miss Rhian.

She glides back to me like a graceful dancer and leans over the counter, clasping her hands and putting her weight on her forearms. Her breasts press together between her upper arms, revealing ample cleavage under a crisp, white button-up shirt with the top three buttons undone. "You know, I'm going to miss you," she says, her voice low.

My inner hedonist perks up. "Funny, but I was just thinking the same thing about you."

Her pale eyebrows rise. "You were?"

My gaze falls to her mouth. "Uh-huh."

She glances toward the other bartender as if making sure he's out of earshot then presses closer. "I get off in thirty minutes if you want to say a proper good-bye in private."

My dick perks up, plumping behind the zipper of my slacks.

Rhian winks as she pushes away and sashays toward another customer, swishing her hips with a little more flair, because she knows I'm staring at her perfectly formed ass.

I hadn't intended on doing anything reckless tonight. Something fraught with peril. Something like inviting a woman back to my room and taking yet another leap into the realm of potential carnal disappointment. But I can't help myself. Like the rush I get from jumping out of a plane, I get off on the rush of the possibility that maybe this time I'll find a woman who loves big dick and can handle it.

What's more, Rhian is coming onto me. Heavily. As in, her eyes are reading all kinds of _fuck me_. And that shit's overriding every rational thought warning me to return to my room alone. But I'm weak. It's been too long since I've gotten properly laid—come to think of it, I've never been properly laid, given my enormous size—and I'm too much of an adrenaline junkie to say no.

Hell, if Gail had come on to me half as strong as Rhian, I'd already be taking the plunge inside her rapturous depths right now, fragile frame of mind or not, instead of sitting here at the bar, sipping my drink, and pondering Rhian's odds of being up to the task.

A hundred says she won't be able to take me.

I'll take that bet, because what have I got to lose?

You know a man's sex life is in pathetic shape when he starts taking bets against himself before he's even made it to first base. Hell, before he's even gone up to bat! But twenty years of enduring what I can only describe as mild PTSD after countless rejections over the size of my dick have turned me into one of Pavlov's dogs. I've been conditioned to think defensively about sex. To create a contingency plan for failure, even while I'm still formulating my seduction.

Bigger is not always better. In fact, bigger is _rarely_ better.

Bigger is a fast track to either going back to my room alone to jack off to fantasies of Rhian's pretty pink mouth and straight teeth working up and down my cock or . . . making the same bad decision I've always made in hopes that the result will be different.

And what do you know? It looks like I'll be opening door number two. Like someone who watches _Titanic_ over and over in hopes that the ship won't actually hit the iceberg and sink to the bottom of the ocean, I wait around until the end of Rhian's shift then invite her back to my room.

The moment the door closes, she's on me, and her mouth is as perfect as I imagined it would be, her tongue soft and warm as it slides over mine.

She helps me out of my shirt.

I help her out of hers.

All the while, we're lip-locked and making our way, stumble-stepping and shuffling around furniture, to the bedroom.

She kicks off her shoes and wriggles out of her painted-on pants somewhere along the way, and she pulls me down on top of her as we fall onto the bed.

She's wearing nothing but her matching pink and grey bra and panties. Women who match their underwear are classy, and Rhian's stock just tripled. If she can manage to take all eleven inches of me without complaint, I might have to sell my company and move to New Zealand.

"I can't believe I'm doing this." She giggles seductively as I roll to a sitting position and pull her onto my lap. "I never sleep with the guests."

I reach around and unsnap her bra with a flick of my fingers, toss it aside, and then pull the elastic band from her hair, letting it spill over her shoulders. "Is it against the rules?" I find those precious pale-pink lips with mine as her taut nipples tease my chest.

A breathy laugh spills from her throat. "No, but . . ." She lets me kiss her again. "I just don't do this."

Lying back on the bed, I pull her down on top of me, worrying that she still might not _do this_ once she sees what's waiting for her below my waist. I push her hair back so I can see her face. "So why are you doing it with me?"

She shrugs shyly. "I don't know. You seem different. Nice." Her teeth close over her bottom lip before she adds, "And you're sexy as hell." Her eyes twinkle as she takes in my face.

Nice is usually the kiss of death for a guy. Men cringe when women tell them they're nice, because there's always a nut-busting "but" that follows. "You're a nice guy, but . . . I don't want to see you anymore," or "You're a handsome guy, but . . . I just don't like you that way," or my personal favorite, "I like you, Greyson. You're a nice guy, but . . . your dick is just too big." I've heard one derivative or another of that letdown more times than I want to count, and, to be honest, I'm fucking fed up with it.

Yeah, nine times out of ten, I hate the word "nice."

However, when a woman adds something as ego bolstering as "And you're sexy as hell" behind her _nice_ statement like Rhian just did, it has a whole different effect on a man.

Don't get me wrong. I _am_ a nice guy. I'm polite, say please and thank you, hold the door open to let the lady pass through first. My father raised me to treat women a certain way, and women respond in droves.

My problem isn't in attracting women or turning them on, it's in keeping them attracted and turned on once they get a load of my fifth appendage, which could qualify for its own zip code.

Which is why I'm really hoping this goes well with Rhian.

We kiss some more, all tongues and mouths, and I slip my hand inside her panties. She's waxed smooth. She claims she doesn't sleep with the guests, but with a bare pussy, she certainly seems ready for sex with someone, guest or not.

"Jesus, that's sexy." I don't care if she's telling the truth about not sleeping with the clientele. All I care about right now is her ability to take all of me whole, and I don't care which orifice she can do it with.

Of course, just to be safe, I'll be using the one lone condom that's been in my wallet since the last time I tried to get with a woman. I know it's not good to carry a condom around in my wallet, but I put it in there five months ago and forgot about it. Now it's all that stands between me taking the plunge or using my fist to find my pleasure again. I just hope the damn thing doesn't break.

I unfasten my belt and roll off the bed. It's time for the big reveal. Time to find out whether Rhian can beat the odds.

I retrieve my wallet from the dresser. I pull out the condom and say a silent prayer. Undoing the snap and zipper, I let my pants drop to the floor and push down my undershorts, freeing my heavy cock.

_Here goes_.

I turn around, holding my breath.

Rhian's eyes bulge. "Holy shit." Her mouth falls open.

The familiar ache of disappointment slams into the back of my sternum, and I'm about to resign myself to another night of fisting it when I take a closer look at her face. It's not fear in her eyes.

It's hunger.

The tip of her tongue peeks out to wet the seam of her mouth. "You have porn cock."

"Porn cock?" Hope stirs inside me at her reaction, and I tear open the cellophane packet and pull out the extra-large condom. It's almost impossible to find condoms that fit me, but I've found a brand that works. It's just been awhile since I've needed one, so I'm hoping the latex is still pliable enough not to split as I roll it on.

Rhian stretches into an inviting display of tantalizing breasts and bent legs, staring like a lust-drunk whore at what's working between my legs. "Yeah. Porn cock. It's _long_ . . . and _thick_." She bites her bottom lip, giving me a Cheshire grin.

Things are looking up.

"Have you ever had porn cock?" If she has and enjoyed it, that would be another good sign.

She bites her bottom lip. "Once."

"And . . .?"

She's practically panting. "It took a little getting used to, but once I did, oh my God! It was soooo good." Her eyes open wide and roll back as she lets out a heavy, heated exhale.

This is going a lot better than I thought it would, and my whole body feels alive and tingly, just as it did when I leaped out of the plane earlier. I'm so excited I'm not sure I'm going to make it through the next sixty seconds without blowing my load. I've never been with a woman who looked at my dick the way Rhian is looking at it now. She doesn't fear it. She wants it. If I hold out on her, I'm sure I could make her beg for it.

But I'm not in the mood to wait, even though I'd love to see a woman beg for my dick for a change. Talk about a novelty.

By some miracle, I get the condom on without breaking it—or coming—and I join her on the bed.

On the surface, I try to look like this sort of thing happens to me all the time, but on the inside, I'm about to boil over. In one defining moment, the night has gone from cautious defensiveness to all-out full-court press.

Her long legs lock around my hips as her right hand guides me inside her. She's tight, and I have to take it slow, but holy hell to Jesus, after a few stops and starts and slow, gentle thrusts, I'm in. Not quite all the way, but farther than I've ever been before.

And we're fucking.

Hell yes, we're fucking.

And she likes it. She's telling me to fuck her, fuck her harder.

I'm not going to last long, and what a shame that is. When you've waited all your life to eat a perfectly cooked beef wellington, you don't want to be rushed to finish after enjoying only a couple small bites.

Rhian stops me, breathless and panting. "Fuck me from behind."

I don't want to fuck her from behind. I always fuck from behind, because it's easier to get the deed done when I don't have to see the woman grimace in pain, tears moistening her lashes, as she appears to be praying for the act to be over sooner rather than later. Tonight, I was hoping to fuck face-to-face for once, but Rhian is already turning over beneath me.

I'm still just so shocked this is even happening that all I can do is let her flip to her stomach and keep hammering my hips into her.

She's crying out, but not in pain, and she's really getting into it when she throws her head forward and slaps her palms against the brown leather headboard to give her leverage to press her ass back to meet my thrusts.

I was joking earlier about moving to New Zealand, but now I might have to reconsider.

I'm pounding away at her, my muscles growing tight in that way I know means I'm going to come soon, when I notice the band of pale skin that circles the base of her left ring finger.

No.

Please God, no.

I'm on the verge of coming, but I go stark still.

Her head snaps up as she ruts against me. "Don't stop." She's breathing hard, her voice filled with desperation. "Why are you stopping?"

As badly as my body wants oxygen, I can't breathe. "Are you . . ." I swallow bile. "Are you married?"

She freezes and sucks in her breath as she drops her left hand to the mattress and stares at it for a second before shoving it under a pillow, which is more than enough confirmation for me.

My cock instantly begins to wither, and I pull out of her.

"It's not what you think," she says, spinning around to protest.

I'm already climbing off the bed. "Are you married or not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then it _is_ what I think." I toss her bra and panties at her. "I'm not going to fuck another man's wife, Rhian." Blue balls be damned.

She huffs but starts pulling on her panties. "You already were."

"Not by choice. If I'd known, I never would have invited you to my room." Not once in two weeks have I seen a wedding band on her finger or heard her mention a husband.

After what happened to my father, I refuse to be a party in destroying a marriage. For Rhian to take advantage of me like that—for her to trick me into thinking she was single so I would sleep with her—pisses me off. My stomach roils, and I feel like I might throw up. With each passing second, I grow angrier.

She pulls on her bra. "It doesn't change the fact that you were, in fact, fucking me, Greyson. We could have at least finished." Her voice has gone from coy and playful to haughty and contemptuous. She snatches her shirt off the floor as I head to the bathroom. "You could have at least postponed your trip to moral high ground until after you got me off."

I roll the condom off my cock and slam dunk it in the trash can. What a waste of a good condom. Damn things are hard to find in my size, so they're like gold. I don't know what makes me angrier: that she's married and fucking around on her husband, that she just made me waste one of my precious rubbers, or that I finally found a woman who could handle my monstrous member only to learn that it was all just lies and deceit.

Up until the moment I saw the tan line from her wedding band, this was the most intensely exciting sexual experience I've ever had.

"Is this some kind of game for you?" I pull on a pair of flannel pajama pants while she finishes getting dressed amid an invisible cloud of frustration. "Some kind of fuck-the-guests competition between you and the other bartenders?" My blood boils, and I'm beyond giving a shit if I hurt her feelings. "Do you just sit around waiting for someone like me to come in to take advantage of?"

She glares at me but doesn't say anything.

"Do you take off your wedding ring _every_ night and play with men's emotions like that? Like they mean _nothing_ to you? Or is it just to get bigger tips?"

She frowns and looks at the floor. "I told you, I don't normally do things like this." At least she's starting to look remorseful.

"So it's the tips. If your intention isn't to fuck the men you come on to, then it's to ply more money out of them. Except tonight I got to be the exception. How special for me and your husband." I take off my watch and toss it on the nightstand, turning away from her.

Neither of us says anything, and I refuse to look at her. The heart-shaped lips I couldn't get enough of less than an hour ago are a poisonous trap full of gut-twisting lies. I don't want to look at those lips and be reminded yet again of how much of a failure I am in all things love and relationships.

To her, tonight was probably all about having fun. But for me, it was so much more, because I'd finally found a woman who liked big dick. And not only liked it, but craved it. For once, my dick hadn't felt like a curse, and I'm more devastated by finding out she's married than I want to admit.

After a long, silent moment, she sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't think it would matter." Her voice is small and fragile. At least she's ditched her accusatory tone. Small consolation in light of the pain gnawing at the inside of my chest.

I scowl over my shoulder at her. "Maybe it didn't matter to you, but it mattered to me. Did you ever stop to think about that?"

Her mouth falls open.

"And if it doesn't matter," I continue, "why take off your wedding ring at all. At least let the guys you go after know who you are. At least be honest about that much."

She looks like a chastised little girl. Tears glisten in her eyes. "Look, I said I'm sorry."

"Just go." I turn away.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror and hold for a long, silent moment, and then without another word she turns and leaves the bedroom. A few seconds later, I hear the door to the suite open then close with a quiet click. Only then do I let out the breath I've been holding and allow myself to fall ass-first onto the bed. I drop my face into my hands, shaking my head.

Anguish rips out my heart, and anger pisses in the cavity left behind by the gaping hole.

There's only one thing I hate more than hurting a woman during sex, and that's finding out that the woman coming onto me or in my bed is married, engaged, or has a boyfriend. That's a total dick killer. I promised ages ago, after what happened between my parents, that the one thing I would never do was sleep with another man's woman. Just the thought makes my stomach turn.

I lie back and stare up at the ceiling, my sac throbbing with one hell of a case of blue balls. Lucky me.

Will my luck ever change?

Not tonight.

And, at this rate, maybe never.

Chapter 2

Thursday, June 1

Katherine

Something's wrong with the company's sales numbers. According to the quarterly reports, Freedom's sales have gone up in the Southwest region, but profits have gone down. Not a lot, but enough for me to notice. Since I don't recall an abnormal rise in expenses, this doesn't make sense. Then again, I'm not the CFO. And since Elliott hasn't warned me about anything out of the ordinary, I'm left to wonder if someone's made an accounting error.

I start to shoot Elliott an e-mail only to be interrupted by my ex-husband's signature knuckle rap on my door. Without waiting for me to invite him into my office, he strolls inside.

"Dad!" Christian and Rose leap from the round conference table in the corner where they've been reading, coloring, and playing video games all morning, waiting for their dad to arrive.

"Hey, guys!" Phil crouches and hugs them each in turn. "You ready to spend summer in California?"

Christian nods. "I get to surf this year!"

I told Christian he wasn't allowed to surf until he was twelve. He turned twelve this past January, so it's been all things surfing ever since. He's been snowboarding, skateboarding, and skiing since he could walk, so he and I both hope the transition from land to water won't be too difficult. I just don't like the idea of him in the ocean. That has more to do with me than him. As much as I love looking at the ocean, the idea of being in it or on it dredges up an irrational fear inside me that turns my knees to mush and my heart into a racing engine.

"I'm hungry!" Rose's eyes dazzle in that way they do when she's pouring on the charm in hopes of getting ice cream.

Phil issues me a scornful glance, arching one eyebrow. "You two haven't eaten lunch, yet?" He says it as if I'm to blame.

"You're two hours late, Phil," I remind him, pointedly glancing at the clock. "You were supposed to be here at eleven so _you_ could take them to lunch, remember?" I frown as I catch the scent of his cologne. It's something new, something I've never smelled on him before, and it's a little disgusting—a little too fruity or floral—but if he likes the way it smells, it's Mia's nose that gets to wrinkle when he sprays it on, not mine. Thank God.

"Yes, I remember, Kate." He snaps my name like he's shooting a gun with a silencer attached to it. "But when I was late, you should have fed them."

I stand and press my palms against the cool, polished wood of my desk. "If you would have called to let me know you were running late, I would have."

Phil's jaw tenses. "I—"

"Stop fighting." Christian mopes back to the table and starts halfheartedly shoving his things into his backpack. "You're always fighting."

I hate that my kids have to see me like this. I don't like arguing with Phil in front of them, but he brings out the worst in me.

It wasn't always this way between us, but finding out he had a lover—or was that lovers?—while we were married destroyed any semblance of trust and compassion I once felt for him. I doubt I'll ever know the extent of his cheating, but I'm certain Mia wasn't the only woman he cheated on me with.

I'd love to find a way to fire Phil, but he's one of Freedom's best salesmen, and my dad has made me promise not to fire him just because our marriage fell apart. But Dad retires tomorrow, and as of Monday, I'll officially take over as CEO of Freedom Cycle. Decisions about personnel will be _my_ call, and even though I've promised not to boot Phil without good cause, it doesn't mean I won't find good cause once I'm running the ship. Then all bets are off.

My father has always been a lot more understanding of my ex than I am. His patience with Phil was—and still is—enough for both of us. Then again, I got my mom's temperament, which carried more fire than my dad's.

At least Phil rarely visits the office now that he lives in California with the woman— _one_ of the women—he cheated on me with, which makes dealing with him a little easier. He only finds his way back to Denver three or four times a year.

Today is one of those times.

I glare at Phil then force a smile as I join Christian and Rose at the table and help them load up their backpacks. Then I hand Christian the keys to my car. He's the older of the two and usually gets the task of watching over his little sister. "Why don't you and your sister go out and grab your things from my car while I talk to your dad for a couple of minutes? Okay?"

"You're not going to fight again, are you?" he asks.

"No, honey. I just want to talk to him alone. Work stuff. Now go on and look after your sister while I finish up in here."

It's not all a lie. I do want to talk to Phil about his sales figures, but I can't promise we won't get into another argument.

The kids don't know the truth about their dad. I've made it a point not to talk about his infidelity around them, and I told Phil not to, either, but I think Christian is beginning to suspect the truth. He's a pretty smart kid, so I wouldn't be surprised if he's putting two and two together. Damn Phil for making my kids grow up so fast. I'd hoped to keep them innocent longer than this.

Once Christian and Rose leave my office, Phil closes the door.

"You look good, Kaykay."

Kaykay was his nickname for me while we were married because of my initials. Katherine Kelley. But I finally changed back to my maiden name, Clayton, two weeks ago, and he knows that. No doubt he's trying to get a rise out of me.

He sits in one of the two wing chairs on the other side of my desk and rests his ankle over his knee. His gaze rakes me from head to breasts to waist and back up.

He's definitely trying to get a rise out of me.

"Cut the crap, Phil. And don't call me Kaykay anymore. It's K.C. or Kate to you, but not Kaykay."

"Whatever. You still look good. Can't I compliment my ex-wife?"

"No." Sick bastard.

We've been divorced almost six years, but he still comes on to me like we're married. Does he really think I'm going to sleep with him given our history? Or is this just his way of trying to intimidate and exercise control over me. He always did enjoy using sex as a weapon. Something I didn't realize until _after_ our divorce, when I opened my naïve eyes and took a good, long look at our marriage.

He sighs and relaxes into the chair, folding his hands over his stomach, looking at me like I'm as much a bane to his existence as he is to mine.

I sit back down and toss the hard copy of the latest quarterly report across the desk for him to look at. "What's going on in your territory?"

He picks up the report and scans it, frowning. "What's this?"

"The numbers for the last quarter."

He scowls at the report like it's written in a foreign language then tosses it back onto my desk. "I'm in sales, not finance. What exactly is your point?"

"The numbers are off for your region, Phil. Sales are up, profits are down."

"So?"

"So? I need to know what's going on."

"How am I supposed to know? Ask Elliott." He scowls contemptuously at me, and I can almost hear his thoughts. He's not used to being questioned and doesn't understand why I'm all up in his business.

While my dad is a brilliant businessman, numbers aren't his forte. He preferred glad-handing and visiting customers to reviewing financial reports, so he left all the accounting to Elliott's department. I'm more of a numbers person, which means not only will Elliott get to see a lot more of me than he did of my father when I officially take over next week, but Phil and the other salespeople will, too, if their numbers fall off the way Phil's have.

I huff out a heavy sigh and lean back in my chair. Questioning Phil directly about his sales probably just let the cat out of the bag that Dad's going to be stepping down soon, but I'm angry, so I'm taking my frustration over the numbers out on Phil.

"I _will_ ask Elliott, you can count on it." I swipe the report back and drop it to the side.

"Is that it? Is that all you've got for me?" Phil pushes forward in his seat, poised to rise. "Can I go now?" He says it like I'm a prison warden and he's just been released from jail for a crime he didn't commit.

I don't answer him. "Christian and Rose are probably waiting, and all they've eaten since breakfast is a banana and some yogurt I scrounged from the refrigerator in the break room, so make sure they eat a good lunch. No ice cream until _after_ they've eaten."

He rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Kate, I know how to feed my own goddamn kids. You act as though I'm completely incapable of taking care of them."

"Just make sure they eat something good, Phil." I know if I don't stress this, he'll probably just pump them full of whatever they ask for, and I don't want them boarding a jet in a few hours hopped up on greasy fast food and hot fudge sundaes.

He curses and clenches his fists on the arms of the chair then pushes himself to a standing position. "If you're so goddamn concerned about my parenting skills, why do you even let the kids come stay with me during their summer vacation?" He marches toward the door then stops with his hand on the doorknob, growing violently quiet. "Oh that's right," he hisses, turning blazing, narrowed eyes on me. "You want the kids out of your hair for the summer so you can _whore_ yourself all over Denver while they're gone."

I explode out of my chair. "Excuse me!" I think I just ruptured a blood vessel.

He spins to face me. "Don't deny it, Kate. I've heard what you do during your summers without the kids. About the men you _date_ while the kids are gone." He says the word date like he's slapping me in the face with it. "How every summer, you hook up with some random guy, spend the summer fucking him, and then break it off when the kids come home so they don't find out what a slut you are."

I don't know how he knows all this, but I circle my desk like a one-woman stampede and slap him across the cheek before he knows what hit him. "They are _not_ random guys, and I do _not_ spend the summer _fucking_ them." That's a little white lie, but what I do or don't do—whether sexual or not—stopped being any of Phil's concern the day our divorce was finalized. "And even if I were, it's none of your business, you hypocrite. How dare you judge me! _You_. The one who cheated on me all over California, Arizona, and God knows where else. I still don't know how many women you fucked around with while you were supposed to be married to _me_." I slap my open palm on my chest. "But I know it was more than just Mia." Mia Dawson. His live-in girlfriend. The tramp he had an affair with. No wonder he insisted on visiting the California territory as often as he did during the last two years of our marriage. "So don't you dare preach to me about who I can and can't sleep with, Phil. At least I'm not doing it in front of the kids."

"And that's supposed to makes you a saint? I don't want that shit around my children, Kate." He always refers to them as _his_ kids when we argue, as if I had nothing to do with their birth or their upbringing.

"Well, I didn't want infidelity around _our_ kids, either, Phil, but that didn't stop you from bringing it into our home, shattering my trust, and destroying my life, so fuck you and what you do or don't want! You don't have a say in my life anymore. If I want to fuck every man in Colorado, that's my business, not yours, so fuck off."

Guilty menace simmers inside Phil's burning gaze the way it always does when I hit him with the truth of what he did and how it affected me. I think there is a grain of remorse hidden deep inside him somewhere, or maybe he just knows he's a complete and unredeemable asshole and wishes he weren't. It doesn't really matter. We've hit a stalemate in our argument and are glaring silently at each other.

Finally, he yanks open the door. It slams against the wall. "Do whatever you want, Kate. I don't give a shit." He storms out without another word.

My assistant stares wide-eyed and pale-faced as he passes her desk. It's apparent she heard the whole argument. Every awful word.

Raw anger rises within me, but I force it down as I follow him. I'm not going to let him leave with Christian and Rose before I've said good-bye to them, and I can't say good-bye when angry adrenaline is raging like the bulls of Pamplona through my body.

Outside, the kids are waiting next to my car, their faces buried in one of their video games. When Christian looks up, he frowns sadly.

"You guys fought again, didn't you? You told me you weren't going to fight." He scowls at me, and guilt rankles the skin on my back. I'm sure my red-mottled face is the dead giveaway to what happened between Phil and me while he and Rose waited out here in the parking lot. I always get blotchy with hives when I'm pissed off. Like I'm allergic to anger or something.

"I'm sorry, honey." I sigh and pick up his and Rose's suitcases while Phil retrieves his rental car. "I didn't mean to. But just because your dad and I have a hard time getting along doesn't mean we both don't love you and that you're not going to have a great time in California this summer."

"Will _she_ be there?" Rose asks, wrinkling her nose.

Neither Christian nor Rose are particularly fond of Mia, either, but not because of anything I've said to them.

"Yes, Mia will be there. She lives with your dad, remember? And I want you to be nice to her." Just because I can't stand the woman doesn't mean my kids can behave like they weren't raised with good manners.

"Are they going to get married?" Christian does the nose-wrinkling thing, too.

"I don't know, honey. Maybe." I'm surprised they're not married after being together for six years. Eight years, actually, counting the two-year affair they had before our divorce. Then again, maybe that's how they both like it. This way, they're both free and clear to screw around with whomever they want without having to go through a nasty divorce if things don't work out.

Phil pulls his rental car up behind my red Audi A4 and pops the trunk. A Dodge Charger? Really? I should have known. He always rents muscle cars. Chargers, Challengers, Camaros, Mustangs. His company car is a Chevy Impala, so he uses car rentals as an excuse to have a little fun. I swear to God, if Phil's dick wasn't as big as it is, I'd think he was compensating for a small weenie.

He clambers out from the driver's seat and wordlessly helps me load the kids' luggage into the trunk.

"Is that everything?" Phil asks, glancing between Christian and Rose, avoiding my gaze.

I check the trunk and back seat of my car again just to be sure we didn't miss anything. "That's all of it."

"Good, then let's go." Phil opens the back passenger door for Rose.

She starts to climb inside but I rush forward. "Hey, wait. Not before I hug you good-bye."

Rose stops and turns back around, holding out her arms. I swoop in and give her a tight squeeze.

"I'm gonna miss you guys." And I will. Despite my less than matronly plans for the summer, I'm going to miss my kids like crazy.

I hug Christian, marveling at how big he's getting. By the time he comes home, he'll probably have grown another two inches.

"You be careful out there surfing," I say, kissing his cheek. "And send me lots of pictures, okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

"Promise?"

He smiles sheepishly and nods. "Yeah, Mom, I promise."

As they climb into the car, I stand back and hug myself. Those are my babies, and even though I've said good-bye to them this way every summer for the past six years, it doesn't get any easier.

"I love you," I say, leaning down and peering inside the open windows, blowing them kisses.

"Love you, Mom!" they both call back, waving, as Phil begins to pull away.

I straighten and fight back tears, watching them go.

They've driven less than twenty feet when I hear Phil shout, "Who wants ice cream?"

He's such an asshole.

I know he's watching me in the rearview mirror, but I won't give him the satisfaction of reacting. I bite my tongue, suck it up, and smile. Because I know that he's the one who's going to have to deal with the tummy aches, hyperactivity, and grouchy sugar crash on the plane in a few hours. He'll learn. One way or another, he will.

When the Charger pulls out of sight a few seconds later, I spin for the door.

I'm still holding in a lot of pissed-off frustration, and I need to talk to Elliott about those sales numbers.

And who the hell told Phil how I spend my summers?

I haven't exactly made my summer affairs a secret. The men I've dated have shown up at the office. They've attended our company picnics. And then they stop coming around as soon as my kids return at the end of summer—because I break up with them the week before my kids come home. It's not hard to guess how someone might have deduced what I've been up to every summer since the divorce, but I don't go around bragging about how much sex I'm having. For all my coworkers know, I'm dating and that's it. Who would blab to Phil about that?

I return to my office, snatch the financial reports from the front edge of the desk where Phil dropped them, and march in the direction of Elliott's office.

I wanted someone to take my frustration out on regarding these numbers, and poor Elliott's the one who's going to feel it. I'll try not to be too hard on him, because he's one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet, and his wife is battling ovarian cancer and isn't handling the treatment well. I can certainly relate to how it feels to watch a family member suffer from cancer, but Elliott is the CFO, and I need answers. If he can't get them for me, no one can.

But more than anything, I need to keep moving, and I need to keep my mind busy. Between my dad's retirement, my changing role in the company, Phil's insults, the idea of my kids being out of my sight for two months, and the fact that I'm not sure I'm going to be able to go through with my summer fling this year, it's a wonder I'm still able to stand.

I'm an overwhelmed mess, and it's only going to get worse before it gets better.

Unbeknownst to me, I don't realize how much worse, but by the end of summer, my world is going to be turned on its head.

Chapter 3

Greyson

According to the same article that said men think about sex only thirty-four times a day instead of once every seven seconds, the average thirty-six-year-old man masturbates only once a week.

I masturbate about four times a week, so it looks like I'm above average in that statistic, too. Go me for overachieving.

Before you call me a sexual deviant, let me explain that all this self-love isn't about me walking around with a perpetual hard-on, needing sex all the time. Masturbating is more a stress reliever than something I enjoy. I mean, I do enjoy it—what man wouldn't?—but for me, masturbating is more about clearing my head and releasing tension than satisfying sex-addict urges.

It's like what Matthew McConaughey said in _The Wolf of Wall Street_ when he said you have to jerk off at least twice a day, not because you want to, but because you need to, to stay calm and focused.

I'm not so bad that I need to jerk off twice a day, but the principle is the same.

Hence the reason why I'm in my private executive bathroom, holding the latest issue of _Swank Magazine_ in one hand while stroking my cock with the other. I've got a meeting with Rugged's executive team—aka my two best friends Ed and Mike—and my brother Brent, who's also my attorney, in less than an hour to discuss the acquisition of Freedom Cycle, and my brain has been all over the place for the past three hours. I need to refocus.

But whacking off isn't always about clearing my head. Sometimes it's about necessity.

For every one hundred times I jack off, I might get the chance to be with a woman once, and for every chance I get to be with a woman, I might make it to getting naked with her half the time. That's when the odds really take a nosedive, because I might actually get the chance to have sex with forty per cent of the women I get naked with. And do you want to know how many of _those_ women I've been able to fuck all the way to completion?

None. Zero. Zilch. The big donut.

Why? Because I'm just too goddamn big.

And when a man isn't getting real sex with a partner, all that sexual energy builds up like greasy gunk in an engine. Masturbating is like engine cleaner. It clears out the built-up gunk, allowing a man's engine to run at optimal efficiency. Some men—like me—just need more cleaning than others. Because real sex cleans better than hand sex, so when you're not getting laid on the regular, you have to masturbate at least twice as often.

From the moment I lost my virginity, most women usually get a load of my . . . well, _load_ . . . and give me _the look_. The oh-my-God-how-did-you-get-a-dick-that-big? look.

From across a crowded bar, I don't look as big as I am. Like an optical illusion, my Armani-covered cock deceptively and enticingly teases the unsuspecting woman's eyes into thinking it's only a hefty handful. She stares. Her eyebrow twitches with interest. Her lips curve into a subtle but hungry grin. Less than five minutes later, she's introducing herself. Less than an hour later, she's inviting me to go somewhere private. Somewhere she can get a closer look at what my pants are hiding, because, like most women, she thinks she wants a big dick. And she's thinking to herself, "How big could it really be? Surely not that big."

She's wrong, of course. And I'm the one left hanging after the big reveal. Literally. All worked up and hard with no place to go.

But I never learn. For some reason, I think next time will be different. That my dick won't always be a detriment. I'm masochistically optimistic that there's someone out there made expressly for me and I just need to keep putting myself out there until I find her.

My mind jumps to Rhian. It's been two months since I returned from New Zealand, but I still find myself thinking about how excited she was over the size of my dick. How into it she was. For once, I'd found a woman capable of taking my monster, and for a handful of minutes, it was pure bliss.

I focus on that rather than the disappointing outcome of that night as I use my thumb to flip to the next page of my dirty magazine. The glossy pages show two women with big tits getting it on, one going down on the other.

Like most men, I get off on the fantasy of having sex with two women. But unlike most men, living out that fantasy is about as probable as hitting the lottery. It could happen, but it's highly unlikely.

Don't get me wrong. I've had girlfriends. I've even had a couple who stuck around longer than a few months. But I've yet to find a girlfriend who's A) willing to endure uncomfortable or even painful sex for the rest of her life or B) willing to remain faithful to me and my Godzilla dick. Which means girlfriends are few and far between breakups.

The bad news is that statistics show that women involved with men who have enormous cocks are more likely to cheat than women involved with men who have penises of average length and girth. I call it the Goldilocks penis. That's what women want. Not too big, not too small, just right.

I'll never have a Goldilocks penis.

Which leaves me with my fantasy girlfriends on the pages of _Swank_.

I lay the magazine on top of the toilet's tank and flip the page to a picture of one of the women having an orgasm, and oh my God, she's a squirter. That shit's even more of a turn-on than seeing two women sixty-nining each other.

There's a series of images of the woman squirting, and I imagine being under her as she sprays her ejaculation on my dick.

My scrotum tightens. That's the image I need. That's what I want.

My balls tingle in _that way_. The way that lets me know I'm about to come.

I close my eyes, pounding my fist harder and faster up and down my shaft, swirling my palm over the head after every four or five strokes.

My thighs tighten. My ass clenches. I shudder, and a garbled moan breaks from inside my throat as I tilt back my head.

I'd rather be doing this with a woman. I'd rather it be her hands on me. Her mouth. Her pussy.

My thoughts briefly zap to Rhian again. She duped me, and the bite still burns, but I won't lie, I liked how I felt inside her.

I quickly banish thoughts of Rhian, because if I keep thinking about her, my dick will shrivel up faster than a popped balloon. Instead, I imagine a woman standing over me, fingering herself as I continue pumping my hand up and down. Her legs are trembling, her eyes glazed, her finger plunging deep inside her over and over until she cries out as her legs shudder, and she squirts all over me.

Fuck yeah.

Just as I reach down with my left hand to squeeze my balls, I open my eyes and focus on the spray of womanly cum shooting from between the woman's legs.

My orgasm hammers into me, and my legs almost give out as semen rockets from my cock. It splatters against the front of the tank as another jet shoots out and lands on the toilet seat.

I grunt, rock forward, and squeeze down hard on the base of my cock, riding out the pleasure, letting the fantasy end as a third stream flies from my dick and splashes into the bowl. A few more spurts dribble out, but the high is quickly subsiding as I pant through the lingering contractions in my abdomen and pay the woman on the page one last visit before flipping the magazine closed.

Something about jacking off to pictures always makes me feel sleazy-deviant dirty. A little bit like a creepy voyeur who can't attract women, so he has to whack off to porn magazines.

But I _can_ attract women. Mike and Ed used to say hanging out with me was like hanging out with a pussy magnet. That I have a face that makes women take off their clothes and a body that makes them drop their panties. Until they see my dick, of course, and then they put their panties right back on as if they're made of impenetrable armor. And being that the women who ran from my colossus usually ended up in Mike's or Ed's bed, my buddies enjoyed trolling the bars with me. Not anymore, though. Not since Ed got married last year and Mike got engaged.

The point is, I can attract women by the dozens. I just can't keep them longer than it takes for them to see me with my pants down and a hard-on jutting out like a toddler-sized baseball bat between my legs.

If any of these women would give me a chance, they'd learn I'm as loyal as a Labrador and want nothing but to spend the rest of my life making my special lady happy, even if I _am_ incapable of giving her a ring. But hey, a man can be serious about a woman without marrying her.

And yeah, I still have my share of delinquent, regular-man fantasies that involve threesomes and women squirting all over me. Who doesn't have kinky sexual fantasies once in a while? It doesn't make me a deviant.

And neither does my past. I'll admit I was a bit of a man whore back in the day. Back when my conscience and my compassion weren't as developed as they are now.

But my man whoring was always more about desperation than intention. Desperation because the more women I tried to get with, the more women refused to get with me because of my size—which made me try even harder to get with more women. At least for a few years. After all, I was a young man filled with hormones, not common sense.

Those days are long over, my almost-one-night stand with Rhian notwithstanding. Owning and running a business will make you grow up fast, especially when you're on your own.

I started Rugged with Mike and Ed when I was twenty-two. Almost nobody thought Rugged would last more than a few months, a year at the most. They severely underestimated us and our vision. Today, the sporting goods company is an international conglomerate. We've even been selected to provide the official uniforms for the United States in the next Winter Olympics. Not too shabby for a company everyone thought would go belly up before its first birthday.

But with success comes women, and when Rugged started doing well, I met Carla.

Carla was my first taste of a gold digger. My only taste, too. I dated her for about a minute. I was twenty-eight and too young, dumb, and horny to know or even care what a gold digger was. But I'm a quick study, and boy did I learn the signs and behavior of a gold digger at record speed with Carla.

I hadn't known she was only after my money when I met her. All I cared about was that she didn't complain about the size of my dick and seemed to want sex every night, even when I just wanted to sleep. Now I realize that was part of her game. She always came on to me when she knew I was exhausted then backed down at even the smallest hint of protest, even though I easily could have been persuaded to find a little get up and go for a quickie. Like I said, I haven't experienced a lot of bangin' sex. It wouldn't have taken much to light my fire and get me going.

I began to suspect something was amiss about a month into our relationship. She was overly concerned with my financial status and asked a lot of indirect questions about how much money I made. She wore three-hundred-dollar shoes and drove a BMW when she claimed she could barely pay her rent, and she always treated wait staff as if they were servants meant to lick her feet rather than human beings worthy of respect. I learned real quick that these are trademark characteristics of a gold digger.

I tried to look beyond her shortcomings, because I'm patient to a fault and was willing to put up with a lot of shit for a woman who didn't complain about my size, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. But on our two-month anniversary, I found out she was fucking around on me when I left work early to surprise her with a romantic weekend at the fire lookout on Squaw Mountain. I arrived at her place to pick her up, and she was with another man.

It took me about half a second to break up with her. I'll put up with a lot of shit, but not infidelity. Not after what I endured as a kid.

But Carla knocked the common sense into me. I've been a lot more cautious with women ever since, not counting my incident with Rhian.

Hey, but at least one good thing came out of my failed tryst with Rhian. I know now that women who can handle my load do exist. And that gives me hope.

But I don't have time to think about Carla, Rhian, and all that shit right now. I've got to get ready for my meeting.

I tear off a few squares of toilet paper and wipe off my dick, clean my hands, then pull up my slacks, tucking myself in and refastening my black leather belt. After cleaning the commode, I flush all evidence of my midafternoon pick-me-up down the toilet and wash my hands. Then I smooth my wet fingers through my brown hair, combing it up and back so that it stands on top in the manner that's popular now, all _GQ_ and shit.

I button my collar, straighten my pewter tie, and emerge back into my corner office looking every bit the owner of one of Denver's top ten companies that I am.

I have it all. The company. The success. A job I love. A private bathroom in my office where I can jerk off any time I want.

But what I really want is a woman to share it all with. A woman who won't turn squeamish the moment she sees my erection. A woman who will find pleasure with me instead of pain. A woman who will give me the opportunity to fuck more and jerk off less. A woman who's not already taken. A woman who won't just fit my body, but one who will fit my life—my _world_ —and who'll want to stay in it even though I'm not the marrying kind.

I know it's not popular for a man to dream about doing the one-woman thing, but this is what I long for.

Rolling the dirty magazine into a tube, I stroll to my desk feeling more clearheaded than I did twenty minutes ago. I stuff the magazine in my bag then open the e-mail from Brent so I can review all the data on Freedom Cycle before he and the others arrive.

What I like about Freedom Cycle is that they're an established business that won't require a lot of capital to get going. They've built a solid reputation with both competitive and recreational cyclists, and they would fill a void in Rugged's product offering. As successful as we've been at creating products superior to those of our competitors in every other area of recreational and professional sports, we haven't had much success breaking into the cycling industry. Acquiring Freedom will allow Rugged to do that.

As for what Rugged can do for Freedom, we can make them an international company. Right now, you can only buy a Freedom bicycle in the United States, and while their bikes are sold nationwide, the bulk of their sales are made in the western half of the country. Rugged can make their eastern sales as strong as, if not stronger than, their western sales, and we can do it while taking them international.

I'm still reviewing the latest numbers when an instant message from Lily, my assistant, pops up on my computer to let me know Brent, Mike, and Ed are waiting.

I type back to send them in, and a few seconds later, my brother and two best friends walk in.

I don't see Brent outside of work as often as I should, even though he's my brother, but it's hard for me to reconcile myself to the fact that he and my sister, Olivia, forgave Mom when I can't justify doing so. But he is family, and as long as he respects my boundaries where Mom is concerned, I'll allow him to be my counsel.

"Brent." I stand and shake his hand.

Ed and Mike take seats at the cherry, oval-shaped conference table near the window overlooking downtown Denver.

"Grey." Brent nods. He's aware of the subtle tension between us as much as I am. But he's one of Denver's best lawyers, and he's honest. Being that he's family also makes him trustworthy. We don't have to have the best sibling relationship that ever was to work well together.

Brent and I join the others at the table.

Ed's my CFO, and Mike is my Chief Operating Officer. Ed has always focused on the financial side of the business, but Mike has done everything. In the early years, when Ed was playing accountant and I was busting my balls to scrounge up capital and customers, Mike had his hands in marketing, advertising, customer service, product design, research and development, operations, and manufacturing. Sometimes I feel like he knows more about Rugged than I do. As the COO, he oversees every department except for accounting, which is Ed's baby, and sales, which falls under my purview. It's the perfect job for him. He's the only person I know who has more energy than I do.

For the next forty-five minutes, the four of us review the data on Freedom.

"What I like," Mike says as he looks over their dossier, "is this new technology they've developed. Harness."

"I like it, too." Brent flips to the page in his packet that goes over the specifics of Harness. "And the patent's pending, so obtaining the company who has intellectual control over how the technology is used is a major advantage."

What Freedom's team of engineers has done is create a device that harnesses the energy created when a cyclist pedals a bike. The device is a small component about the size of a thumb drive that attaches to a special port built in to one of their bikes that allows the energy to be stored much the way solar power is stored, only on a smaller scale. You can charge small devices such as cell phones or handheld video games with it.

The technology is still a bit clunky and in its early stages, but as a visionary, it's not hard for me to see a big future for Harness. Freedom predicts that within five years, they'll be able to develop and adapt Harness for use not just on _their_ bikes, but _all_ bikes, without sacrificing performance. It's a revolutionary idea, and since I'm all about sustainable living and going green, this technology coincides with my personal and professional initiatives.

"It's very innovative," Mike adds, nodding his head and rubbing his thumb and index finger over his stubbly chin. If only I could look as good with facial hair as Mike does.

Ed hasn't said much the entire meeting, and he appears troubled.

"Ed, what are your thoughts?" I ask, hoping his unusual silence isn't because he thinks Freedom is a bad move. After all the work we've put into researching the company, I'd hate to hear anything negative from my numbers guy.

He straightens and glances at his packet. "What? Oh, about Freedom?"

"Yes, Ed, that _is_ what this meeting is about."

His cheeks flush and he clears his throat. "Freedom is a solid choice. They're well known in the industry, have a strong bottom line, but have gone as far as they can go on their own. If they want to make the leap to international sales and strengthen their national presence, they need us. That's the approach I'd take when pitching them."

Whatever is bugging Ed obviously doesn't have to do with the Freedom pitch.

I check the time then plant my palms on the table. "Okay then." I close my laptop. "Fellas, I've got a date with a new pool table and a floor installer in an hour, and I still have to run by the hardware store on the way home, so are we a go on this?"

Everyone nods and voices their approval.

Brent powers down his laptop and reaches for his bag. "The time is now if you want to make an offer. If you wait too long, someone else will. Rumor has it they're about to go through a change in leadership."

"Really?"

Brent nods. "I think Robert's about to retire, and remember, we're not the only ones interested in making an offer."

One of our competitors, Star Rider, has shown an interest in the company, too. They would love to nab the Harness technology and overtake Rugged's market position, which would be catastrophic for Freedom, because Star Rider would dismantle Freedom, keeping only a few key personnel. I refuse to let that happen on both counts. I want to keep Freedom intact—because why try to fix something that isn't broken?—and improve my company's position in the process.

"We're the best fit," Mike adds, putting a voice to my thoughts as he closes the Freedom dossier inside his leather portfolio. "Not only are both companies headquartered in the Denver area, both have similar structures and values, and we complement one another. Star Rider would become hostile if Freedom resists, which would get ugly. We could thwart a huge industry nightmare by convincing Freedom to merge with us."

"I agree," Ed adds.

"Then I'll make sure to include that in my pitch." I push away from the table and stand, turning toward my brother. "Make it happen. I want something set up with Robert Clayton next week."

Robert runs Freedom, and if the rumors about his pending retirement are true, I want to lock him down before he passes the torch to his successor, most likely his daughter, Kate. It's not that I have a problem dealing with women, but she's rumored to be more involved in the day-to-day operations than Robert is, and he's more like me, a visionary. The odds are better he'll see the benefits of a merger more than Kate will.

Brent closes his laptop and starts gathering his files. "Do you want to meet him here or—"

I shake my head, unbuttoning the cuffs of my shirt. "Dinner. Make it a dinner meeting." I start rolling up my sleeves. "Any night next week will work. Someplace nice, though. But not too nice. Nothing intimidating."

It's better to make introductions and talk about this sort of thing over good food and drink, which has the power to soften people and make them more amenable to suggestion. Bringing Mr. Clayton to the office will put him on the defensive before I even introduce myself. After all, my office is my turf. I don't want him to see me as a tyrant out to take his company. I want him to see me as a friend. Neutral ground over a good bottle of wine is key for our first meeting.

"Consider it done." Brent pushes his chair under the table.

Ed and Mike are already heading for the door.

"You two still coming over tonight to help me finish the basement?" I load my laptop in my leather satchel, being careful not to let any of them see the issue of _Swank_.

"That all depends," Mike says jokingly. "Are you still planning on feeding us?"

I walk them to the door and clap the back of Mike's shoulder. "If food is all it's going to take to guarantee you're there, then consider dinner on me."

Mike laughs. "Then consider me there."

I've been remodeling, and I'm almost finished. Just one more room to go. As if I have a lot of free time to remodel, but I enjoy taking on different projects around the house. It helps take my mind off other things. And if it's one thing I can't stand, it's idle time.

My dad always said an idle mind is the devil's playground, and I've often wondered if that played a part in what happened to him.

I run by the hardware store, pick up painter's tape, some rope to take out to the corporate cabin in Aspen when I go in the fall, and some cable ties to bundle and organize the slew of extension cords that has amassed in my garage. The guy cashing me out probably thinks I'm a serial killer.

I arrive home five minutes before the delivery guys drop off the pool table. While they're setting it up downstairs, the flooring specialist shows up. Now that the basement is finished, I'm turning my attention to the great room on the main level and need to pick out hardwood to replace the carpet. Mike and Ed pop in while I'm deciding between a walnut-colored bamboo flooring sample and one labeled chestnut. They head down and break in the pool table while they wait.

Let them have their fun now, because once I cue up, they'll be too busy losing to have any fun.

Once I've tied things up with my flooring guy, I corral my friends, and we spend the next hour moving furniture from the downstairs store room into the newly remodeled basement, aka my man cave, before breaking for dinner when the pizza arrives.

I grab three beers from the fridge, and we park at the granite kitchen counter and dig in.

Whatever was bothering Ed earlier is still eating at him. He's been quiet and moody since he got here. It's like a huge grey cloud is hanging over him, growing bigger and more ominous by the minute.

I'm eyeing him suspiciously when he glances up and meets my gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" His defensiveness takes me aback.

"You tell me, buddy. You're the one who's been walking around like he's pissed off at the world today."

His gaze slides away from mine as he takes another bite of pizza. "Maybe that's because I _am_ pissed off at the world."

I exchange curious glances with Mike, who raises his eyebrows as if to say he has no idea what's up Ed's ass but is as curious as I am. Neither of us says anything.

Ed drops his pizza and wipes his hands on a paper napkin before hauling his beer in for a hardy gulp. As he sets the bottle back on the counter, he looks from me to Mike then sighs as his shoulders droop. "Anabel's cheating on me." He says it like he's confessing sins he no longer has the strength to carry.

His words stop me cold, and I almost choke on my own saliva.

Mike was in the process of picking up his beer and almost knocks it over instead. "What?" His head whips around toward Ed.

Ed shrugs and gives a desolate shake of his head. "She's cheating on me. Anabel's having an affair."

It feels like my feet have grown roots into the floor. I can't wrap my mind around this. Ed and Anabel have only been married a year. They're in love. At least I thought they were.

"What happened?" I ask. "How do you know she's cheating?" Maybe this is all just a big misunderstanding. Maybe Ed saw something and misinterpreted it, and Anabel isn't really cheating at all.

Ed makes a pained face as if he's reliving the moment he discovered her affair all over again. "She forgot to log out of her Facebook account last night, and I saw her messages. She and some guy named Jake have been messaging each other. You know . . . sexting. And then they decided to meet, and . . . well, you can imagine the rest." His jaw clenches as he swipes his hand through his unruly hair.

I don't move. I can't. Because if I move, I might lose the tether-like hold I have on my anger.

"How long?" Mike asks quietly.

Ed's eyes grow dangerously dark. "Three months." He's silent for a few seconds, but his silence seems only to feed the mounting tension in the room. "When I confronted her, she told me she wants a divorce. Can you believe that shit?"

The breath whooshes out of me. A divorce? Anabel is divorcing Ed for this Jake guy? After only a year of marriage? I slowly lower myself onto a nearby barstool. "Jesus, Ed." It's all my mind can come up with to say.

Ed shakes his head and brushes his hand through the air in front of him. "Nah, it's okay." He shrugs tightly, his face twisting into an angry, defensive mask. "I'll be fine. If she doesn't want me, fuck her, right? Let him have her if this is the kind of woman she is." He picks up another slice of pizza, lifts it to his mouth as if he's going to shove the whole thing in, stops, and then drops the pizza on the paper towel he's using as a plate. It makes a soft, squishy noise as it hits the counter.

Ed takes an aggressive step back and points his finger. "She'll be sorry. She'll see what a mistake she's made. In a few months, she'll be begging me to take her back. But you know what? I won't. Not now. Not after this. She fucked up. She totally fucked up the best thing she's ever going to have, and for what? Some jerkoff who's probably doing a dozen other women?"

The mood in the house has gone from light to downright gloomy, as if someone has sprayed a grey, misty film over everything.

I feel awful for Ed. He really loves Anabel, and even though he says he won't take her back, if she decides one day that she's made a horrible mistake, I know he will. He loves her that much. But right now, she's made her decision, and no matter how jacked up her reasons are, Ed's not the one she wants to be with.

"I'm sorry, guys," Ed says. His shoulders stoop as his defensive shield falls. He looks like he's just competed with the devil in a winner-take-all wrestling match for the salvation of mankind and lost.

Now that the initial shock is over, anger rises in me again.

"Why are _you_ sorry?" My hands briefly clench on the counter. "You're not the one being unfaithful."

"Yeah," Mike adds, leaning toward Ed as if he wants to make sure Ed hears him loud and clear. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, Ed. You've done nothing wrong."

Ed glances from me to Mike. "I don't want to be a downer, man. You're getting married next month, and the last thing you need to hear right now is how my marriage is falling apart. I don't want to ruin your big day."

Mike recoils, lowering his chin. "You're not ruining anything. Don't even worry about that."

Fury clouds my thoughts. I'm so angry at Anabel for what she's done. Ed's a good guy. Like me, he abhors infidelity. Maybe he'd been a hound dog when he was younger, but he never slept with another man's wife or girlfriend, and when he was in a relationship, his eye never strayed. Anabel's crazy to leave him and run off with this Jake guy.

"Do you need a place to stay?" I ask. "I've got plenty of room here if you need to hang with me for a while." I don't want Ed alone to dwell on his heartbreak. I know all too well how easy it is to do something stupid when you're left to marinate in your own mental sewage.

Ed releases a heavy exhale that sounds like reluctant acceptance combined with confusion. "I don't know. Maybe . . . yeah, I could use a place to crash for a few days." He scrubs his palms down his face then drops onto a barstool. "I don't know if she's moving out or what her plans are, but even if she does, I'm not sure I could stay in that house. At least not right now. Too many reminders, you know?"

I know all about reminders. It's one reason I bought this house and haven't talked to my mother in almost twenty years.

"Crash here as long as you need, buddy. You can use the basement bedroom if you want. You'll have your own kitchen down there."

Ed nods. "Thanks, Grey. I appreciate it."

After how Ed and his family were there for me when I was a kid and needed a place to stay, offering my home to him is the least I can do.

Nothing more is said about Anabel, and we finish eating then get back to moving furniture out of the great room so I can start painting. I don't care if paint drips onto the carpet, since I'm replacing it, so we leave that for the flooring guys to take care of next week.

"Jake," Mike says with a snort a half-hour later as he and I grab opposite ends of the couch. "Sounds like a pussy name to me."

I knew we wouldn't be able to go the rest of the night without revisiting the newborn elephant in the room. And leave it to Mike to bring it up in a way that breaks the tension.

"A big fat pussy name," I add with a grin.

Ed lifts the coffee table, one corner of his mouth turned up. "A _super_ pussy name."

Mike and I chuckle as we heft the couch, which is heavier than it looks, and shuffle-walk to the basement stairs. Now that we've cleared the store room of all the basement furniture, we're going to fill it back up with everything from the great room.

As we head back upstairs for another load, Ed dusts off his hands and says, "Do you want to hear why she's leaving me for this guy? The reason she gave me?"

"Sure, why not?" I make a beeline for the brown leather wing chair that matches the couch Mike and I just lugged downstairs.

Ed rolls his eyes. "She says he makes her feel young. Like she's a teenager again or some shit."

I rest my hands on the back of the chair, catching my breath. "Well, shit, man. _You_ used to make her feel that way." I huff and straighten. "And who the hell wants to feel like a teenager again?" I know I don't. Those were the rottenest years of my life.

"I know, right?" Ed gives us an exaggerated nod. "Is that crazy or what?"

I lift the chair. "I'm telling you right now, Ed, you're not the problem. She is." I start for the stairs again. Both Mike and Ed follow, carrying another chair and an end table. "Don't get me wrong, I like Anabel. Or at least I used to. I thought she was sweet. Maybe she still is. Maybe she's just confused. Maybe she didn't intentionally mean to hurt you, but whatever her reasons, if she's going to throw away your relationship for a guy just because he makes her feel like a teenager again then she's never going to be happy. She can't hold onto the past forever. Sooner or later, she has to grow up and face the reality that getting older is the natural course of life." I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn for the store room. "I mean, come on, how long will it be before she grows bored with this Jake guy and finds someone else who makes her feel young. Or worse yet, bounces back to you in hopes you'll take her back." I blow out a resigned sigh as I set the chair down. "If you're not careful, Ed, she'll play both you and this Jake guy off each other and string you along as she tries to decide what to do."

Ed shakes his head. "I won't let that happen."

He says that now, but I see the brief glint of hope spark inside his eyes.

I hope he doesn't have any crazy ideas about taking Anabel back if she returns, begging for his forgiveness.

But if that happens, and Ed gives her another chance, only to be hurt when she pulls this shit again, I'll be here for him.

He was there for me when I needed someone, and that makes us tight.

So yeah, I've got Ed's back.

"Let's finish this up," I say, gesturing toward the stairs leading back to the main floor. "I've got to work on the Freedom proposal tonight." If Robert Clayton really is about to step down, I need to make sure my pitch is rock solid.

I need to convince Robert he needs my company as badly as I want his before he passes the torch.

Chapter 4

Friday

Katherine

The kids haven't been gone twenty-four hours, and I already miss them. The house was almost too quiet last night. By the end of summer, I'll be used to it, but right now it's a little unnerving.

I'll be honest, though, part of me wants to take off my shoes, open all the windows, and sit cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor with my eyes closed. Just sit there and listen to the birds sing and the wind blow through the trees.

When you have two preteen children, you forget what silence is. Whether it's Christian's blaring music, Rose's whiny protests about how unfair it is that her friends can color their hair yellow and violet when she can't, both of them arguing with me for "just ten more minutes," when I want them to shut off the PS4 and go to bed, or their thunderous footfalls thumping down the stairs when they're running late for the school bus, there's a lot of noise to go around when the kids are home.

I'll welcome the cacophony when they return in August, all tanned skin and sun-bleached hair from days on the beach. Rose will be depressed after being forced to leave whatever boy she's developed a summer crush on, so I'll have to deal with that fallout the way I have to at the end of every summer, and Christian's hair will be a longer, bushier mess than it already is, so I'll have to rush him in for a haircut before school starts, but it'll be nice to have them back for another ten months before I have to send them off with their dad again.

In the meantime, I have two months to fill. Two months I've ritualized into what my best friend, Jess, and my sister, Charity, call the manhunt.

How Phil learned about the manhunt, I have no idea, but now that he has, it's no wonder he thinks I'm slutting myself around when the kids are gone.

If I go through with it, this will be the fifth summer I've engaged in the manhunt, which I prefer to call my summer fling. That sounds a lot less whorish than manhunt. Either way, I'm not sure I want to go down that road again this year. Not because of what Phil said, but because I don't feel like I'm getting what I was hoping to from my summer romances.

Aside from these summer flings, I don't date. I feel too guilty to date. Thanks to my job, I don't see my kids as much I like, so I should be there for them when I'm not reviewing sales figures and helping my father make deals, not traipsing off with a boy toy.

These summer romances are all I've got of a sex life, though, so I really should be more excited than I am about being on my own until August. I haven't had sex in over ten months, and if I don't take advantage of my child-free time while I've got it, it's going to be another year before I can.

I think my problem is that the guy last year wasn't all that great. And the three before him weren't much better. Four flings, four duds. With those odds, I'm not filled with a lot of optimism that this year will be any different, so why put myself through the torture?

It wasn't their fault, of course. The men had been nice enough. Polite, well-spoken, upper-echelon men. They just weren't packing in the meat department. And after having two nine-pound babies that were both plump as watermelons, things aren't as tight down there as they used to be, so I need substantial meat to please me. To make matters worse, my vagina has always been a little on the bigger side. Even Phil, who is almost nine inches erect and a handful in girth, struggled to satisfy me.

Before I had Christian, Andrea, my gynecologist and friend, joked that I wouldn't have any trouble with childbirth. I've known Andrea for ten years, so joking comes naturally between us, whether she's giving me an exam or we're out to lunch together. But Andrea was wrong about me and childbirth. It seems God either has a sick sense of humor, likes balance, or simply gives larger babies to women with large vaginas. Both Christian and Rose stretched me beyond repair. My poor baby maker has never been the same, and I've never let Andrea forget it.

Which reminds me, I have to get in for my annual before Andrea gets married next month. My annual exam is the one opportunity I have each year to give her a hard time for how wrong she was.

Now that my vagina is a yawning cave stretched by childbirth, anything less than enormous isn't going to do it for me in the peen department. Which means the four average joes with their average wangs were woefully inadequate. Their penises—or penitos, which seems a more appropriate term—felt more like small cocktail wieners flopping around inside me. I've never had to fake more orgasms than I have the past four summers.

I don't want to have to fake it this year, but that's going to require a thick cylinder of hard salami, not a cocktail weiner.

When most women think of food that sparks fantasies of a large penis, cucumbers come to mind. For me, it's Genoa salami. The kind I can't fit my hand around. Granted, the circumference of Genoa salami may be a bit too much even for me to truly enjoy, but seeing a thick rod of Genoa salami tucked among the deli department's lesser meats works better at turning me on than a skinny ol' cucumber.

Maybe you're admonishing me right now, saying I shouldn't be so superficial. That it's not fair to judge a man by the size of his penis, which is like a man judging a woman by the size of her breasts. That there's more to relationships than sex. I agree with you. There _is_ more to a relationship than sex. But the whole purpose of my summer flings isn't about finding a relationship. It's about feeding my starved libido. It's about having sex and as much sex as I can get, because I know that the day before my kids come home, I'll be one hundred percent single again, with another ten-month hiatus ahead of me until my vajayjay gets another shot at some action.

The question is, do I or don't I? Do I count my losses of the last four years and resign myself to celibacy? Or do I take one more chance and see if this summer is the one when I find a man worthy of my honey pot?

This is what I'm thinking about when I should be enjoying a massage at the talented hands of my sexy masseur, Philippe. He has a succulent French accent and an even more scrumptious mouth, and if I were truly the slut Phil thinks I am, I'd be working on making him my fifth summer fling. If he can work the same kind of magic with his man flesh as he can with his hands, he'd make a fine two-month romance.

But Philippe is much too young for me, so I'll resign myself to the fantasy. And what a fine fantasy to have while his hands are all over my body.

Thirty minutes later, I'm wrapped in a plush white robe, reclining in a large, tan spa chair that could pass for a cloud. My feet are soaking in a fragrant warm-water bath with tiny pink and white flowers floating on the surface. My face has been smeared with a French clay mask, and I have thick slices of cucumber over my eyes as I rest my head on a small pillow. The scent of lavender envelops me.

"Too bad Charity couldn't join us," Jess says lazily from the chair to my left.

Charity is three years younger than I am, and we're extremely close, unlike I am with my youngest sister, Phoebe, who has always been resentful of me, I think because I'm actually able to remember our mother. Phoebe was so young when Mom died—only five years old—that she doesn't have much recollection of her, and I became the mother figure in her life. It's easy to resent an older sister who takes on the role of mother figure when you can't remember much about your real mom.

"I'm sure she could have used it, too," I say.

"Is she still suffering from morning sickness?"

I nod, even though I know Jess can't see me, because her eyes are covered by cucumbers, too. "I guess it's been pretty bad."

Charity married her longtime boyfriend Ray Singer last October—and how about that for a name? Charity Singer. The irony is that she can't hold a tune to save her life and she's as tone deaf as they come, but her name makes for some great jokes when the family gets together.

She and Ray couldn't wait to start a family, but poor Charity had no idea morning sickness would be this bad. It's become not just morning sickness, but noon sickness, afternoon sickness, bedtime sickness, middle-of-the-night sickness. Walking-the-dog sickness. She gets sick any time, day or night. Poor thing.

Today, morning sickness turned into missing-spa-day sickness, which means it's just Jess and me getting pampered.

Jess and Charity are my cheerleaders when it comes to my summer flings. They're as much a part of the summer ritual as the fling itself. Every year, the day after the kids leave with Phil, we go shopping for the perfect manhunt outfit, spend the afternoon at the spa getting primped, styled, manicured, pedicured, scrubbed, and waxed, and cap off the day having dinner at the finest restaurant in Denver. Except this year, we're sans Charity.

"You _are_ going through with this, aren't you?" Jess says.

This morning, while we were perusing cocktail dresses at Neiman Marcus, I mentioned I wasn't sure I was up for yet another disappointing summer romance. Jess latched on and has spent the last three hours intermittently badgering me and espousing all the reasons why I should give the manhunt one more shot. I can tell she's not going to let this go until I surrender.

I lift a slice of cucumber and peer at her out of the corner of my eye. She's doing the same to me.

I drop the cucumber back over my eyelid and recline my head on the pillow once more. "I still haven't decided."

"Kate, come on, don't back out on me now."

I smooth my palms over the soft, generous folds of my robe. "I never said I'd do it in the first place. How can I back out of something I never even agreed to?"

She makes a tsking noise. "You've done the manhunt every year for four years. It's understood that you've agreed to it."

I sigh and settle more fully into my chair. As usual, Jess is filling her role as Queen Ballbuster masterfully, and I don't even have balls to bust.

Thankfully, our estheticians join us and begin rinsing off our masks, which shuts Jess up. Fragrant lotion is smoothed over my face, and another technician lifts my feet from the water, towels them off, and begins my pedicure.

By the time Jess and I leave the spa, we're glowing and as loose as cooked noodles.

Jess hasn't said another word about the manhunt, but once we're seated at a candlelit table at Solstice, one of the poshest restaurants in downtown Denver, she starts in again.

"So, are you going to or not?" She sips ice water from a crystal goblet, giving me the evil eye over the rim.

"Are we back on this again?"

"Yes, and we will be until you wise up and agree to hit the town with me tomorrow night."

"I don't know, Jess, these summer flings are just beginning to feel so much like work. I'm not sure it's worth it."

"Believe me, it's worth it. Take it from someone who hasn't had sex in over two years." She lifts her water glass and tilts it my way as if making a toast.

She and her husband divorced right before Valentine's Day two years ago. It was mutual and amicable, but she hasn't gone on a date since.

"Have you even gone out with anyone?" I ask.

She shrugs and forces a smile. "I haven't found anyone interesting enough to go out with."

"Have you even looked?"

She waves her hand dismissively. "I'm too busy with work to mess with all that." She makes a scornfully proud face then flashes me a smile. "And this isn't about me, it's about you." She rolls her eyes and shrugs one shoulder. "I'll concede that I might get a little excited hearing about your escapades, because then I can live my sex life vicariously through yours, but trust me, this is all about you."

Grinning, I shake my head. "My sex life is like an annual charity ball for you, isn't it?"

For a moment, she eyes me as if she's not sure I mean it as a joke or a chastisement. I laugh at her expression, because I did, in fact, mean it as a joke.

She breaks into laughter, too, then squeezes my hand. "You just deserve to have a little fun." Her Southern drawl comes through like a shot of watered-down whiskey.

Jess moved to Denver from Mississippi when she was in high school, and while she's lost much of her Southern twang, enough remains that when she speaks from the heart, it comes out. She doesn't even realize she's doing it, but my ears pick it right up. That's how I know she's being sincere. Not that I doubted her, but to hear her syllables stretch in the way of a Southern debutante is like receiving confirmation from an antique book dealer that the set of pristine Thomas Hardy novels you inherited from your grandmother's estate are, in fact, first editions and not reprints.

"I know, Jess, but these summer flings have grown so tedious."

I don't want to suffer through another summer with another man who can't fulfill the one simple reason for these flings in the first place. I'm not interested in commitment. I just want to feel like a woman again. Like a sexy goddess of a woman, with a penis worthy of Zeus filling me to the brim.

Not that I don't feel like a woman every other day of the year, but feeling like a woman and feeling like a _woman_ are two very different things. It's all in how you emphasize the word. One way sounds more like a prison sentence while the other sounds more like a prison _break_.

I want to feel the latter.

I want a summer fling that makes me feel young again. Carefree and libidinous. Salacious and desirable. Like the treasure inside a treasure chest, not the chest itself.

"You have to kiss a lot of toads to find a prince, honey," Jess says, leaning back as our server arrives with our salads.

I stab a yellow grape tomato as my mind shoots to Phil's ugly accusation in my office. "You know, when Phil picked up the kids yesterday, he accused me of using my summer break from the kids to 'whore' myself around the city."

Jess gasps and drops her fork. If we weren't sitting in the middle of a fine dining establishment surrounded by Denver's upper class, I'm sure a litany of profanities would be pouring from her mouth.

"That prick," she whispers hotly. "He's one to talk, the man whore that he is." She eyes me suspiciously. "You didn't believe him, did you?"

"No, but it added to my doubts about picking up a guy this summer."

"Oh, Kate . . ." She sighs. "Don't let him do that to you. You are not whoring yourself."

I spear a slice of beet. "I know that, but I don't want Phil—or even Mia, for that matter—telling that to my kids."

"Phil's an asshole, honey, but one thing I don't think he'll ever do is badmouth you to your kids and turn them against you. If he does, they might want to live with him _all_ year, and you know he doesn't want that."

True. Phil loves the kids, but after two months with them, he's ready to bring them back. He wouldn't want them year round, and neither would Mia. It would put too much of a burden on her entitled lifestyle.

We quietly munch on our salads for a couple of minutes.

"So, what do you say?" Jess says, setting her fork on her plate.

"About what?"

"About giving the manhunt one more summer?"

The waiter returns and clears our salad plates with the speed and efficiency of a Dyson vacuum cleaner.

"I don't know, Jess."

"Oh, come on, you've already bought the dress to show off your fabulous legs, and a pair of sexy Manolo Blahniks to show off that fabulous pedicure."

"I know, but I'm so over the disappointing sex."

"Honey, disappointing sex is better than no sex. Trust me."

I cock my head in consternation. "Spoken like a true celibate."

"Hey, I'm celibate by choice." She tries to sound convincing but fails.

"Right."

The waiter returns with our entrees and sets a dainty, artistic concoction of stuffed chicken piled with lightly crisped onion rings, mushrooms, and spring greens in front of me. A light sauce has been drizzled all around the gleaming white china plate.

Jess cuts off a bite of her halibut. "Just give it one more summer." Her eyes beseech me. "Just one more, Kate. You're too gorgeous to give up now."

I choke on a mushroom and grab my wine to clear my throat. "Gorgeous?"

Jess huffs and tilts her head. "Are you kidding me?" She points her knife at me and draws it up and down in the air like a pointer. "Have you even looked at yourself. You're thirty-four, but you look twenty-four. I'd _kill_ to have that body after having two kids." She takes another small bite of fish.

I glance down at my flat stomach and full breasts. I've never thought about my body as being _all that_ before. Certainly not something to kill over. I just enjoy spinning and working up a sweat. And since the family business is bicycles and cycling gear, it's always been natural to ride for exercise, although my dad teases me that spinning is for sissies. He thinks if you're not actually out on the roads and trails, you're not really biking.

I'd never even taken a spin class until I divorced Phil. After he tore my heart out, I didn't feel like riding my bike but needed something to extinguish the ache in my heart, so I started spinning. It turned out to be the release I needed, and I quickly became addicted, to the point that the thirty-minute spin classes at the gym weren't enough. I ended up buying my own spin bike and still spend over six hours a week on it.

I don't ride my road bike nearly as much as I used to and really need to become more active in cycling again, especially since cycling is the family business.

Andrea has been nagging me to join her cycling club, where she met her fiancé. I'm supposed to join them one day next week for a ride. We'll see how it goes.

Jess cuts off a piece of her roasted asparagus. "Whatever it is you're doing to keep that body rocking, you look fabulous and shouldn't let that man magnet go to waste. It won't last forever."

As I eat another bite of chicken, I consider my options. I really don't want to spend the summer alone. While I have my job and the option of a new cycling club, and both could keep me plenty busy, part of me isn't ready to give up on my quest to find a man who's packing more down below than the equivalent of an Oscar Meyer wiener.

Surely there is at least one man in Denver with a big enough penis to satiate my sexual needs.

In a moment of resolute daring, I set my fork down and dab my white cloth napkin on my lips. "Okay, I'll do it."

Jess's eyes flash wide as she sucks in her breath. "Really?"

"On one condition."

She stiffens and angles her head to the side. "What?"

"You have to find a man, too."

The thrill seeps out of her expression. "Why did you have to go and do that? I'm perfectly content to let you have all the fun."

I stab my chicken, and gooey cheese flows out of the center. "Well, I'm not. We do this as a team or not at all."

Jess rolls her eyes and sighs. "Fine. Good thing I bought a dress today, too."

Part of me can't believe I've agreed to this, but another part of me bubbles with anticipation. I'm daring to hope. Maybe this is the year I'll actually find a man capable of more than lip service. I mean, I do enjoy a good licking, but I'm not a lollipop.

I'm like this chicken on my plate. I want to feel good and stuffed.

If I can find a man who can do that, the effort will be worth it.

Chapter 5

Saturday

Greyson

Club Alesca is crowded. And loud. So loud it's hard to think.

But maybe that's a good thing, because if it's loud, it will be harder for women to talk to me. And if women can't talk to me, I won't be tempted. And resisting temptation is critical to protecting my ego.

Reminding myself that I'm here tonight for Ed, not myself, helps.

After I helped Ed move into the downstairs bedroom this afternoon, he got this wild hair up his ass while we played a game of pool that he, Mike, and I should go out and celebrate.

"Celebrate what?" I asked him, tapping the four ball into the corner pocket.

I wasn't really in the mood to celebrate, especially if it meant going out. Brent had scheduled a dinner meeting with Robert Clayton for Monday evening, and I wanted to prepare. I also wanted to paint. There was still a lot of work that needed to be done before the flooring guys show up next week. I didn't want to take valuable time away from getting shit done by spending an evening at some nightclub.

"What do you mean, celebrate what?" Ed sounds incredulous. "Us. You, me, Mike. Our friendship. Your new man cave." He sweeps his arm in a grand arc, encompassing my basement. "We can celebrate the fact that Rugged is about to become even bigger once you ink the deal with Freedom." He rests the wide tip of his cue stick on the floor and grips it with both hands. "We can celebrate my divorce."

"Getting divorced isn't a reason to celebrate, Ed."

"Says you. I happen to think it's a perfect reason to celebrate."

"Come on, Ed . . ." I know he's only putting on a brave face, but God love him. He's trying.

"Hey, it's all in how you frame your brain, Grey. If you think of something as a good thing, then it becomes a good thing. And I'm choosing to think of my breakup with Anabel as a good thing, not a reason to mope." He stands to the side and shoots off a text—I'm assuming to Mike—while I take my next shot. I drop the five ball in the side pocket, and then Ed starts up again. "Would you rather I mope? I can do that if it makes you feel better. But I think it'd be a lot more fun and productive to go out, have a few drinks, have a good time, and forget about my shit life for a few hours rather than sit around here and wallow to _Gone in Sixty Seconds_."

"Actually, I think _American Pie_ is on tonight," I say dryly, as my next shot just misses going into the side pocket.

"Oh, yeah, that's much better." Ed rolls his eyes, lining up a shot.

His phone rings, and he answers, putting the call on speaker.

"Hey," Mike's disembodied voice says. "I just got your text. What's up?"

Ed sets his phone on the side of the pool table as he leans back over his cue stick. "I'm trying to convince Grey to a night out with the boys. You in?" He hits the cue ball but misses the pocket.

Mike pauses as if he's checking with his fiancée. "Yeah, sure. I've got a few more weeks of bachelorhood left. Let's see how much trouble I can get into. Maybe I'll convince Andi that I'm not worth the effort." I hear Andi's voice in the background as she protests, and then Mike yelps before laughing. "Ow, honey." More laughter.

Ed grins. "Andi, we promise to keep him out of trouble."

"You'd better," she calls from the background.

Ed glances up at me. "You in, Grey?"

"I don't know, guys." The bar scene doesn't appeal to me anymore. It hasn't for a while.

"Where you thinking of going?" Mike asks.

"Alesca," Ed says without hesitation.

Mike pipes up again. "That new place downtown?"

"Yep. It's the hottest club going."

I don't want to go to Alesca. Yes, it's new. Yes, it's where anyone who's anybody goes on Saturday night. Yes, the rich and famous play there. But it's also a meat market. The kind of meat market that won't be able to handle the meat I have to market. We're talking wall-to-wall young, virginal maidens. The kind of women who are young enough that you can still call them girls and they won't be offended. Even the ones who are over thirty act like they've never truly grown up but are simply there to upgrade their gold-digger status.

No thanks.

"I'll pass, guys. I need to stay here and paint. But you two should go."

"No! No way, Grey!" They both verbally accost me.

I step back and hold up my arms as if I'm warding off a pair of charging bulls. "Guys, I'm not going to subject myself to that shit again. There's only five reasons why people go to a place like Alesca." I start ticking them off on my fingers. "They want to see who else is there, they want to _be_ seen by who else is there, they want to throw their money away on ten-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne to show everyone else who's there how important they are, they want to buy, sell, or do designer drugs with the best Denver society has to offer, or they want to get laid."

"And your point is?" I can hear Mike's smirk over the phone.

"My point is, I'm not interested in any of those things."

"Grey, quit being a douche," Ed says. "You know you want to get laid more than any of us."

Mike pipes in. "Grey, you've gotta go, man. Other than my bachelor party, this is probably the last time we'll all be able to get together for a while. We need to hang out one more time, just the three of us, if for no other reason than to celebrate my last few weeks as a bachelor and Ed's return to the single life—and that _is_ cause to celebrate, by the way."

Ed flashes me a glance that reeks of I told you so.

"Come on, Grey," Mike continues. "It won't be the same without you."

In the end, I agreed to join my best friends for a night on the town. I owed it to Ed to be there for him the way he's always been there for me, and the more I thought about it, the more I had to admit I could use a night out. I'd been working like a fiend ever since returning from New Zealand.

As we make our way through the club, young, feminine eyes turn and stare, and my ego finds the rousing stroke it's been missing for the last couple of years. That's dangerous. Especially for me. When a woman looks at a man like that, the message comes through loud and clear. A heated glance, a tender smile, and maybe the subtle lick of red-stained lips, and the fantasy begins.

I'm not immune to the fantasy. Since I've gone so long without the real thing, the fantasy is sometimes all that sustains me. Consequently, it affects me more than it does most men, because I want the fantasy. I want the woman who begs for my cock. The woman who hungers for it and stares at it, hypnotized by lust. The one who can't get me alone fast enough to fall to her knees and swallow me down her throat. A woman who weeps at the pleasure I can give her.

The only weeping I've made women do is the kind that comes with pain.

The fantasy evaporates at the thought.

I shake off the seductive glances and follow Mike and Ed up a winding flight of stairs to the second level. Tables pressed against the banister overlook the dance floor below, and we find one that's vacant.

"I told you this place was hot," Ed says, glancing over the banister at the people dancing one level down, where scantily clad women grind against men wearing both ten-thousand-dollar suits as well as ten-dollar T-shirts.

Alesca has become Denver's great melting pot. You can just as easily find a waitress from the diner down the street or a retail employee from the local mall on the dance floor as you can a point guard for the Denver Nuggets or a high-priced attorney. And the drug dealers cater to them all.

Oh, and gold diggers. There are plenty of gold diggers, here, too.

If I can get out of here tonight without attracting one of those, I'll consider the evening a success.

_________

Katherine

I can't believe I'm doing this. Rather, I can't believe I'm wearing what I'm wearing. How did I let Jess talk me into this shimmery pale-yellow cocktail dress. It reminds me more of lingerie than anything that should be worn in public. Classy lingerie, mind you, but still lingerie.

The bodice accentuates my full breasts but I worry that the spaghetti straps will snap under the pressure and flop my boobs out for all the world to see. I know I'm being irrational, because this is a designer dress, not some Blue Light Special I grabbed off the clearance rack at Kmart. The thread used to hold this dress together is probably made of gold-plaited silk, given the amount I paid for it. And for that reason alone, the dress is built to last. There shouldn't be any wardrobe malfunctions of any kind, boob-flopping or otherwise.

Pleated yellow satin creates a wide-belted empire waist under my breasts that reminds me of a slinky baby doll nightie. Layers of wavy butter-colored chiffon create a playful, swishy skirt that hits just above my knee, which is a lot shorter than I'm used to. If anyone at the office saw me showing this much leg, they'd bust something.

"You look stunning in that dress," Jess says as we cut through the crowded club to the bar.

"I feel _naked_ in this dress." I have to shout to be heard over the thumping techno beats.

Platforms are built around the interior at various levels, with winding staircases leading from one to another. Some are unfurnished for dancing while others contain massive leather chairs and couches, but all are surrounded by gleaming gold and silver banisters. The effect is opulent and artistic. Eighties excess in modern times.

Bass-heavy electronic beats reverberate through the speakers, and the place is voltaic with magnetism. I'm drawn in, consumed by the vibe pulsing around me. I can feel myself detaching from reality and absorbing the hedonistic energy spinning the patrons into a gluttonous mass of humanity. Everyone is here to forget who they are and become someone else for a few hours. Even me. Otherwise I wouldn't have worn this dress.

Jess shoves a turquoise cocktail in my hand and grabs my forearm. "Let's go scout our options."

I nod and follow her into the belly of the beast that is Alesca.

_________

Greyson

Alesca is certainly living up to the hype. The music is trendy and fresh, pumping hard enough for those who want to dance but with enough sensuality to fuel a few heavy make-out sessions both on and off the dance floor.

I'm doing my best to avoid eye contact with any of the prowling women, because while I may be disciplined in many areas of my life, I'm smart enough to know how weak I am when it comes to walking away from the promise of sex and the hope that maybe, just maybe, this woman will be The One.

I don't think I'm ever going to learn my lesson, but hey, at least I haven't given up hope. Most people do. My dad did.

I lift my scotch and soda. Then freeze. The glass is suspended halfway between the table and my mouth.

Holy hell, who is _she_?

My gaze locks on to the stunning beauty in a pale-yellow dress. Even in the dim lighting, the dress stands out against her lightly tanned skin. She has long, reddish-brown hair that hangs from a loose updo I'd like to wrap around my fist so I can tug her head back and drink in her dewy skin and dark, shimmering eyes. She appears fascinated with the club, maybe even a little lost and out of place, as if she's not sure why she's there but can't seem to pull herself away.

And don't I know _that_ feeling?

There's something familiar about her, but I can't figure out what. I just feel like I've seen her somewhere before. All I know is that I don't think I've ever been so instantly attracted to a woman as I am to her, as if I've known her intimately in another lifetime and can't believe I've been fortunate enough to find her again in this one.

As the music changes and I take a sip of my drink, her gaze lifts as if she can feel me watching her. A second later, her eyes meet mine. She blinks and visibly draws in a breath.

Even from across the room, a mysterious chemistry erupts between us, and I can't tear my eyes away. If I do, I fear she'll disappear, and I don't want her to disappear. I want to keep staring at her. But even more, I want her to continue staring at me. The longer she does, the more real the invisible link between us becomes.

And the fantasy begins again. It sucks me in hook, line, and sinker, and I already know I'm going to do something tonight I'll probably regret. But I can't stop myself. Not with her.

I down the rest of my drink in one swallow. I need the liquid fortification. Because, yeah, I'm about to do something unbelievably stupid.

Like I said, I'll never learn.

_________

Katherine

I tear my gaze away from the tall glass of cool water on the balcony who's been eye-fucking me for the last minute and nudge Jess.

"I think I found him."

"Who?" She glances around then meets my gaze. "Oh!" Her eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open. "You mean . . . Mr. Manhunt?"

I nod.

"Where?"

"The balcony." I bob my head in that direction. "Grey shirt. Dark-brown hair. The one with a jawline that can cut glass." Of all the men I've chosen for my summer romances, this guy is the hottest yet. The question is, is he packing?

Jess frowns as she glances up to the balcony. "Where? I don't see—" Her gaze drops and she's staring over my shoulder. "Oh . . ."

A shiver races down my back, and I know by the look on her face that he's standing right behind me.

"Excuse me." His voice is deep and manly, and my stomach drops then buoys back up against my diaphragm.

If just his voice can elicit that response, I can only imagine what the rest of him can do to me. Or perhaps I'm merely hopeful. I have to remind myself that for all the potential of my last four summer flings, none lived up to the hype.

I turn, and he's more striking up close than he was on the balcony. Taller, too.

Sometimes men are more attractive from far away, but when you see them up close, not so much. When they're right in front of you, it's easier to see the imperfections in their skin or that they don't take the best care of their teeth. Or maybe they have an off-putting scent, whether natural or cologne.

With this guy, there are no imperfections. His teeth are straight and white, and his healthy, weathered skin tells me he spends a lot of time outdoors. Based on the width of his shoulders and his tapered waist, I'd say the time he spends outdoors is spent doing he-man activities such as chopping through ten-foot wide tree trunks with an ax and throwing boulders. He's obviously chiseled under his grey button-up and black slacks. Are those Armani? As for the way he smells, I feel like I've stepped into a crisp, clean shower in a rainforest. I just want to run my nose up the side of his neck, inhaling like a coke addict.

His smile widens as his hazel, grey-blue eyes narrow slightly, and I realize I'm staring.

"I was hoping I could buy you a drink," he says.

It's simple as far as pickup lines go. Simple and polite. I like polite. It means he's not a jerk. Or at least not a total jerk. Or maybe he's just a smooth operator, but I don't think so. There's a gentle kindness in his eyes, as if he's been rejected one too many times and, while he's not willing to give up, he's more cautious now about the women he approaches. Whatever the reason, I feel honored that he's chosen to approach me.

My turquoise-colored cocktail is almost empty, so I smile and place the glass on the polished bar. "Sure, okay."

"And your friend?" He gestures invitingly toward Jess as he flags down the bartender. "What are you two drinking?"

Jess squeezes up beside me. "It's called a Caribbean Mist."

The bartender stops in front of us and leans in.

"Two Caribbean Mists and another scotch and soda please." He sets his empty glass on the bar.

The bartender nods brusquely and runs off to fix our drinks.

"My name's Grey," he says, speaking loud enough to be heard over the music.

"Grey? Really?" I can't help smiling. "Like the name of a certain character from a certain book that shall remain nameless?"

He rolls his eyes impishly, and his cheeks flush. "I've never read that book, so I barely know what it's about, just what I've heard through the grapevine."

"You should read it. It's a pretty good book. Very educational."

He flashes me his perfect smile, and it makes the sexy dimple in the center of his chin more pronounced. "I'll think about it." He studies me for a moment. "My full name is Greyson. It's a family name. But everyone calls me Grey. I promise I don't hurt women for pleasure or anything like that." His slashing eyebrows tick inward as if the idea of hurting women makes him uncomfortable, which scores him extra brownie points.

I pretend to be affronted. "You don't?" I gasp dramatically. "That's too bad. Here I was hoping you'd tie me up and flog me senseless."

His mouth falls open, and he appears both lost for words and completely thrown.

I laugh and place my hand reassuringly on his forearm, which is resting on the bar. "I'm only kidding, Greyson."

Relief washes over him, and he smiles again. "Ah, okay." He averts his gaze and chuckles tightly. "You had me worried for a second."

Then he does something I don't expect. Something that makes me stop laughing and draw in a shaky breath.

He places his hand over mine.

He's still chuckling, his gaze averted almost shyly, and yet this casual, effortless touch feels more intimate than if he'd reached under my dress and caressed my inner thigh. I don't even think he's realized what he's done. As if comforting people comes naturally to him . . . to the point that he doesn't even think about it.

But his touch isn't comforting at all. At least, not to me. It's sizzling. It's arousing. It's all-consuming.

His palm is callused—but not unpleasantly so—and it's warm and dry. I don't know what it is about rough hands— _man hands_ , as I call them—but they turn me on. To me, calluses are a sign that a man not only works hard but plays hard, and given Greyson's physique and demeanor, I'd say his calluses are caused by both. He strikes me as the kind of man who climbs mountains or runs military-grade obstacle courses for fun. He has a Special Forces look about him. Like he'd look as good dressed in SWAT gear, holding a semiautomatic rifle, as he does dressed in the shimmery grey shirt and black tailored slacks he's wearing tonight.

All I know is that the moment his hand touched mine, an electrical current traveled up my arm, strengthening the strange connection I feel with him.

He becomes aware that I've stopped laughing and turns toward me. What he finds on my face makes his smile fade, and a moment later, lust-filled enchantment seeps into his expression. His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, and I suck in my breath, which in turn makes him suck in his.

"What's your name?" he asks, moving closer.

"Katherine."

"Katherine." He rolls my name over his tongue. Who would have thought my own name could be an aphrodisiac. But the way it sounds rumbling across Greyson's vocal chords is enough to make my insides quiver and my neglected libido stand up and take notice. "You have a beautiful name."

I've never thought my name was beautiful until just this second. "Everybody calls me Kate."

"I like Katherine."

So do I, especially when he says it. "Then you can call me Katherine."

We stare at each other for a moment, and the rest of the people in Alesca briefly fade away. "I like Greyson myself," I add. Greyson is a rugged yet sophisticated name. Grey is just kind of blah. Kind of like the color.

His hand curls over mine and squeezes as he draws in a deep breath. "Then you can call me Greyson."

I gaze into his eyes. They're the most interesting color. A cross between grey and blue. Hmm, maybe grey isn't so blah, after all. I'm staring again, hypnotized.

There's no denying what's happening between us. I want him. He wants me. I've never felt stronger chemistry with anyone. Not even my ex, who I was smitten with when I first met him. How can I feel this strongly about a man I've just met? I can't say it's love at first sight, but it's definitely lust at first sight.

The bartender destroys the moment by returning with our drinks. Greyson jerks away and tears his hand from mine to pull out his wallet. I hate the absence and cold air that replaces the tingly warmth that surrounded my fingers only a few seconds ago.

He tosses two twenties on the bar. "Keep it," he says.

The bartender nods in thanks and tucks the bills into his palm.

Greyson stuffs his wallet back in his pocket, hands Jess and me our drinks, then grabs his own. "Would you like to join us?" He glances toward the table on the balcony where his friends are talking up a pair of long-legged blondes.

I exchange glances with Jess, silently imploring her not to let my time with Greyson end. She nods eagerly, and I want to kiss her.

"Sure," I say.

He takes my hand and guides us up the stairs to the table and doesn't even give the blondes talking to his friends a passing glance. More brownie points pour onto his scorecard.

"Guys," he says to his two friends, shouting to be heard over the music, "this is Katherine and . . ." He glances at Jess. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Jessica, but you can call me Jess."

The blondes move on to the next table of hot guys as Greyson gestures toward his friends. "Ladies, these are my friends, Mike and Ed." He pulls out the chair beside the banister for me. I sit, and he slides into the seat beside me, resting his arm on the back of my chair. Jess takes the seat next to Ed.

The music is too loud for us to talk and get to know one another, but the way sparks explode across my skin when his fingertips brush my shoulder, I'm not sure talking would do much good.

The air crackles around Greyson and me, and I feel like we're inside our own private bubble, even though we're surrounded on all sides. I haven't felt this way since college. Free and full of lusty hormones crying out for pleasure.

As we sip our drinks, exchange heated glances, and watch the people dancing on the floor below us, as well as on the platforms across from us and above, we somehow manage to move closer to one another until my left arm is pressed lightly against his torso.

"You smell good," I say.

He dips his nose against my ear. "So do you." His breath warms my earlobe, sending a fiery shiver down my spine.

I have to force myself not to pant as I glance over my shoulder at him. His smoldering gaze burns like flaming embers into mine then drops to my mouth as his fingers graze the back of my shoulder again. He draws closer, and that sexy, smirky grin does naughty things to the inside of my belly.

My body tilts toward him, and my breathing deepens. His face is so close to mine. I smell his aftershave. It's a clean, zesty fragrance that matches his overall rainforest scent. Crisp. Like tangy limes sweetened with honey. His eyes search mine, and he's wearing a slight frown, as if he doesn't understand his feelings or the way he's reacting to me.

I understand completely how he feels, because I'm just as confused by my reaction to him as he seems to be by his reaction to me.

His mouth is inches from mine, and all I want is for him to kiss me. I need his mouth on mine to know this is real and to ground me in the moment. Kissing him would seal the deal. If he's a good kisser, I'll know I've found my summer fling. At this point, everything hinges on the kiss. He could have the smallest penis in the world, but I'm so turned on that if his kiss makes me feel half as good as his light caresses on my back and shoulder, I'll put all my chips on Grey and consider my search over.

The tip of his tongue wets the seam of his mouth, and I pull in my breath, preparing myself.

Just as he begins to lean in, his friends laugh loudly at something Jess has said, and Greyson jerks away from me, turning toward them as he retrieves his arm from the back of my chair.

My lungs deflate, and I turn away to hide my disappointment. The magical moment is gone. I'm back in the club, with frenzied techno beating the air all around me and bodies crushing in on one another in a wave of movement resembling mass fornication. An overlying buzz of intoxication—induced by both alcohol and synthetic drugs—crackles the atmosphere.

Greyson's hand slides around mine, drawing my attention back to him. He's watching me.

"Dance with me?" It's both a request and a question.

I bite my lip, knowing instinctively that if I dance with him, we'll be leaving together. I don't know how I know this, but I do. Maybe it's the urgent, almost desperate look in his eyes, or maybe it's the way his fingers squeeze mine. Or maybe it's just this bizarre connection between us. All I know is that once I leave this chair, I won't return to it.

I've never had sex with a man I've only just met. This isn't even a first date. I've known Greyson all of thirty minutes, but I'm already so turned on that if he wants to take me to the men's room and fuck me in one of the stalls, I'm not sure I have the strength to say no.

Have you ever felt like that? So driven by feral lust that you didn't care where you were or who saw you? You just had to fuck? Not make love. Not have sex. But fuck? Like wild animals or cavepeople giving in to primal urges?

"Katherine?"

I come back into the present and hold my breath as I search his face. Can I trust him? Can I trust myself?

"Would you like to dance?" he says again.

I want him. I do.

I nod and grip his hand as I shift forward in my chair.

His smile betrays a touch of relief, and he pushes back his chair and stands, helping me out of my seat.

Jess stares at me, her eyes wide and questioning.

As Greyson begins to lead me away from the table, I pause and lean down until my mouth is right beside her ear. "Don't wait up."

A victorious smile breaks over her face as she watches me walk away from the table.

"Go get him," she mouths.

As I hold my yellow satin pocketbook in one hand and Greyson's hand in the other and allow him to guide me down the stairs to the main dance floor, I have every intention of getting him. And once I get him, I'm not letting go for two months.

Whether he knows it or not, Greyson just became my summer fling.

Chapter 6

Greyson

As I leave the table, both Mike and Ed pass me hopeful, good-luck glances. They know the odds aren't in my favor. Hell, _I_ know the odds aren't in my favor. But I can't help myself. Katherine is just too alluring. Too captivating. Too everything-about-her-is-so-perfect. I have to at least try.

I can't lie, though. I'll be devastated if she takes one look at my dick, throws her hands out in protest, and says _thanks, but no thanks_. But I'm hopelessly optimistic. Always have been. It's one reason why I didn't want to come tonight. Because, deep down, I knew I would meet someone who would set my soul on fire and put me in this position again. This position of vulnerability that could shatter not just my ego but my hope. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more rejection I can take. Then again, I always say that. Then I find myself giving romance one more try . . . and one more try . . . and one more. What can I say? I'm not a quitter. Some might even call me a masochist.

And with Katherine stepping up against my body, welcoming my arms around her as we begin moving to the slower, deeper, sultrier tempo of the electronic dance music pumping through the speakers, I'm too far gone to stop. I'm going to give this my all. Giving my all is all I know how to do. I'm not a half-assed kind of guy. For me, if it's worth doing, it's worth doing one hundred percent. If I'm going down, I'm going in a blaze of glory.

Hopefully Katherine will be different. I need her to be different.

Her skin is so soft. I can't stop smoothing my palms over the back of her shoulders and up and down her arms. I could touch her like this all night. She's so silky and firm.

I close my eyes and inhale. She smells faintly of honeysuckle. Sweet, innocent . . . tantalizing.

Her palm skims from my shoulder and down my chest, and I reach up, wrapping my hand around hers, tucking it against me as I wind my arm around the small of her back, holding her close. Her body moves with mine, our hips swiveling against one another. She has to feel my erection. I got semi-erect the moment I saw her.

Her hips press more firmly against me, and her eyes briefly widen then drift closed, making my breath hitch. She feels me. She knows I'm hard for her. I swallow dryly, my breath coming in heavy draws. Can she tell how large I am?

Her hips roll against mine again, and her lips part as her eyelids drag open. Her eyes are glassy, drunk with lust.

She licks her lips. I lick mine, unable to tear my gaze from her mouth.

"Do you want to get of here?" I say, growing more emboldened by the second.

She nods almost numbly.

"Me, too." I take her hand and turn for the back of the club.

I parked my SUV in the parking garage behind Alesca, so it's faster to take the back exit than to leave through the front. And right now, faster is better. I can't get Katherine out of there quickly enough.

With purpose, I lead her through the crowd, pushing my way between bodies pressed more tightly together than a nun's thighs, never once letting go of her hand. She remains glued to my heels, seemingly as eager to get out of there as I am.

Reaching the back hall leading to the exit, we hurry to the door and push through.

"I'm parked in the garage." I point across the street, and we hustle to the side entrance.

I hold the door open for her then trail inside after her.

"Elevator." I tug her with me then slap the up button.

The doors open, and we're inside. I hit the button for the third level.

Our hands are clamped together like a pair of vice grips latched on to each other, and our heavy breathing is apparent in the silence of the elevator as it begins its slow upward climb.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She does the same. I can feel the heat pouring out of her. Physical heat and hormonal heat. I don't think I've ever been this turned on, and I've never been with a woman who looked at me as salaciously as she is now.

My cock twitches, and the tension fractures like a tree trunk being snapped in half in a windstorm.

"Fuck it." I'm on her in less than a second.

My mouth finds hers as I press her back against the paneled wall. She mewls her approval into my mouth as our tongues slide together. She tastes of alcohol and peppermint. Her lip gloss? Wherever the flavor comes from, I like it, and I devour her lips.

Her body welcomes mine, and she tugs me closer as I pull her hips forward and drive myself against her.

She moans into my mouth like she's in heat, so I do it again. She breaks away and tips her head back, panting hard through parted, swollen lips.

I'm stunned. She has to feel how large I am. I'm practically dry humping her, so she can't have any illusions over what she's about to see when I get her to the SUV. My cock isn't just forming a tent in my pants, it's forming a goddamn pyramid. Yet I don't sense an ounce of hesitancy or panic. If anything, her desire has ratcheted up another couple of notches.

The doors open, and I take her hand. "Come on."

She briefly wobbles as if her knees have gone weak, and then she's charging out of the elevator behind me as I pull her in the direction of my SUV. The clacking sound of her heels echoes at a rapid tempo off the concrete walls.

Reaching inside my pocket, I press the button on my key fob to unlock the doors.

The SUV beeps twice, and I yank open the rear passenger door, but before I step aside to let her climb in, I press her against the side of the SUV and stare hard into her eyes.

"Please tell me you like your men big." I search her face, looking for any sign of reticence, barely breathing as I wait for her response.

A twinkle lights in her eyes, and she bites her bottom lip. "How big?" Her voice is flirty and breathless.

Her response encourages me, and I snatch her hand and plant it on my crotch. "This big."

I've got eleven inches of erection straining to get to know her better. Will she run? Or will she stick around for more?

_________

Katherine

My eyes go wide as I feel just how huge Greyson is. I knew he was big. I could tell that much on the dance floor, and I'd confirmed it in the elevator when he ground himself against me. But feeling him in the palm of my hand through all that rich Armani fabric seals my curiosity.

Greyson is more man than I ever could have imagined. He isn't just huge. He's enormous.

Curling my fingers around his girth, my mouth waters, and I drop my gaze to stare at just how far out from his crotch his cock is straining. "You've got to be kidding me," I murmur, massaging up and down his length, trying to gauge just how big he is.

He starts to pull away, and I look up to find he's wearing a pained expression.

"Too big?" He frowns, and his jaw tightens.

I'm not sure what he's talking about. "What?" Then it dawns on me. He misunderstood what I meant. He thinks I was put off. "No, Greyson . . . I—"

"It's okay." He removes my hand and takes another step back. My heart breaks at his forsaken expression. "Most women can't . . ." He sighs and looks away. When he turns back, he forces a smile and reaches to take my hand. "Come on, I'll take you back to Alesca and—"

"Oh no you don't." I snatch my hand from his and plant it back on his cock. "You'll do no such thing."

He stops and frowns at me, utter confusion falling over his face. "But . . ."

"Did I say you're too big?"

His frown deepens. "No."

"Did I give any indication that I don't want this?" I rub my hand up and down his length.

He sucks in his breath and sways forward, throwing his arm out to catch himself against the side of the SUV so he doesn't fall against me. His head bows forward to watch my hand ride up and down his length through his pants, and then he lifts his dazed eyes to mine. "But . . . I thought . . ."

"You thought wrong."

Awareness sparks to life in his eyes.

After tossing my pocketbook into his SUV, I grab a handful of his shirt and haul him forward. "Greyson, I've been waiting for a man like you my whole life. Now are we going to do this or not?"

His eyes dance back and forth between mine, and then in a rush of fire, he grips the side of my face in his free hand and claims my mouth again.

I think my knees are going to melt, as well as other parts of me. He has strong lips that demand mine into submission. Jesus! Not only does he have the penis of my dreams, but with the naughty thoughts his mouth is inspiring, I'm beginning to wonder if he's too good to be true. Did someone slip LSD into my drink when I wasn't looking, and all this is just an erotic hallucination?

"Are you real?" I gasp, coming up for air.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you." He shuffles me toward the open door.

I back in, and he flows in after me, surging over me like an ocean wave as I lie back on the leather seats. He rocks between my legs, and my pussy weeps to have him inside me.

Where has Greyson been all my life? Why am I only just now finding this remarkable man?

Our mouths fuse together in a fiery, erotic dance as he grinds against me, stoking the electric current flowing between us to delirious levels. I can already feel an orgasm rising inside me.

My fingers claw at his back, my hips circling and rising to meet his as he dry fucks me.

He lifts up, and I hear the jangle of his belt, and I reach down to help him release his anaconda. The thought makes me giggle.

"What?" He grins at me as he continues fumbling with his buckle.

"Nothing." I smile and work at the snap on his pants. I lift my head and find his mouth, and once more his tongue glides over mine, and he's swallowing my moans as our fingers join at his zipper.

It lowers, and then my hands are briefly inside his underwear before he gets the chance to shove them down with his pants.

He shifts to his knees and pulls me up then settles into the seat with me on his lap. The moment my gaze lands on his exposed cock, I freeze. God, it's even bigger than I imagined. Big and glorious and virile. Not just long but thick. Very thick. It's the kind of cock I've always wanted.

He's watching me, his expression concerned and hesitant. As if he's afraid I'm going to reconsider now that I've seen him in the flesh.

The only thing I'm reconsidering is whether I want to take him in my mouth before I take him inside my pussy. After all, a cock this magnificent deserves to be worshipped.

I fall to my knees on the floor in front of him, and his eyes fly open as he presses his hands against the leather seat, bracing himself.

"Katherine, you don't—" He gasps sharply as I grip the base of his erection and flick my tongue over the tip. "Jesus!" His eyes bulge as I slowly open my mouth and take in the head, lapping my tongue against the ridge on the underside.

Then I oh-so-carefully lower my mouth on him. He's so big he almost doesn't fit, and I'm sure a lot of women's mouths are too small for this sexy beast of a cock. Feeling the head graze the back of my throat, I push him deeper.

I'm blessed to have been born without a gag reflex, something my ex-husband loved since it allowed me to deep-throat him.

I'll admit, I've always had a thing for swallowing dick. I might be a proper-looking businesswoman who dresses conservatively in the office and behaves like a lady out in the world, but that doesn't mean I can't get my freak on in the bedroom. You've heard the saying, a lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets? That's me. At least when it comes to giving head. I love the feeling of a thick cock in my throat. There's something empowering about how it makes me feel. It's as if I'm in command and hold complete control. The way a man looks down at me—awed and lust drunk—when I'm on my knees in front of him, with his cock down my throat in a way many women can't manage, makes me feel powerful and gloriously beautiful.

Strange, I know, that it takes giving head to make me feel purely feminine, but we all have our fetish-like turn-ons, and this is mine.

"Fuck, fuck . . . oh, Jesus!" Greyson is nearly hyperventilating, and his hands form fists against the leather seat as every muscle in his body grows so tight he arches like a crossbow.

I look up at him through my lashes, and I can tell he's forcing himself to exercise an enormous amount of self-control.

He's staring wide-eyed at his dick disappearing inch-by-slow-inch into my mouth, and I have to admit, he's almost too big for me to take. It's hard to breathe, but I've almost swallowed all of him. I can do it. I know I can. I lower my head a little bit more, and I think he's going to blow through his skin, his body is so taut. He's not breathing. He's barely moving. His face and neck are flushed deep crimson.

My mouth creeps lower, and then my lips meet the root, and he's all the way inside my mouth.

I lift my eyes to his again, and he sucks in an abrupt breath, staring at me in awe. And there it is, the look that makes me feel more like a woman than any other. Like a naughty, sexy, queen of fellatio servicing her king.

I draw my mouth up his shaft then swallow his salty taste as I pop my mouth off the rounded hood and gulp in a deep breath.

He exhales harshly, and his body finally relaxes. He grips my face in both hands, his gaze blistering my mouth with enough heat to ignite coals. "Christ! I've never . . . no one's . . . no woman has ever been able to swallow me like that."

I glide up his body, feeling like a goddess. It's as if I'm having an out-of-body experience or watching someone else, because surely the woman in the back of Greyson's SUV isn't me. It must be someone who only looks like me, because I've never been so reckless. So intensely starved for a man's cock.

It's like I'm back in college, when I first discovered the pleasures a man's body could give me. What can I say? I was a late bloomer. But now I'm not only making up for the time I lost before college, but also the time I lost during the last six years.

I churn my more-than-ready, panty-clad pussy over his steely cock. "Do you have a condom?" I brush my lips seductively over his.

I'm ready to have this man inside me. I'm ready to be filled in a way I've never been filled, and I know Greyson has the package to get the job done.

_________

Greyson

Dread sinks into my gut. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to bring condoms tonight. After the incident in New Zealand, I never replenished my wallet stash.

"Uuumm . . ."

She grins, grabs her pocketbook from beside us on the seat, and pulls a foil packet from inside. With a sexy laugh, she says, "Jess insisted I bring some. You know, just in case."

"Are they extra-large?" I take the packet from her, eyeing it suspiciously. It looks a little on the small size for me.

"The box said they were large."

Large isn't going to cut it, but I tear the packet open with trembling fingers, anyway, hoping it will get the job done. After what she just did with her mouth, taking me to the base of my dick like that, I'm not sure I can get the condom on without coming, but I'm going to do my damnedest, because I want inside Katherine in a way I've never wanted inside any woman. Probably because, for the first time, I've found a woman who not only isn't afraid of my big dick, but wants it badly enough to be slithering all over me for it like I can't get it inside her fast enough.

Wait. This isn't the first time.

I freeze. "Let me see your left hand." I don't want a repeat of what I went through with Rhian.

She laughs and looks at me like I've just asked her to run naked down the street. "What?"

I search her eyes apologetically. "Please. I need to know you're not already married."

Grinning like she's happy I would be worried about something like that, she holds up her hand. There's no ring. No thin band of pale skin where a ring usually sits. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I _was_ married once, but not anymore," she says. "Not for the last six years. Now, hurry and get that thing on." She drops her gaze to the condom.

It does indeed look a little small, but I fit it over the head of my erection and begin rolling it down, praying it won't break. It's tight. Uncomfortably tight.

She shimmies out of her panties and tosses them on the seat beside me, waiting impatiently for me to wrap myself up.

"I'm not sure this is going to—" The latex splits, and I wince. "Fuck."

She grabs another and rips open the packet as I roll the broken one off my dick.

"They're too small," I say, stopping her before she can try to roll the new one down my erection. It's pointless. There are only a couple of brands of condoms that work for me, and it's obvious she didn't buy either of them. Then again, why would she? She probably hadn't thought she'd meet Moby Dick tonight.

Agonizing despair overtakes her expression, and she appears to be in a frenzied tug of war between taking a chance on fucking me without protection or calling it a night and trying again some other time.

I refuse to have sex with her without a condom. I'm not that irresponsible, nor am I that lost to lust that I'm willing to jeopardize either one of us, even though I know I'm not carrying any STDs. I doubt she is, either, but I won't take that risk. And I'm for damn sure not going to risk getting her pregnant.

"Is there a drug store around here?" she says, nibbling her thumbnail.

I think for a moment, orienting myself to where I am, then remember there's a Walgreens up the street. Walgreens is one of the few places that carries the brand of condoms that fits me.

I begin pulling up my pants. "Yeah, come on."

She shimmies out the door, straightening the layered skirt of her dress as I pull myself together and refasten my belt. My poor dick is throbbing like a motherfucker, straining against the fabric.

"Hop in on the other side."

I unlock all the doors, get behind the wheel, and wait for her to buckle herself in.

"Where are we going?" she says as I start the engine and back out of the space.

"Walgreens." I gun the gas, on a mission to stave off the worst set of blue balls I've ever had. If I don't come soon, I'm not going to be able to, and the rest of the night is going to be nothing more than an excruciating ache focused on my scrotum.

She grabs hold of the bar above the door as I race down the levels of the parking garage then hit the gas at the exit, turning right.

The red Walgreens sign hangs vertically down the side of the building two blocks over.

I shoot into an empty space in front of the pharmacy.

Inside, we race down the aisles in search of the prophylactics. There's only one other customer in the store, someone eyeing the candy aisle.

In the back, near the pharmacy, we strike gold.

"How about these?" She yanks a black and gold box of Magnum extra-large condoms off one of the hooks.

I shake my head and point to a clear round container with a black lid and the word "One" on top. On the front of the small plastic canister is the word "Legend."

"These," I say.

I snatch them off the shelf then hurry to the pharmacy checkout behind us.

"Will this be all?" the clerk asks, keeping his gaze down as he rings me up.

"That's it." I tap my fingers impatiently on the counter.

Katherine's arm winds around my forearm as I zip my credit card through the scanner to make payment. She taps my shoulder with her other hand.

I glance at her, and her gaze flicks to the side as if she wants me to follow it. I do and find a bathroom tucked in the back corner. I look back at her, and she grins suggestively then bites her bottom lip as her face flushes.

Does she want me to take her in the bathroom?

I meet her gaze again, and she raises her eyebrows as if to ask if I'm game.

"Here you go, sir." The pharmacist hands me a small plastic bag holding my purchase.

I take the bag from him. "Thanks."

The pharmacist hurries away and disappears behind a partition as if he knows what we're thinking and doesn't want any part of it.

I glance from Katherine to the bathroom and back to her. I'm about to bust out of my slacks. I'm physically to my breaking point. The situation is critical. Do I really want to take the time to drive us back to the parking garage and risk losing my erection or setting up my pending case of blue balls?

Then I remember Katherine's panties are sitting on the back seat of my SUV, and my cock kicks. She's totally bare under her dress. The thought alone almost makes me come.

Glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone's watching, I shove her toward the bathroom. "Come on."

She giggles quietly as I shove her inside then close and lock the door behind us.

"I've never done anything like this before," she whispers as she takes the bag from my hand and fishes out the clear container.

"Neither have I." I'm shaking so violently I can barely unfasten my belt.

The bathroom is all sparkling white tile and smells of disinfectant, so at least it's clean.

She tears open the packet as my pants and briefs fall to the floor.

Once more, my erection springs out, pushing my shirttails away from my torso.

As I unbutton my shirt, she stares at my body. Not just my cock, but my body. Her gaze grows hungrier the more I reveal.

Under her stare, I'm suddenly grateful for all the hours I put in working out.

"Turn around," I say, taking the condom from her. "Face the sink." I would rather look into her face while I fuck her, but, considering where we are, it will be easier and more comfortable for her if I take her from behind.

She does as I say, and her eyes meet mine in the mirror. That's not so bad. At least I can still see her face. Maybe I need to invest in a mirrored headboard if this works out between us. That way I can fuck her any way I like and always be able to see her face.

I roll the condom on. It fits. It's snug, as it always is, but it fits.

"Bend over. Hold onto the sink."

Her breath hitches as she bends at the waist and grips the sides of the sink.

I flip her skirt up to reveal her perfect, firm ass and pink, glistening pussy. This has got to be a dream. She's so wet for me that her juices have escaped to slick the insides of her upper thighs.

"Fuck, Katherine." If only I wasn't about to explode. I'd love to slide my fingers inside her, kneel down and lick her nectar, play with her, taste her.

She moans as if she can sense my thoughts and seems to melt into the sink as she arches her back and opens her legs wider, inviting me in.

Not one to deny an invitation, I grip my cock and step up behind her.

Her legs tremble as I slowly swipe the head up and down her lips.

"Are you ready?" I say.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

She exhales shakily. "Y-yes."

"I'm not going to be gentle, and I'm not going to last long."

She shudders as I press the head in, and she moans. "I don't want gentle."

I almost explode at her words. I groan and grip the sides of her ass so hard I'm sure to leave fingerprints in her flesh.

Her knuckles turn white as she braces herself against the sink.

Biting back a curse and forcing down the orgasm already threatening to blow me apart, I plunge forward until my groin meets the back of her thighs.

Holy fuck! I'm all the way inside her.

She moans and writhes beneath me, whimpering.

"Are you okay?"

She nods urgently and pushes herself off the sink. "Fuck me. God, fuck me, Greyson." She's breathless, almost insane with lust.

That's all my dick needs to hear, and I'm fucking her. Our bodies slap together with every thrust, and she cries out, pushing herself upright so she can meet my gaze in the mirror as she thrusts back against me.

"More . . . harder." She slaps her palms against the wall on either side of the mirror, jutting out her ass. "Yes! Right there . . . right there . . . don't stop."

I'm not stopping. No way. Because I'm about to come. My balls are tingling, and the sensation is spreading all over my body, making my muscles twitch. So close. So fucking close.

Wrapping one arm around her waist, I circle my other hand around the front of her throat. I've never choked a woman, and I have no intention to now, but I like how my large tan fingers look around her slender, pristine neck. Holding her this way gives me better leverage to fuck her that much harder, something my body naturally wants to do when I've never been able to before. But years of conditioning make me hold back from going full bulldozer. I'm still afraid I'll hurt her, even though the way she's crying out for more makes it clear I'm nowhere near causing her pain.

As her release crests and her body falls into violent shudders, my own climax blasts into me, and I shatter, grunting loudly as I pump hard into her, slamming my body against hers as I fill the condom.

This must be some kind of speed record. Neither of us took long to get there. The fucking was almost too fast. So fast it almost feels like it didn't happen. But it did. My euphoric muscles and her quivering legs as she continues coming are proof it did. Next time, though—yes, next time, because I'm not going to let Katherine get away that easily—I want it to last longer.

This is a first, and I feel like a virgin all over again. I've had sex, but never like this. Never with someone who could take all of me and actually enjoy the experience.

I'm assuming Katherine isn't in pain. She's still coming, clenching my dick, gasping and groaning as waves continue to shiver up and down her body.

I continue to pump shallowly in and out of her as the sensations course through me, and for what feels like the first time in my life I breathe easily. It's like a weight has been lifted off my soul.

I've found her. I've finally found the woman who was made to fit my body.

And I don't even know her last name.

Chapter 7

Katherine

I sit in the passenger seat of Greyson's SUV, biting my bottom lip as I try not to smile. We're back in the parking garage across from Alesca, and we've been sitting side by side in awkward silence for the last five minutes. Well, it feels like five minutes, but it's probably only been fifteen seconds.

I glance to the side, at the man who just rocked my world in a way it's never been rocked.

I've never come so hard. I've never been filled so fully. And I never thought I'd do something like what I just did. I'm not that kind of woman. I'm not the whore Phil accused me of being, but something about Greyson turned me into a very whorelike, lust-drunk woman who would do anything to fuck him. A woman ruled by her hormones instead of her brain. I even considered allowing him to have sex with me without a condom. What was I thinking? That's not me! I'm more responsible than that.

His gaze lifts to mine, and the moment our eyes meet, the tension of what we just did breaks, and we laugh. It's a stiff, bewildered laugh that begs the question, "Did we really just do that?" His cheeks are so red. Mine probably are, too.

At least he's as shocked by our tryst as I am, which is a good thing. It means he doesn't normally have random sex with strange women. In Walgreens bathrooms or anywhere else.

"So . . ." he says, clearing his throat. Using his teeth, he draws his full bottom lip contemplatively into his mouth as his grey-blue eyes meet mine in a wry sidelong glance.

Grinning, I flush and run my palm over the side of my neck. My skin feels warm. "So . . ."

His teeth release his lip, and he nervously drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Uh . . . I don't normally do things like that." He says it like he's only just now realizing the enormity of our actions and is worried I'll think he's a player. As if that's the only reason we could have had to fuck like rabbits in the bathroom of a Walgreens pharmacy at one in the morning.

But when the chemistry is that intense and demands you to fuck, there's no use trying to fight it.

"I don't do things like that, either," I say.

"Do you regret it?"

"No. Do you?" God, I hope he doesn't.

One side of his mouth quirks upward. "Not even a little." He hooks his thumb in the direction of Walgreens. "That was the kind of sex you simply can't regret even if you want to."

I nod and lick my lips, remembering how he wrapped his large hand around my neck and how turned on that got me. "Yeah, it was." My lady parts are still singing his praises.

He turns to the front and nods slowly, his mouth twisting into a thoughtful smirk, as if he's still trying to process the evening's events.

Several seconds pass, and I fidget my fingernails over the decorative pleating on the front of my satin handbag, waiting for him to say something.

Was this one-night-stand time? Was one hot rendezvous in a bathroom all he wanted from me? Were the next words out of his mouth going to be, "Well, this was fun, Katherine. Thanks for a good time. I'll be seeing you."?

I don't want this to be a one-time shot. I like Greyson. No man—not even my ex—has ever made me feel the way Greyson just did. So wanton. So desirable. Like I was eighteen again and discovering sex for the first time. Only this had been really dirty, prurient, animalistic sex. The kind of sex porn stars wish they could have. Not only was the chemistry between us more explosive than TNT, but not since before Christian was born has a man touched the parts of me Greyson touched tonight. Maybe a pharmacy bathroom isn't every girl's dream of a great time, but he'd gotten me so hot and ready I would have fucked him anywhere.

To hell with Phil's whoring-around-town comment.

If this really is my last summer fling, Greyson's the man I want to have it with.

I can't accept that I'll never see him again. That I'll never have sex with him again. That I'll never be able to explore this new side to my sexuality. The side still blossoming to life inside me like a budding flower. My inner nympho has awakened. Greyson has opened me to a whole new world I never knew existed, and I already want to go a second round with him, even though we've barely finished round one.

He clears his throat in that way that lets me know he's about to speak, and I lift my head and look at him expectantly. Is he going to say good-bye, or is he feeling the same way I am? Does he want this—whatever this is—to continue?

He turns to me. "Would you like to have dinner with me sometime next week?" His hopeful gaze drops to my mouth, lingers for a moment, and then returns to my eyes as he smiles warmly. "I feel like I at least owe you dinner after . . . well . . . that." He tips his head in the direction of the pharmacy.

My inner nympho pumps her fist, and I smile as victory wraps its black-and-white checkered flag around me.

If tonight is any indication, this is going to be one hell of a hot summer.

"I'd like that, Greyson. Dinner sounds perfect."

The manhunt is over.

Let my summer fling begin.

Chapter 8

Greyson

Last night feels like a dream. A blurry, liberating, erotic dream.

Did I really have sex with a woman in a Walgreens bathroom? More importantly, did she actually enjoy it?

I scrub my palms over my stubbly cheeks then lift my head, greeting my morning wood. It's woodier than usual this morning, but after what happened last night, a raging hard-on upon waking up isn't totally unexpected.

I groan and drop my head back onto my pillow. I'm wearing what I'm sure is the biggest, cheesiest grin I've ever worn the morning after sex. Why? Because, for once, my dick didn't scare away the woman I was with. In fact, she enjoyed it. All eleven thick and hefty inches of it.

And because she enjoyed it, I enjoyed it even more.

I've never had sex like that. Wild and barbaric. Like I was a caveman consumed by my need to fornicate after seeing a naked cavewoman for the first time and getting my first hard-on.

Which brings me to another revelation. With Katherine, I might be able to have sex in ways other men take for granted. Woman on top. Cowboy. Hard, deep, rough, soft, dirty.

Missionary.

Now _there's_ a position most men _definitely_ take for granted, but one I can't say I've ever actually enjoyed. It's hard to enjoy sex when you're worried about hurting your partner.

But Katherine didn't cry _or_ act like she was in pain last night. She loved every second of what I gave her. I can still feel how her body shuddered as she climaxed. How her legs trembled. How her pussy clamped down on my dick and sent me to the moon. Jesus, I've never felt that before. I've never experienced a woman's orgasm like that.

Sex with Katherine made me see what I've been missing my whole life, and I'm in awe that I've finally found my way to this moment.

I chuckle at myself and run my palm down my face. I still don't know Katherine's last name. I was so stunned by what happened that I let the evening end without asking her for it. An oversight I'll be correcting the next time I see her.

I don't know when that will be, because the coming week is pretty busy. Between finishing the remodel on my house and the meeting with Robert Clayton, my schedule is packed. But I'll make room on my calendar to see her even if it means taking an afternoon off.

As I stare up at the ceiling, thoughts of Katherine flood my mind, and I close my eyes, enjoying the memories from last night: The way she looked in that incredible yellow dress. How her eyes sparkled when she turned around and saw me standing behind her at the bar. How her hand sent warmth through my body the moment she placed it on my arm. The two of us dancing, then leaving, and finally kissing in the parking garage elevator. How she tasted like alcohol and peppermint. And everything that came after, leading up to both of us facing that mirror in the bathroom, our gazes locked in our reflection as I fucked her from behind, and how she cried out for more.

_More!_ No woman has ever demanded I give her more, _more_ , MORE! With my dick, most women want less, _less_ , LESS!

Throwing back the covers, I pull myself out of bed. My dick pokes out in front of me like a water dowsing rod, and like any good dowsing rod, it leads me straight to the bathroom.

If I'm going to get any sort of workout in this morning, I'm going to have to do something about this. Not that I wouldn't rather masturbate to fantasies of Katherine for the next hour, but masturbation does not a six pack make, no matter how hard my abdomen contracts when I come.

After pounding my meat and taking a cold shower to deflate my overly stimulated johnson enough to put on a pair of gym shorts, I stuff in my earbuds, crank up my classic rock playlist, and then head to my home gym in the basement.

An hour later, my body is shredded. My grey tank top sticks to my back and stomach, dark with perspiration. It's an effort just to lift my half-gallon water bottle to my lips to drain the last of my water.

Slinging a white gym towel around my neck and wiping one end over my sweat-soaked face, I shut off the light and head out. I need to pack in some breakfast before I head to the office so I can prep for tomorrow night's meeting.

I'm listening to Aerosmith sing about dreaming on when I stroll around the corner to find Ed gingerly leading a woman from his bedroom, as if he hadn't wanted me to hear him.

I stop.

He freezes like the fox who's been caught red-handed raiding the henhouse.

His eyes snap to mine, and I know I must look like a dumbstruck fool, gawking and blinking as if I just saw a ghost. Because this is Ed. Still-married-to-Anabel Ed. I-hate-all-things-infidelity Ed.

From his disheveled hair and the woman's disheveled dress, it's obvious he's become I'm-now-an-adulterer Ed.

Yes, Anabel's been cheating on him and told him she wants a divorce, but that doesn't change the fact that, technically, he _is_ still married.

I slowly pluck out my earbuds as the woman peeks out from behind him, eyes red, makeup blotchy, cheeks flushed.

She smiles weakly and lifts her hand in a tiny finger wave. "Good morning."

I recognize her. She's Katherine's friend, Jess.

I glance from her to Ed. Twice. Then I clear my throat and uncomfortably shuffle my feet. I'm being rude. "Good morning."

Ed slides his hand around hers and brushes his palm over his mess of hair. If he thinks he can hide what they've been doing in the bedroom I'm letting him borrow while he recovers from Anabel's cheating ways, he needs to think again. He's not fooling anyone. And it looks like he's recovering just fine.

Scowling, I start for the stairs.

"Grey, hey . . ." Ed takes a step forward as I pass.

I hold up my hand. "No, Ed. Just . . ." I heave out an exasperated breath. This is Ed's life, not mine. I'm not his father and have no place lecturing him. "What you do is your business."

"But—"

"I'm going to take a shower." Taking the steps of the winding staircase two at a time, I vacate the basement as fast as I can then hoof it up to the master bath.

As I lather soap over my head and shoulders, I try not to dwell on what I just witnessed and how it pulls up reminders of my parents. Of how my mother's affair tore our family apart, destroyed my father, and left soul-deep scars on me, to the point that no matter how badly I want to be in a committed relationship, I doubt I'll ever be able to get married. I'm not even sure if it was one affair or multiple affairs my mom had. I didn't stick around long enough to find out. I spent the night at either Ed's or Mike's house almost every night until Mom shipped me off to live with my grandparents.

As I got older, I wanted nothing of her explanations, whether directly or indirectly, through my brother, Brent, or my sister, Olivia.

When I was a kid, my father was my hero. I spent hours following him around his garage, helping him fix up old cars, watching and learning as he rebuilt engines and applied coats of paint on some of his rebuilds that would have made Picasso envious.

My old man was a genius with cars, especially old muscle cars. Camaros, Corvettes, Mustangs. One of his favorite restorations was a 1967 Pontiac GTO. Most people would have painted a cherry car like that candy apple red, but not my dad. He put a coat of midnight blue paint on that sexy beast that sparkled like the Milky Way when the light hit it just right.

The day he revved its purring engine and backed it out of the garage for his client to see the first time, that GTO became the most stunning thing on four wheels Denver had ever seen. You can still see it around town every so often, but I don't remember who owns it.

Shortly after my dad rebuilt the GTO, when I was eleven, everything changed. Street Elite Autobody, a custom car builder and designer, opened a few miles from my dad's shop. Within two years, my dad's business folded. Just that quickly, everything my father had worked so hard for was ripped away.

We had to sell our house, move into a smaller one, and every day became a battle to overcome the fallout.

Dad grew depressed, and for a few months, he struggled just to get out of bed. Eventually, he took a job as a mechanic for a local car dealership, but I could feel my hero slipping away. The man I'd always looked up to and worshipped—the man I wanted to be like when I grew up—was fading bit by bit every day he went to work.

He hated that job, not because he didn't enjoy working on cars, but because once you've owned your own business and been your own boss it's hard to work for someone else, following their rules, their orders, doing menial work rather than work that stimulates your mind.

My mom got a job as a barista at Starbucks to help pay the bills, so my brother, sister, and I became latchkey kids, fending for ourselves after school and sometimes on the weekends.

As the months passed, my parents started arguing. I hated hearing them fight, which they did mostly late at night after we kids had gone to bed.

That's how I learned of my mother's affair. I was fourteen. It was late, and I couldn't sleep. I overheard one of their arguments. Well, bits and pieces of it. But I heard enough to know that she'd been seeing another man, and had been for a while. She said it was all my dad's fault, whatever that meant. She was upset and crying, and I remember my father getting really angry and accusing her of wanting to get back at him. I have no idea for what, because after that, they began speaking in hushed, angry tones, and I couldn't make out anything more.

I didn't tell my mom what I'd heard, but I couldn't look at her the same way after that. After a while, I couldn't look at her at all. I grew angry and rebellious, lashing out at her, acting out in school.

I hated her for what she'd done.

A year later, though, my hatred grew horns.

It's still hard for me to think about that horrible day.

My dad had just finished restoring a '69 Dodge Challenger that had been sitting in the garage for years. A leftover from when he owned his business. After mom's infidelity, that old muscle car became an obsession. He worked on it every night and every weekend. If he wasn't at his job, eating, or sleeping, he was working on that car.

Then on Fourth of July weekend, he snaked a hose from the exhaust pipe through the small gap at the top of the barely opened passenger window, climbed behind the steering wheel, shut himself inside, and started the engine. The radio was tuned to Denver's classic rock station. Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" was playing when we found his body.

I can't ignore the irony that it was a car that killed my father. The very thing he loved most was the very thing that took his life. Maybe that's how he wanted it. I'll never know. He didn't leave a note. At least none that I ever saw or heard about. Maybe he left one for my mom, but she never mentioned it.

My father's death became my final unraveling. It became total rebellion. I began fighting every day at school, lashing out as my bottled-up anger toward my mom sought an outlet. That's why I was shipped off to live with my grandparents, because my mother had no idea what to do with me. There was nothing she _could_ do, because she was the source of my outrage.

Thankfully, my grandparents took me to see a therapist and helped me channel my angry energy into sports. But even though playing sports and falling in love with the outdoors was eventually what saved me, I never recovered from blaming my mother for my father's death.

It was her fault Dad killed himself. Her infidelity. Her deceit. Her weakness and lack of compassion for all my father had lost. That's what did him in.

I've only seen her twice in the last eighteen years. Once at my high school graduation, and once when I graduated college. I didn't talk to her either time, and I've never returned a single phone call. She finally stopped calling me, but I still receive birthday and Christmas cards from her. I throw them in the garbage without reading them. I want nothing to do with my mom after how she crushed my father and changed all our lives.

Brent and Olivia think I'm being too hard on her, but they've learned not to push me on this. It's the only way I'll allow them to remain part of my life. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a mother anymore. I lost her the day Dad died. Hell, I lost her the moment I heard her admit to having an affair.

Maybe that's why I'm so angry about Ed sleeping with Jess. Sure, Anabel's cheating on him, but that doesn't give him a free pass to sleep around while he's still married to her.

What he needs is professional help, not a bedmate. He needs to talk to someone about the pain cutting into his heart so that it doesn't coagulate and fester inside him like a cancer. If he continues down this road, it will lead to nothing but trouble.

I rinse the soap from my body and shut off the shower.

Dad's been gone over twenty years, and while I didn't follow in his footsteps and start my own autobody and custom design shop, I do have a passion for fixing up old cars. It's how I paid my way through college and covered my bills before Rugged took off. It's also why I still own the '77 Camaro I drove in high school and just bought a '69 Ford Mustang Shelby that's sitting in the garage waiting for me to restore her.

Working on cars is my hobby. An expensive hobby, but one I can afford now that the company has found success. One that allows me to still feel connected to my father. I talk to him while I'm working on my cars. I can no longer hear his voice, but I can imagine what he would say if he were there.

But that's a conversation for another time. Right now, I've got to get going or I'll never be ready for Robert Clayton tomorrow night.

Changing into a well-worn pair of jeans, hiking shoes, and a navy pullover, I head down to the kitchen to feed my beast of a belly, which has been back-talking me since before I finished my workout.

Ed is sitting at the kitchen counter, wearing a pair of sweats and a wrinkled T-shirt. The orange Wheaties box is next to him on the counter, and he's blandly sloshing his spoon around in his cereal bowl. Guilt practically oozes out of him.

I hesitate then march past. "Did you have fun last night?" I yank open the door on the stainless-steel fridge and pull out a carton of eggs, turkey bacon, spinach, and a container of sliced mushrooms.

"Lay off, Greyson."

Ed doesn't call me Greyson unless he's irritated with me. Well, that shit works both ways.

I slam the refrigerator door and toss everything on the counter, drilling a hole through him with my gaze. "Look, just because Anabel is fucking around on you doesn't mean you should be doing the same to her. Show her you can be better than she is." I spin and open one of the cabinets, searching for my mixing bowl. "Christ, Ed, you're still married. You haven't even filed for divorce, yet."

He drops his spoon in his cereal bowl, making milk slosh out. "Don't you think I know that? But what do you want me to do? I can't go back and undo last night. I had too much to drink. She came home with me. I fucked her. I liked it. She liked it. I'm not as perfect as you are. So sue me!"

"I'm not perfect." The omelet pan clangs as I drop it on the stove. "And I don't want to hear about it."

"Hey, you're the one riding _my_ ass, so you're going to hear about it. There's nothing I can do to change last night, Greyson! What's done is done!" He buries his face in his half-eaten bowl of cereal.

I stare at him. He looks so lost, so confused.

What's happening to him isn't his fault. Not completely. He's more a victim of his circumstances and of Anabel's screwing around than anything of his own making. It's going to take time for him to sort out his emotions. Maybe bringing Jess home was simply part of the sorting-out process.

Sighing, I force myself to calm down by remembering that what Ed's going through isn't the same as what I went through with my parents or what my dad went through with my mom.

"Look, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to blow up at you. I know you're going through hell right now."

Ed looks up, and his eyes are red. I want to believe he's just hungover, but I know that's only part of it. He's been crying, but hell will freeze over before he admits that and before I let on that I know the truth.

"Did you at least have a good time?" I say gently. "Did she treat you right?"

Ed's mouth bends into a weak smile. "Yeah, it was nice. She was sweet. I like her."

I arch one eyebrow. "You like her?"

He frowns. "Yeah, you got a problem with that?"

I sigh and flip open the carton of eggs. "Would it matter if I did?"

"No."

Biting my tongue, I crack open an egg and drop it into the bowl. "Then let's just say I don't have a problem so we don't get into a pissing contest about it."

"And if I want to see her again, are you still _not_ going to have a problem?"

This sounds like a bad idea, but what do I know except infidelity never turns out good?

A throbbing sets up in my temple that I try to pretend has more to do with the fact I went out drinking last night and haven't eaten breakfast, yet. "It's your life, Ed."

He snorts. "I bet _that_ was hard for you to say."

"You have no idea." What I want to tell him is to stop acting like an idiot and to get his shit together, but I hold my tongue. "Just promise me you won't fuck her under my roof again."

He bristles and looks like he wants to tell me to kiss his ass, but instead he takes a deep breath and slowly nods. "Fine, Greyson. I know how you feel about this shit, so I won't bring her back here again, okay? Are we cool?"

It's not what I want to hear, because it still means he's going to see her again, which means he's going to fuck her again. And he's barely three days into his separation from Anabel.

"Yeah, we're cool. I just wish you'd wait until you—"

He stops me. "I'm filing for divorce tomorrow."

"Yeah, but filing for divorce isn't the same as being divorced. You're still married, Ed."

"Jesus, Greyson, I get it. Ease the fuck up on me, would you? I'm doing the best I can."

I hold up my hands in surrender and go about preparing breakfast. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. He goes back to eating his Wheaties. I cook turkey bacon and chop up vegetables for my omelet. I think we both need a moment to shift back into neutral with one another so we can become non-antagonistic friends again.

After a few minutes, Ed pushes his empty cereal bowl away and folds his hands one over the other on the granite countertop. "So, how did things go with Katherine?"

Just the mention of her name makes my balls tingle, and I perk up. "Good."

Ed grins knowingly, and I turn away to flip the bacon one last time then busy myself checking the temperature of my omelet pan so Ed doesn't see the evidence of what I did last night written all over my face. Because I know it is.

When I turn back around to fetch my bowl of whisked eggs and vegetables, he catches my eye.

"You fucked her, didn't you?"

I quickly turn back around and pour the egg mixture in the skillet. "Come on, Ed, you don't want to hear about my night."

What I mean is that I don't want to talk about it, even though I do. I'm practically busting to bump fists with him and say, "Hell, yeah, bro! I got laid!" like some sophomore in high school who just lost his virginity.

In a way, I _did_ lose my virginity.

"You did, didn't you?" Ed says, coming around the counter. He rinses his bowl in the sink then sets it aside and stares at me. "Come on, tell me what happened."

I don't kiss and tell. I was raised better than that, so Ed's going to have to go on wondering.

"I'm not telling you what happened between Katherine and me, Ed."

"Just tell me that she liked it. You can at least tell me that much."

Ed and I have known each other long enough that there's nothing we don't know about each other. So yeah, Ed knows all about my Dong of Death and how it's scared away every woman I've ever dated or tried to get with. His curiosity about how last night went stems from a good place. He genuinely wants me to find a woman who isn't terrified of having sex with me.

Smiling, I shake the omelet pan, loosening the egg mixture from the bottom, then give it a little flip so that one half flops over perfectly on top of the other. "You're just going to have to wait and see like everybody else."

"Are you going out with her again?"

"Yes." I glance over my shoulder at my phone, which sits nearby on the counter. I need to text her and set something up.

Ed claps me on the shoulder. "She liked it. I knew it." He laughs. "I knew it was only a matter of time before you found a woman sturdy enough for you."

"Sturdy enough?" I've never quite thought of it that way.

"Yeah." He starts out of the kitchen, nabbing a slice of turkey bacon off my plate, our argument all but forgotten. "Who knows, Grey, maybe she's the one who's gonna change your life and make you want to tie the knot."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I haven't even known her twenty-four hours."

"Anything can happen, Grey. Lightning can strike even on a sunny day." He waves over his shoulder, heading for the stairs. "I'm gonna grab a shower. I'll see you at the office."

Maybe she's the one.

She's _the one_ all right. The one who can take me. The one who can swallow me. The one who has awakened my fantasies in a whole new way that suggests they won't stay fantasies much longer. But _The One_? As in, a woman who holds enough power to make me forget what my mother did and make me want to abandon the notion that marriage is for men who only want to be cheated on?

It's going to take a very special lady and a remarkable set of circumstances for that to happen.

Chapter 9

Katherine

I pour French vanilla creamer into my cup of Twinings English Breakfast tea. The result is something that tastes more like melted gourmet ice cream than a hot beverage, and I'm one hundred percent addicted to it. I'll rip off your hand if you try to take my tea from me, so be warned.

I check the time again.

Jess is late. I sure hope she's okay. I feel guilty about bailing on her last night, but after Greyson destroyed my sense of reality, there was no way I could go back inside the club.

My thoughts return to the way I came undone under Greyson's ministrations. To how my body reacted to his in a way it's never reacted to anyone. To the shocked and awed expression on his face as I swallowed him down my throat. To his bewildered look of determination as he stared heavily back at me in the mirror of the Walgreens bathroom where we had sex. He'd been a man on a mission, and based on what he'd said during and after, that mission was to finally have sex without fear of hurting his partner.

God love him. I've been so eager to find a man with a big penis that I never considered that it could be such a detriment.

But Greyson doesn't need to worry about hurting me. I love how long and thick he is, and now that I've found him, I just want to roll all over him for the next two months.

Can you believe I'm actually sore this morning? Not unpleasantly so, but in a way my four previous summer flings never made me feel.

This is the way a woman is supposed to feel the morning after great sex. Delightfully achy in her most tender places so that every time she moves she can be reminded of how thoroughly she was fucked the night before.

I passed the Walgreens this morning on the way to the restaurant and had to clench my thighs together as echoes of the orgasm Greyson gave me thundered through my muscle memory. I've been in a perpetual state of arousal all morning. Just thinking about what we did last night got me so wet that I had to change my panties before leaving the house to come here.

By the way, _here_ is Gochet Arlain, an elegant French restaurant that serves the best Sunday brunch in Denver. The most expensive, too.

Jess and I have made Gochet Arlain as much of an annual ritual as my yearly summer fling. Every year, we splurge on the fifty-dollar-per-plate brunch on the morning after my quest to find _the one_ to giggle and start finding faults in the man I've chosen.

Finding faults is critical. Faults make the preordained end-of-summer breakup so much easier. This is the first year I can't think of a single fault after the initial introduction. Not even when I try. With my four previous summer flings, I knew right away what would end them. But I'm genuinely excited to see Greyson again and to find out what the coming weeks hold for us.

But these brunches aren't totally about slicing and dicing Mr. Summer Fling. They're also for fantasizing about what kind of lover he's going to be. Will he make the first move or will I have to? Will he be a good kisser? Will he be good at cunnilingus? Will he be hung enough to please me?

Except for the oral sex, I already know how to answer those questions with Greyson. The first move was mutual, but he definitely spurred things along. He's also an excellent kisser who smells good to boot. And, yes, he's hung like a damn horse. If he goes down as well as he kisses, I'm not sure I'll be able to say good-bye at the end of the summer.

But I have to, so I've got to find a fault with him. He's got to have at least one, and finding it has to become my mission from this point forward.

I check my phone to see if Jess has texted me. She hasn't. Where is she? I'm dying to tell her about my night.

I know I shouldn't kiss and tell like some adolescent, but I can't help it. A girl's gotta have someone to share her bubbly moments with. You know, the moments that make her feel like she's got a belly full of fizz being stirred by dancing butterfly wings. The kind of moments that make a thirty-four-year-old, grown-ass woman who's about to take over her father's company feel like she's still in high school and just had her first orgasm with the most popular boy in her class. The kind of moments that do, in fact, make a woman feel like a girl again. An innocent, wide-eyed, hormone-flooded girl who just lost her virginity.

"Sorry I'm late." A breathless Jess slides into the chair across from me.

She's tousled and windblown, as if she rushed to get there, her long blond hair falling around her face in that oh-so-alluring way that's so Jess.

"Where have you been? I was starting to worry."

Her cheeks turn rosy as she gives me a sly, guilty smile. Uh-oh. I know that look. She's been up to no good. Probably with some guy she picked up at Alesca.

"No," I say, my mouth falling open. "You didn't. Did you?" I'd told her she needed to find a man if I was going to do my summer fling again this year, but I never thought she'd actually do it.

She lets out a quiet squeal and shimmies in her chair as she clutches my hand. "I did!" She squeals again.

Her excitement is infectious, and I laugh and squeeze her hand. "So did I!"

A few nearby patrons turn curiously to see what all the fuss is about. Most smile, but a couple frown. We're disturbing the peace inside Gochet Arlain. Shame on us and our giddy girly parts.

"Ssshhh." I giggle and press the side of my index finger to my pursed lips.

This briefly makes Jess laugh harder. A moment later, she pulls herself together, but her blue eyes are still sparkling as if she could erupt in another fit of giggles any second.

"Who was he?" I say.

"That's just it," she says. "He's one of _your_ guy's friends. Greyson's."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Which one?"

"The one with the mussed-up hair and tawny eyes. Ed." She makes dreamy eyes. "Girl"—she fans herself—"he's good. He's real good." Her expression turns wry. "And your guy? Greyson? Mmmm-mmm, honey. He looked like he had some major demons he was working out this morning."

My heart skips a beat. First of all, how does she know how he looked this morning? Second of all, is the fact that he was working out demons a bad thing or a good one?

"He was there?"

Jess catches the waiter's eye and points to her empty coffee cup with a desperate smile that screams, "Please, I need coffee STAT!"

"We were at his house," she says.

"Whose? Greyson's?"

She nods again. "I guess Ed's staying with him temporarily."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "We were too busy"—she leans across the table and whispers loudly—" _having_ _sex_ to talk about the why."

My face and neck grow hot from embarrassment as a pair of conservatively dressed older women frown at us.

"Jess, _sshhh_." I admonish her with a fierce but brief frown. "You're going to get us thrown out of here."

She giggles. "I'm so glad you made me join you in your manhunt this summer. I think Ed and I are going to have a lot of fun."

She still hasn't told me what she meant abut Greyson's demons, and it's making me antsy. Did he regret what we did last night? Now that he's had a chance to reflect, is he second-guessing himself? Is he second-guessing _me_? I _had_ come off like a two-bit floozy, falling all over him, spreading my legs like an unconscionable slut.

God, I _am_ a whore. Just like Phil said.

I suddenly want to cry. I want to shrivel up and hide in a cave for about a week. How could I have behaved so irresponsibly?

Jess stops laughing, her expression growing serious. "Kate, hey, what's wrong?" She reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Are you okay?"

I bow my head into my free hand and sigh. "Oh, Jess, what have I done?"

Her expression turns from serious to grave. "What do you mean? What have you done?"

Not even ten minute ago, I'd been so excited, but now I'm mortified.

My eyes sting. "I slept with him," I whisper, making sure my whisper is a lot quieter than hers.

Confusion mars her features. "So? Isn't that what these summer flings are about?"

I sniffle and take a deep breath, forcing back my emotions. "I guess so, but now I just don't know."

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows pinch inward, and she bites her lip. "Oh no. Don't tell me he's not packing."

I hesitate as I try to make sense of her reply, and then I let out an abrupt laugh, drawing the attention of the nearby patrons again. "No, no." I wave off her comment. "That's not it at all. Trust me. I can assure you Greyson's packing. He's got enough down south to keep me happy for the rest of my life."

"Then I don't understand. What's the problem?"

"The problem is, I didn't just have sex with him." I lean forward and drop my voice so only she can hear me. "I fucked him. I mean . . . Jesus, Jess, I'm not even sure fucking is a strong enough word for what we did to one another." I glance to the side and lower my voice even more. "I was every bit the whore Phil said I am."

Jess frowns and shakes her head. "Screw Phil and what he said. You are _not_ a whore. There's nothing wrong with having really good sex."

I roll my eyes and scoff. "This was so far beyond what I would call really good sex, Jess. This was hotter-than-the-surface-of-the-sun sex."

"Well, good for you!" She offers me a cheery smile, trying to brighten my spirits. "It's about time, don't you think?"

I smile weakly. "Well, yeah, I guess, but . . ."

"But what?"

"But what if he isn't interested in seeing me again? What if he thinks I'm some desperate, middle-aged hussy who puts out on the first date and isn't worth his time?"

"That's so untrue." Jess pours creamer into her coffee. "First of all, you're not middle-aged. Thirty-four being middle-aged is like saying Seattle never gets any rain." She stirs her coffee then sets her spoon on her saucer. "You're mature, Kate. Mature, as in you're not some know-nothing college girl who's looking for her next sugar daddy, which is something a man like Greyson can appreciate. At least, he looks like a man who appreciates an intelligent, beautiful woman who isn't going to play games with him or pour her honey all over him for his money. And second of all, you're not the type to put out on the first date. For you to do so means there were some major fireworks going off between the two of you."

I appreciate Jess's words of encouragement, but I still feel cheap. "There were definitely fireworks, but after what I did to him last night, I don't think it matters."

"Oh, come on. It couldn't have been that bad."

"Let's just say that putting out barely covers it, and I bet he's thinking I'm some kind of nympho or sex addict or both."

Jess's eyes grow wide. "Oh?" She's obviously curious, but she's also treading carefully, because she can see how fragile my emotions are right now. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I stare into my teacup. "I don't know." I sip my tea and glance over my shoulder. Our server should be back any minute with our brunch. I turn back and eye Jess. Using a measured tone, I say, "When you said he looked like he was exorcising demons this morning, what did you mean?"

Realization sparks in her eyes. "Is that what this is about? Do you think I was saying he looked upset? Like he was having regrets?"

"Well . . . yeah."

She laughs and shakes her head. "That's not what I meant. I was just saying he looked like he had a lot on his mind, but not in a bad way."

"How so?"

"He was coming out of what I'm guessing was his home gym, and he seemed totally absorbed in thought with a grin on his face until he saw me. Oh, and he was covered in sweat. And I mean, glorious, head-to-toe, virile, fuck-me sweat." At least this time she keeps her voice down so we don't draw anymore dirty looks. "And let me just say, Greyson looks good covered in sweat."

"Yeah, I know."

Last night, in the Walgreens bathroom, with his shirt unbuttoned and his heart beating so hard I could see his pulse throbbing on the side of his neck, he'd been coated with perspiration and looked out-of-control sexy. I like sweaty men, so I can't even list that as one of his breakup-worthy faults.

"You know, huh?" An impish grin spreads over Jess's lips. "Really now? Do tell, because this I've gotta hear." She props her elbows on the table and laces her fingers together in front of her chin.

I duck my head and evasively tuck my hair behind my ear. "Well, I, uh . . . I might have seen a little sweat last night."

And then the words begin spilling out of me. As we nibble on crepes filled with the most succulent, sweetest strawberry and rhubarb compote I've ever wrapped around my taste buds, I relay the events of the night before.

Jess hangs on every word, the smarmy, mother-hen grin never leaving her face.

"And he wants to see you again?" she asks once I'm finished.

"That's what he said." I only hope that he hasn't changed his mind.

"When?"

I shrug and take a sip of my orange cream mimosa. "I haven't heard from him, yet. But it hasn't even been twelve hours, so—"

My phone dings with a text.

Jess sucks in an excited breath and leans across the table, glancing at my phone. "Maybe that's him."

I check my messages.

Greyson: Thinking of you, much to the detriment of my work.

Talk about giddy girly parts. Flames lick me between the legs, and a smile lights up my face.

"Is it him?" Jess says with excited curiosity.

I nod and type out a reply.

Katherine: Thinking of you, too. Are you seriously working on a Sunday?

I can't stop smiling. I bite my lip as I set my phone back on the table.

"What did he want?" Jess asks.

"To tell me he was thinking of me."

"And what did you text back?"

"That I was thinking of him, too."

God, we're like sixth-grade girls giggling over the adolescent boys we have crushes on.

My phone dings again.

Greyson: I'd rather be spending the day with you, getting to know you better.

My heart flutters.

Katherine: Is that an invitation?

What is it about Greyson that turns me into such an impassioned flirt? I simply can't help myself with him.

Greyson: Don't tempt me.

Katherine: Just call me the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Greyson: After what we did last night, I'm not sure either of us should be making biblical references.

Katherine: Good point. I still want to tempt you away from your work, though.

Greyson: If only I could. I have a meeting tomorrow and need to prepare. How about Friday? Dinner?

Friday seems so far away, but I'm thrilled he wants to see me again.

"He wants to have dinner with me on Friday," I tell Jess.

Her eyes light up. "You need to wear that little red dress that hits above the knee and—"

"No." I shake my head. "I'm keeping it demure. No more of this having sex like I'm some crazed teenage nympho."

"Like I said earlier, isn't that the whole point of these summer flings? Sex and lots of it, right?"

"Yes, but I'd at least like to get to know him first. We still haven't even exchanged last names." I bob my head sharply as if stamping my decision. "I'm going to have dinner with him, and I'm going to keep my clothes on, and I'm going to get to know him and let him get to know me. I'm going to prove to him that I am a proper lady and that I do know how to behave myself. That I'm not some floozy who can't keep her legs together."

The tableside chef chooses that moment to arrive and make our bananas foster. At least Jess has something to entertain her while I text my reply to Greyson.

Katherine: I'd love to have dinner with you. When and where?

If I meet him, I won't be tempted to invite him in when he takes me home at the end of the date.

Greyson: I can pick you up. Give me your address.

He's going to make this hard, but I'm sticking to my guns.

Katherine: I'd prefer to meet you somewhere.

Greyson: Afraid I might be a serial killer?

Katherine: I just think it would be a better idea to meet you. That way you don't have to take me home, and I don't have to resist asking you inside for a "nightcap."

Greyson: Was last night a "nightcap"?

Oh, he's a smart one, this Greyson. I decide not to answer his question and get right to the point.

Katherine: I want to prove I can behave. Last night was fun, but I don't want you to think I'm easy.

What I really want is to prove I can go an hour without jumping his bones . . . and his very impressive _bone_.

Greyson: Easy is the last thing I think you are.

Before I can reply, I receive another text from him.

Greyson: But I agree. I want to prove I can behave, too. Although that might prove challenging with you.

His text makes me smile.

Katherine: I know the feeling. So tell me when and where.

Greyson: How about the Red Room? Seven o'clock?

The Red Room is an elegant restaurant that serves a variety of multicourse meals. I've been there with a group of friends where the entire meal was comprised of amuse-bouche servings. Twenty-one courses of bite-sized servings followed by a trio of tiny cakes decorated with the flair and panache of modern art.

Once a month, the Red Room closes off half their dining space to serve what's called Meal in the Dark. They shut out all light, and for a couple of hours, your sense of sight is completely useless. You're totally blind and must rely on your sense of touch to eat. I hear it's quite the experience.

Katherine: Sounds lovely. I'll see you then.

I drop my phone in my purse and smile up at Jess.

"Well . . .?"

"We have a dinner date."

"And you're going to play hard to get, aren't you?" Jess critically narrows her eyes and spoons a bite of bananas foster into her mouth.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm breaking the rules."

"Aren't you?" She swirls her spoon inside her brandy snifter full of sweet, melty goodness.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that you're usually all about one thing with these guys, but you're different with Greyson." She tilts her head. "You like him."

"Of course I do."

"No, I mean, you _really_ like him. You're not thinking about keeping this one, are you?"

I gasp. "No, of course not."

"Are you sure? Because there's nothing wrong with that if you are."

I shake my head, digging out a caramel-coated flambéed banana from my glass. "Greyson is no different than the other four men I've done this with." It's such a lie that I'm not even sure _I_ believe it, but I can't make an exception, not even for a man as fine as Greyson. "When Christian and Rose return from spending the summer with Phil, one way or another, I'll be single again."

I see how my kids react to Phil's girlfriend, Mia. I hear the foul tones in their voices when they talk about her. They hate her. They only spend their summers in California because it's the only time they get to see their dad, and he lives in a big enough house they don't have to see much of Mia. But I know they feel like they're infringing on Phil and Mia's relationship while they're there. I don't want them to feel that way during the ten months out of the year they spend with me. That's why I only date in the summer. Because my fall, winter, and spring need to be completely devoted to my kids.

"You know," Jess says, "someday Christian and Rose will go off to college and move out. What will you do then?"

"I guess I'll figure that out when the time comes."

"You don't have to."

"What are you suggesting?"

She shrugs and shakes her head sympathetically. "Kate, a lot of divorced mothers have boyfriends and get remarried. There's nothing saying you have to stay single for your kids."

I gulp down the nibble of ice cream and caramel I just spooned into my mouth. "My kids have already been through enough."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Haven't _you_ been through enough?" She sets down her glass. "I see how you talk about this Greyson guy. I see how your eyes light up. I can tell he's different."

"So?"

"So, maybe you can have more than just a summer with Greyson."

I huff. "I've known him less than twenty-four hours, Jess. Don't go trying to marry me off to him already."

"I'm not. I just think you need to loosen up. I mean, go get him if you want him. And if you continue wanting him at the end of summer, don't let him go. See how he does around your kids. Maybe your kids will like him. If they don't, then you can give him the boot."

She makes it sound so easy, but I know better.

Chapter 10

Monday

Katherine

"Good morning, sweetheart." My dad strolls into my new office—his old one—while I'm still unpacking.

"What are you doing here?" I step forward and hug him. "You should be enjoying your retirement."

He did so well keeping his retirement a secret that his announcement Friday afternoon came as a surprise to the entire office. However, his subsequent announcement that I was succeeding him provided a mixed reaction. Most were pleased. Some didn't seem affected at all. A few reacted with bemusement, as if they weren't sure how to process the chain of command now that Dad was stepping down.

And then there was Phil, who e-mailed what I'm sure he thought was a cute joke.

There goes the company. Congrats on the promotion. I guess it's time to get my résumé in order.

Ass.

But yes, if not for my dad, he would most definitely need to get his résumé updated. I would like nothing more than to hand him his walking papers, but I did promise my dad I wouldn't fire him unless he did something that warranted it.

My dad laughs heartily and lets his gaze travel around the room at the file boxes stacked by the large mahogany desk. "Trying to get rid of me so soon, honey?"

"Of course not. I just thought you'd at least enjoy your first week as a free man before wandering back into the office."

He sits down in the leather wing chair in front of the desk. "When you run a business, you're never truly free, not even when you retire. Now that you're in charge, you'll find that out soon enough."

Something in his tone strikes a chord inside me, and not necessarily a good one. My job before taking over was time-consuming enough. I know what I'm getting into by taking over as CEO, but this is the first time I've ever felt a pang of regret about the extra time I'll be taking away from my kids.

All the more reason to make sure Greyson doesn't become a permanent fixture in my life.

I sit in the rich leather chair behind the desk and gesture toward the stack in my inbox. It's twice as high as it was when I got here this morning. "I already _am_ finding out, Dad."

He grins and nods. "That you are." He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. "But you'll do fine." He waves his fingers at my growing mountain of responsibilities, keeping his face tilted to his phone. "Although . . ." His gaze lifts apologetically to mine. How does my dad still appear so young and playful when he's sixty years old and has a full head of distinguished silver hair? "What I'm about to discuss with you isn't going to make your life any easier. This isn't merely a social visit. You and I have business to talk about."

I prop myself forward and fold my arms over the polished wood of my new desk. I had a feeling there was more to his stopping by than to see how I was getting along on my first day as CEO.

"What's up?" I ask.

"There are a few meetings on my calendar I need you to take in my place." He scrolls his finger up the screen of his phone as if he's perusing his calendar.

I pull up mine, and we begin going through each meeting one by one. Mostly boring stuff. Product line reviews, operational discussions, updates on the Harness technology, and what I call glad-handing meetings, which are meetings intended primarily to keep up relations with customers and vendors. How does anyone get anything done with so many meetings to attend?

We've been discussing his calendar for thirty minutes when my dad sits forward and takes on a more serious air. I immediately straighten, even though I have no idea what caused his change in demeanor.

"Tonight," he says, eyeing his screen, "I was supposed to meet with Mr. James from Rugged." A shadow of emotion I can't pinpoint crosses my dad's face. Reticence? Discomfort? I'm not sure what to make of whatever has caused his unease.

"Rugged?" I know the company, but I have never met Mr. James. Hell, I don't even think I've seen him. He's notoriously private. So much so that I can't even remember his first name, even though I feel like it's right on the tip of my tongue. "What does he want to talk to you about?" I have a feeling I'm not going to like the answer.

My dad tilts his head forward. "I think the question you should be asking is what does he want to talk to _you_ about."

Looks like Dad wants me to take this meeting, too.

"Okay, so what will Mr. James and I be talking about this evening?"

Without preamble, he says, "I suspect he wants to buy the company."

I stiffen. "You aren't planning on selling, are you?"

My dad shakes his head and relaxes. "My job now is to offer my advice and guidance, not make decisions for the company."

"But—"

"Honey, you've been with me since you graduated college. You've helped run Freedom for over ten years. We discussed this. That once I retired, you would be the one making the decisions, not me. You're more than capable. If Rugged wants to buy Freedom, you need to determine if it's in the best interests for the company or not and decide accordingly."

My dad has never been egomaniacal about wielding an iron fist over the company. He put people he trusted in place to make the best decisions, and then he allowed those people to function without him micromanaging them. It was a recipe for success that served him and the company well.

"My time to run this company is over, sweetheart." He tucks his phone into his pocket. "What happens to Freedom is now in your hands."

I cross my arms. "Well, I don't want to sell the company. Mr. James can go screw himself."

My dad laughs. "You've always been a feisty one, Kate. But remember, this is business. It's not personal. Don't make hasty decisions based on personal feelings."

"Are you talking about Phil or Mr. James?"

"Does it matter?"

I sigh and tilt my head to the side. "You make it sound like I should be interested in hearing what he has to say."

My dad makes a face that says that's exactly what he expects. "Rugged is a good company. They're international and could do good things for Freedom, given the right deal." He clears his throat and brushes his palm over his slacks as if clearing away lint, but I see no lint on his pant leg. "Mr. James has done a phenomenal job making Rugged a success."

"Do you know him?" The way he's acting, there is definitely a relationship of some kind between my dad and Mr. James.

My dad smiles tightly. "Not personally."

"But you _do_ know him."

His lips form a thin line, and he checks his watch as if he's late for something. "I should let you get back to work." He plants his hands on the arms of the chair and pushes to his feet. "I have a two o'clock tee time, and I'm keeping you from your inbox." He gestures toward the pile resting at the corner of my desk.

I stand and round the desk. "What aren't you telling me?"

He kisses my cheek. "It's nothing you need to worry about, Katy." He starts for the door.

Whatever my dad knows about Mr. James, I'm going to have to figure it out on my own.

"So, what time is this meeting I'm meant to piss on?" Because no, I will not entertain any discussion about selling the company. Mr. James can suck it.

"Eight o'clock. Gochet Arlain."

"Gochet Arlain is a little over-the-top for a business meeting, don't you think?"

My dad shrugs. "I think he wants to make a good impression."

Mr. James can't make a good enough impression to make me want to sell the company, so he may as well have scheduled the meeting at McDonald's. It would have saved him a lot of money.

For that matter, perhaps I should cancel. After all, it's my meeting now, not my father's.

"Don't cancel," my dad says, as if he's reading my thoughts.

I've never had a good poker face.

I cross my arms. "It's just going to be a waste of time for both of us if I go."

"You still need to go, waste of time or not. Rugged could make a good ally."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just that Rugged isn't the only company interested in acquiring Freedom."

I frown. "Who else is—?"

He cuts me off with a smile and another peck on the cheek. "Don't worry about it right now. Meet with Mr. James, keep your ears open, and don't get wrapped up in making an emotional decision. We'll talk about it this weekend."

His retirement party is this weekend. We didn't plan anything fancy. Dad didn't want a fuss, so we're having a simple, private cookout at his place. Just family and a few close friends.

"Sure, Dad." I hug him. "But don't count on there being a lot to discuss. I won't sell."

He smiles and winks. "We'll see."

Chapter 11

Katherine

I arrive at Gochet Arlain five minutes before eight, feeling completely unprepared. I tried to find fifteen minutes all afternoon to do research on Rugged and Mr. James, but every time I turned around, someone needed something or the phone was ringing. A million and one people called today to congratulate me on being named Freedom's new CEO and to inquire about what my dad was going to do now that he was retired, but all I wanted was to unpack my office and tackle my inboxes—the one on my desk, the one in my e-mail, and the one in my voicemail.

I felt like I spent my afternoon getting further behind rather than getting any real work done. So much for hitting the ground running.

The maître d′ looks up from his podium. "May I help you?"

"I'm here to meet someone. I'm not sure of the name on the reservation, though." I'd forgotten to get that from Dad. "James or—"

"Clayton?" He didn't even have to refer to his reservation list.

Either Mr. James was sucking up, or the maître d′ was just that good. It was probably a little of both.

"Yes, Clayton. I'm a few minutes early, though."

The maître d′ smiles politely as he steps out from behind his podium, expecting me to follow him. "Your party is already waiting for you, Ms. Clayton."

I should have known that the man who wants to buy my company would arrive early. Still doesn't change things. I'm not selling.

I follow the maître d′ from the vestibule through the dimly lit restaurant. Soft yellow candlelight and warm brown tones greet me as we wind our way into the dining area.

It's hard to believe I was just here yesterday, having brunch with Jess, discussing my wild Saturday night with Greyson. If only I were having dinner with him instead of this Mr. James character. But no, I have to wait until Friday for that. In the meantime, I get to boot random, acquisition-happy CEOs away from my company.

I mentally kick myself again for not getting a chance to do research on Rugged and Mr. James. What kind of CEO goes into a meeting without at least looking up the essentials on the person she's meeting with? Such as a first name and his educational background?

And why had Dad thrust this dinner on me at the last second? Surely he could have taken the meeting and relayed to me anything he felt I needed to know or at the very least rescheduled the meeting for later in the week so I could have had time to prepare.

Not that it would have mattered, because whether I meet with Mr. James tonight or next April, I'm not selling Freedom. But at least a few extra days would have given me a chance to learn more about what I was walking into and even the playing field.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down to see a text from Christian. He had his first surfing lesson today, and he's sent me a bunch of pictures. I begin scrolling through them, smiling at how excited he looks on his surfboard, his wet hair hanging in his eyes as he flashes the hang-ten sign at the camera.

Well, at least _he's_ having a good time. I can't say the same for myself.

_________

Greyson

Brent wanted to come with me tonight. He felt it would have been wiser to have my attorney present rather than go it alone in case Robert asks questions of a legal nature. I told him it was too soon for that.

This is only a preliminary meeting, and Robert will be coming alone. I don't want him greeted by a two-man wall of opposition.

I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes early and requested a private table so Robert and I could talk without distractions.

Hopefully this meeting goes well. I don't plan on hitting him head-on with the idea of selling me his company, but rather want to come at this first conversation more indirectly, using tonight to plant a seed of opportunity that Robert will eventually see as a viable course to take for the ultimate success of his company.

Maybe I should have invited his daughter, too. Kate _is_ the one poised to take over once Robert retires, if, as Brent suggested, he's about to do so. Perhaps having them both present would have been a better approach.

Too late now. But the next time Robert and I meet, I'll make sure Kate is involved. It's important for her to be part of the discussion.

The maître d′ appears at the far end of the dining room, and I sit a little straighter when his gaze turns toward my table. It's a few minutes before eight. Robert is as punctual as I expected him to be.

But the person following the maître d′ isn't Robert Clayton. It's a woman. She's wearing black, straight-leg slacks and a sheer black-and-red print blouse over a black camisole. Her hair is swept up and clipped in back, and she's checking her phone.

There's something familiar about her, and my skin instantly prickles. I know her.

I slowly rise, my mind racing. Why isn't Robert here? Who is this beautiful woman being led to my table instead? And why is she so familiar?

Then she looks up.

Our eyes meet.

Everything around me freezes as my lungs lock up, and I nearly fall back into my seat.

It's Katherine.

Yellow-cocktail-dress, swallow-me-down-her-throat, fuck-me-in-the-Walgreens-bathroom Katherine.

Chapter 12

Katherine

The moment my eyes meet Greyson's, I suddenly forget how to walk. The toe of my shoe catches on the tightly woven carpet, and I tip forward, arms flailing.

Greyson leaps from behind the table and catches me, his strong arms clamping around my torso. The next moment, I'm pressed against his body, and his wide, grey-blue eyes are searching my face as if he can't believe I'm there.

I know the feeling. I can't believe he's here, either.

The maître d′ places his hand on my back, jarring me back into the moment. "Are you okay, Ms. Clayton?"

I nod and manage to push myself out of Greyson's arms as I straighten my blouse and check to make sure my hair hasn't fallen out of its clip. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

It's a lie. I'm not fine at all. I'm stunned. I'm speechless. I'm caught in some kind of bad joke with a hundred questions flying through my thoughts all at once. Why is he here? Does my dad know what _Mr. James_ and I did two nights ago? Did he intentionally feed me to the wolves? Am I being punished for "whoring myself" all over Denver? For even entertaining the thought, no matter how briefly, that Greyson might be someone I could have a relationship with past the summer?

"You're Mr. James?" I glance up and down his body, trying to repackage him in this new light. Greyson is Mr. James? Greyson runs Rugged and is the one who wants to buy Freedom Cycle?

"Is everything all right here?" the maître d′ asks, the skin pinching around his eyes as he studies us.

"Yes, yes." Greyson comes out of his own stupor and nods briskly. "We're fine."

The maître d′ looks from Greyson to me then gestures invitingly toward the table. It's a U-shaped corner booth, large enough to comfortably seat four. "Would you like to take a seat, madam?"

I'm not sure. On one hand, this is Greyson, the man who fucked me senseless Saturday night, and I most definitely want to take a seat. On his lap.

On the other hand, this is Mr. James, the man who wants to buy Freedom, and all I want to do is jut out my chin, tell him Freedom isn't for sale, and walk away.

But I promised my dad I wouldn't cancel, so where does that leave me? Nodding and numbly motioning toward the table, that's where.

The maître d′ pulls out the round table so I can slip into the booth, and then gently eases the table back into place after I take a seat on the fine, ebony leather. The cushion is smooth and plush, but not too plush. I don't sink into it the way I would if I were sitting on a couch, but it's comfortable.

With a shallow bow, the maître d′ tells us our server will be with us shortly then retreats to his post at the front of the restaurant.

Greyson quietly slides into the booth across from me, and I stare in bewilderment at him.

"You're Mr. James?" I ask again.

He frowns and presses his lips together. "Yes. Greyson James." The crease in his brow deepens as confusion clouds his eyes. "Are you . . . you're . . . Kate? Kate Kelley?"

_________

Greyson

Katherine squares her shoulders and sets her chin. "I go by Clayton now. I recently changed back to my maiden name."

"It's still listed on your website as Kelley." I'm lucky to be able to speak. This turn of events has definitely thrown me off my game, and my brain is scrambling to catch up.

"Check again, _Mr. James_." She meets my gaze then quickly glances away. "I think you'll find it's been updated."

Weeks ago, right after I returned from New Zealand, when Mike first approached me with the idea of acquiring Freedom Cycle, I visited their website and read up on the history of how Robert started the company and planned to turn it over to his daughter, Kate, someday.

I visited the staff page and perused the bios and head shots of everyone listed, including Kate. But the woman sitting in front of me looks nothing like her head shot. The picture on the website has to be at least five years old. Her hair was a lot shorter, darker, and stick-straight, and she'd had cropped bangs that hung past her eyebrows, covering her forehead and most of her eyelids.

She looks a lot younger and fresher now, her hair long, loose, and wavy, showcasing her face instead of covering it, and it's an appealing shade of reddish brown. Nothing like the gothic black it had been in her picture.

But Katherine is definitely Kate, Robert Clayton's daughter. I'm not sure what she's doing here instead of her father, but I'm going to have to roll with it.

She sighs irritably. "You really need to do a better job doing your homework on the companies you want to buy, _Mr. James_."

Her subtle animosity throws me off guard, as does her awareness of my intentions.

"I did do my research, _Ms. Clayton_ , which should be evidenced by my knowing that, until recently, you went by the name Kelley. How was I supposed to know you were changing it back to your maiden name?" Part of me is glad she did. It proves just how single she is. Women don't typically change their names back after a divorce unless they want to cut all ties with their ex-husbands. In her case, Phil Kelley.

See, I did do my homework on Kate. I know she used to be married to Phil, one of Freedom's top salespeople.

She picks up her cloth napkin and flicks it open before smoothing it over her lap. "Had you done _better_ research, you would have known who I was _Saturday night_." She tosses me a sharp glare.

I'm not sure why she's so angry, but if she wants to play that way, I'll play along. Besides, I kind of like her feisty demeanor. It's a turn-on.

Leaning toward her, I flash my sexiest smirk. "I think I got to know you pretty well Saturday night . . . _Katherine_."

Her gaze drops to my mouth as she sucks in an abrupt breath, and then she quickly looks away, flustered.

Sitting back, I take the chilled bottle of Voss I ordered prior to her arrival and fill her water glass. "You look nothing like your head shot on Freedom's website, Katherine." I place the bottle back on the table. "Or I _would_ have recognized you." At least now I know why I thought she looked familiar Saturday night. "Did you go through a gothic phase a few years ago? What was up with that?"

Her face flushes as her shoulders fall, and I instantly regret my thoughtless remark. I get the distinct feeling she would have preferred I not see her head shot.

"I hate that picture," she says.

"I was only kidding." I offer a smile, trying to make up for my insensitive remark. "It wasn't that bad. A little severe maybe, but not bad."

She inhales sharply and lifts her shoulders as if slapping on her armor once more. "Well, it was updated over the weekend now that I've been promoted."

I'm still trying to shift gears. Trying to understand what just happened and how the woman I'm so hot for—even now my blood is simmering just from her presence—has turned into the daughter of the man whose company I want to buy.

"Promoted?" Did this mean that her father had already stepped down?

"Yes, didn't you hear? My father retired Friday." She lifts her chin and squares her shoulders, recovering from her embarrassment. "I was officially named Freedom's new CEO this morning."

I hadn't heard. Why hadn't Brent called to inform me? Does he even know? How is this happening right now? I don't like going into meetings without all the facts.

"Don't feel bad about not knowing," she adds haughtily. "Our employees didn't even know. We did a good job keeping it a secret."

That they did.

Clearing my throat, I smooth my hand over my tie and take a sip of water, trying to catch up to the events that have sent this meeting's train off its tracks at supersonic speed.

"Congratulations." I set my water glass down. "I—"

"You can forget about buying my company and tearing it apart," she says pointedly.

This meeting is breaking down faster than a sand castle at high tide, and, like a ribbon of fog, I can't seem to wrap my hands around it and pull it back under control. And why the hell is she so pissed at me? I didn't intentionally lie to her about who I was Saturday night, and I certainly don't want to dismantle Freedom, unlike Star Rider, who would love nothing more than to put everyone at Freedom out of a job.

"If you would just listen to what I have to say, Katherine—"

"Why? What would be the point? I'm not selling my father's company, Greyson, no matter how good in bed you are." Color flushes her cheeks again, and I know she didn't mean to say that last part out loud.

"Actually, you haven't seen how good I am in a bed."

Her face shades an even deeper shade of red as she shifts awkwardly in her seat and fiddles with her napkin. "Well . . . whatever then."

My body responds at the memory of what we did only two nights ago. At how scorching hot we were together, both in the back of my SUV and inside that Walgreens bathroom. But this isn't the time or place for me to be thinking about that, even though my dick thinks it's the perfect time. Blood is already rushing into it.

"Katherine—"

"Good evening." Our server interrupts me, and I push back involuntarily, my eyes shooting to his. "Have you had a chance to review the wine list, sir?"

I shake out the electric haze Katherine's presence has created inside my head and skim the cream-colored card the maître d′ set on the table when he seated me. "Yes, uh . . ." I glance at Katherine. "Does the Stonestreet Chardonnay sound good to you?"

Her eyebrow arcs curiously, as if she can't believe I'm still going to order when she's so flatly shut me down. I get the feeling she thought I wouldn't want to continue the meeting once she put her foot down so hard about selling. She doesn't know me very well if she thinks I'll give up that easily. She might have caught me off guard, and I might need to retrace a few steps to get back on track, but once I set my mind to something, I'll stay at it and do whatever it takes until I've exhausted every means necessary to obtain it.

She issues a subtle nod at my choice of wine.

I tell the server to bring the bottle. I have a feeling Katherine and I are going to need it to get through this dinner.

When he departs, I say to her, "The Stonestreet Chardonnay is a neutral wine. It will pair nicely with whatever you decide to order."

She sighs and sets her black satin pocketbook on the table. "You still want to go through with this dinner? Even after I've told you I'm not, under any circumstances, entertaining the idea of selling the company to you or anyone else?"

The train is slowly correcting itself and coming back under my control. I've put her on her heels ever so slightly, which gives me an opening—although a small one—to press my advantage. "Of course, why not?"

"I just thought—"

"Katherine, I think you've misunderstood my intentions here this evening."

"What? You don't want to buy my father's company?" Even as she says it, a slight smile plays over her lips. As if she can't quite help herself from finding this situation the tiniest bit amusing.

Like me, she seems to be pulling herself back under control, too. Back to the woman I met Saturday night. But unlike Saturday night, she's infinitely more interesting now. Not only is she a savvy businesswoman, but she's the CEO of the company I've set my sights on, which makes these negotiations a lot more fun, and her a lot sexier.

"There are many ways to buy a company," I say, holding her gaze.

She doesn't waiver. "Really? Which way allows the seller to retain ownership? Because that's the only way you're going to get your hands on my dad's company."

I grin. Something about Katherine the CEO, who takes no prisoners and lets no man walk all over her during business negotiations, makes my blood boil even hotter than it did Saturday night when she was negotiating me into fucking her in a bathroom. My dick is actually getting harder with each barb we trade.

What can I say? Intelligent, confident women excite me.

The server arrives with our bottle of Chardonnay, sets two polished glasses in front of us, and fills them halfway before placing the bottle in the ice bucket he set beside the table. He looks from Katherine to me expectantly. "May I suggest either the stone crabs or the brown butter tagliatelle for an appetizer this evening?" His gaze travels back to Katherine.

Her eyes meet mine. "What would you suggest?"

It almost sounds like a challenge, but a playful one.

I tear my gaze from hers and glance up at our server. "The tagliatelle, please." Right now I'd eat saltines if it meant staying in Katherine's presence.

"Very good, sir. And for your entrees?"

Katherine hasn't even looked at the menu and quickly scans it. Gochet Arlain isn't the type of restaurant to have fifty dishes on their regular menu. They offer only a handful of exquisitely designed dishes for each course as if they want to focus on making those few items the absolute best. Whatever their reason for limiting their menu, their formula works. Gochet Arlain has been one of Denver's finest restaurants since it opened eight years ago.

Katherine finishes perusing the handful of entrees. "The seared scallops, please."

"And I'll have the black bass." I collect Katherine's menu with mine and hand them over.

With an elegant flourish, our server takes the menus and nods, and then he's gone.

I meet Katherine's fiery brown eyes again. She's even more beautiful tonight than she was Saturday. The yellow dress was lovely on her, but the black-and-red blouse, with only the top two buttons demurely unfastened to reveal a hint of skin, is even lovelier. More understated. I get the sense this is more Katherine's normal look than that slinky cocktail dress.

"You look nice."

She angles her head away from me, narrowing her eyes. "Smooth talk isn't going to change my mind, Greyson."

I laugh. "I'm not smooth talking you. I'm paying you a compliment." I lean toward her. "The polite thing would be to say thank you."

She briefly presses her lips together then smiles benignly. "Thank you." Her fingers play over the side of her glass as her eyes quickly scan from my face to my chest then glance away. "You look nice, too."

It's an awkward moment. Before tonight, things were a lot simpler between us. I knew her first name, and she knew mine. Other than that, the extent of what we knew about each other was that we had off-the-charts sexual chemistry. The kind of sexual chemistry two people could build a life around, because sex wouldn't be that good unless we were compatible in other, more important ways.

At least, that's what I want to believe.

Why does she have to be Freedom's CEO? That throws a fucked-up wrench into my whole plan. How can I sleep with the woman I'm negotiating with to buy her company? And how can I buy the company of the woman I'm sleeping with?

We've only had sex one time, but in my mind, I've already got the next month with her planned out, starting with Friday night at the Red Room. I'll be honest, I've planned a lot of sex in that month. Maybe not for Friday night, but definitely soon thereafter.

Now I have to rethink everything.

"I'm as surprised at this turn of events as you are, Katherine. I had no idea you even worked for Freedom, let alone that you were Robert's daughter."

She sighs. "So you had no idea Saturday night that I was . . . well . . . who I am? You weren't trying to lure me in or anything?"

Does she really think my time with her Saturday night was part of some greater plot to compromise her position within the company and persuade her to make a deal with me? "No. Absolutely not." I want to reach across the table and take her hand, but I don't. "I had no idea who you were until you showed up here this evening."

She sighs, nods in understanding, then stares into her wine glass. After a short pause, she groans and closes her eyes as she covers her face with her hand. "Oh my God. Saturday night. You must think I'm some kind of slut." She avoids my gaze and makes an uncomfortable sound that's a cross between a groan and a chuckle.

This time I do take her hand. I peel it away from her face and wrap it inside mine. "Actually, I think you're some kind of amazing." And there it is again, that same connection I felt with her Saturday. The invisible burn that links me to her in a carnally supernatural way and makes me want to do naughty things with her in nice places.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, come on."

"No, really." I stroke her knuckles with my thumb, and it's like I've struck two pieces of flint together to create a spark. She pulls in her breath as her gaze falls to our joined hands. "I've never known a woman like you. That hasn't changed now that I know who you are."

She drags her gaze back to mine and searches my face. "I've never done anything like that. Like what we did . . . you know . . . Saturday . . ."

"Me neither." I grin as I feel her fingers tighten around mine. "But it _was_ pretty liberating, wasn't it?"

She laughs. "I was thinking more along the lines of unbelievably reckless."

"Reckless and liberating are practically the same thing."

"I know a lot of people who would disagree with you."

"So do I, but they aren't me. They aren't _us_."

Warmth emanates from her expression. "What are you saying? That what most people would consider reckless is merely liberating for us?"

"Something like that." I gaze at her for a heartbeat then reluctantly pull my hand from hers, taking us back to neutral ground. "At least, that sounds better." I hate the absence of her touch, but the connection is still there. It's strong and magnetic, making my blood heat in the most arousing way. How am I going to get through this dinner without wanting to kiss her? Or more?

"So, Katherine, maybe you should start by telling me why you're here instead of your father?" I simply can't call her Kate, which doesn't do her justice. To me, she's Katherine, which sounds so much more refined and distinguished. Kate sounds like the name of an intern, not a CEO.

She wraps her fingers around the base of her wine glass as if she needs something to do with her hand now that I'm no longer holding it. "Like I said, he retired Friday."

"But he could have cancelled or called to let us know we needed to reschedule with you."

She shakes her head, her expression light. "He told me this afternoon that he wanted me to take the meeting in his place. Granted, I didn't think I'd be meeting _you_."

I fold my hands one over the other and lean toward her. "What was that you were saying about doing your research?"

She rolls her eyes and smirks. "Hey, my dad just sprung this meeting on me a few hours ago, and I had a lot to do now that I'm taking over, so I'm doing well just to be here."

"Are you disappointed? I mean, to find out the meeting was with me?"

Her eyes dart to mine, and she only hesitates for a second before saying, "No." She blows out an abrupt, amused breath. "Thrown off, yes, but not disappointed." Her gaze softens as it holds mine. "But I should be, knowing the nature of this meeting."

The message is clear. After what we shared two nights ago, disappointment at seeing one another again isn't even remotely near the top of her list of reactions to my being here.

I grin. "At least now I know your last name."

She laughs quietly. "True." She glances down at her glass of wine, studying it briefly. "I feel a little silly."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't know who you were when I met you. I feel like I should have known. We're in the same industry. How _didn't_ I know?"

I smirk as I lift my wine glass. "And once again, I'm inclined to remind you that _you're_ the one who criticized _me_ for not doing better research on _you_."

She holds up her hand and nods impatiently, but with a chagrined smile on her face. "Okay, okay. You've made your point. But in my defense, I'm not the one looking to buy _your_ company. I don't need to do as much research on you as you do on me, especially when I didn't even know I'd be coming here until this afternoon."

I chuckle and shift in my seat, getting more comfortable. "I'm only teasing, Katherine. I tend to stay out of the public eye, so I'm not surprised you didn't recognize me."

Our server returns with our appetizer and places the small oval platter between us, along with two small plates. I start building a plate for her. "But my company _is_ competition. You should always know your competition." I pass her a plate of tagliatelle. Whole shrimp are generously laced within the savory noodles.

"But you're not _direct_ competition."

"We're close enough."

She rolls her eyes and laughs again. "You're as bad as Jess. She's always busting my balls, too."

"Women don't have balls to bust."

She swirls noodles around her fork and tosses me a flirtatiously flippant glance. "They're called lady balls. Only the toughest bitches have them."

I lean intimately across the table so she's forced to meet my gaze. "Why can't I see you as a tough bitch?"

Her eyebrows shoot into her forehead as she leans over her plate, mimicking me. "You just haven't gotten to know me well enough, yet."

"Then maybe I should."

"What? Now?"

"We're here, aren't we?" I rock back and twirl pasta around my fork, eyeing her. "Why not?"

She relaxes and sets down her fork to take a drink of wine. "I thought we were here to discuss you buying Freedom."

I shrug while taking another buttery bite of my appetizer. "Since you brought it up, I'll admit I think our two companies could be great together. Freedom has an incredible presence in the bicycle market, which Rugged would love to have, and Rugged has a strong global presence, which Freedom needs to take the next step in their growth. And as I already mentioned, unlike Freedom's other potential suitor, Star Rider—"

"Star Rider wants to buy Freedom, too?"

I hold up my hand. "They haven't officially thrown their hat in the ring, but my attorney has connections, and they're definitely building an offer. But"—I take another bite of my appetizer—"as I was saying, unlike Star Rider, I have no interest in dismantling your company. Other than rearranging a few chains of command, I want to leave Freedom's infrastructure intact. In fact, my plan involves _adding_ personnel and creating new positions so that redundant personnel can remain with the company." I give her a moment to process what I've said. "In my opinion, Katherine, joining our companies is the perfect marriage. Not only would it protect you from another company who simply wants to steal the results of your and your father's hard work, but it would be a win-win for both of us. If it wasn't, I wouldn't have even considered the idea." I wash down my pasta with a swallow of wine. "But you've already made it clear you don't want to sell, so what else is there to talk about? If your mind is set, why not use tonight to get to know each other better?"

I've planted the seed. That's all I wanted to do with this meeting. I just thought I'd be doing it with her father.

The truth is, I won't back down. Not where my desire to buy Freedom Cycle is concerned, and not where my desire to learn more about her is concerned, either.

Brent would tell me not to mix business with pleasure. That getting involved with Katherine while I'm trying to buy her company is a terrible idea. A horrible idea. Disastrous in every way imaginable.

But when does an adrenaline junkie like me walk away from a risk?

I jump out of perfectly good airplanes and plummet to the earth at two hundred miles per hour, for Christ's sake. Mixing business with pleasure is small potatoes.

And why would I walk away from Katherine? I've searched my whole adult life for a woman like her. I'm not going to stop seeing her just because of a little thing like mergers and acquisitions.

She quietly bites into a piece of shrimp, eyeing me with curious skepticism, as if she doesn't quite believe I'm willing to give up the chase. She also appears to be somewhat intrigued for the first time since this awkward business meeting started, as if she actually wants to hear more about my interest in her company.

But I'm done talking business for the evening. For the rest of the night, it's all about her and me. I want to know more about Katherine than just her last name, where she works, and that she's the damn sexiest woman I've ever met.

_________

Katherine

As Greyson spelled out the general points of his plan to buy Freedom, I became suddenly aware of just how delicious he looks tonight. He's wearing a tailored navy blue suit with a matching tie patterned with tiny, fleur-de-lis over a light-blue shirt with a white collar.

I was right Saturday night. He does look as good in a suit as he does in a shirt and slacks. I bet he'd look even more delectable in a pair of hiking shorts and a T-shirt . . . or wearing nothing but beach shorts and a tan.

When I walked in and realized he was Mr. James, I didn't know what to think or even what to do. My body lit up like Fourth of July fireworks when his eyes met mine and the memories of Saturday night rocketed through me.

But I also felt betrayed.

Not by him, but by life. What are the odds that I would meet this incredible, sexy man who can please me like no other, and then find out two days later that he's some business mogul who wants to buy my company? It made me angry, and I didn't waste any time during the first five minutes of our meeting to let him know that.

But now I've calmed down, and so has he, and anger has turned to curiosity. He hinted at his reasons for wanting to buy Freedom, and I'll admit I'm intrigued, mostly because it doesn't sound like Greyson wants to break up the company or completely take it over like I assumed. It sounds more like he's interested in a partnership where the owning interest is his but the operations and control would remain mine.

Freedom has been trying to break into the international market for years but has never been able to gain enough traction. Now, here comes Greyson, who seems to want to use his company's international presence to boost ours.

"What's the catch?" I ask, pushing my empty plate aside.

"What do you mean?" he replies, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times.

"Why do you want to buy Freedom so badly? Is it because of Harness?" I imagine a lot of companies would love to get their hands on that technology.

"No more business tonight," he says, keeping his eyes on his phone.

"But—"

"You said you weren't interested in selling, so let's not spend any more time discussing it."

"I know what you're trying to do, Greyson."

He sets his phone down. "What am I trying to do?

"You're using reverse psychology on me. Trying to make me think you're not interested now when, really, you're more interested than ever. You have no intention of letting up on this."

His right eyebrow quirks upward with amusement. "You might be right about that, Ms. Clayton, but what I'm really trying to do—at least for the rest of the evening"—he looks up from his phone and locks gazes with me—"is get to know you better."

"I thought you wanted to talk about how our two companies would make the perfect marriage."

"Not anymore." He scoots a little closer on the leather seat and taps the side of his phone so it spins around where I can see it.

I lean to the side and read what's on his screen. "'Fifty Questions to Ask to Get to Know Someone?'" I glance up at him after reading the title of the article he's pulled up. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"Can't you come up with your own questions?"

He grins and taps the screen of his phone again as he rotates it back toward him. "Sure I can, but these questions are a lot more fun to ask, and probably more fun to answer, too."

I stare dubiously at his phone. Tonight was supposed to be about business. That was until my meeting turned out to be with Greyson. Now I'm not sure what we should be discussing. I'm fairly certain going down a personal path with someone interested in acquiring Freedom is a bad idea, but I'm not convinced I can stop myself.

"Look, Katherine." He takes my hand in both of his. "I've laid out my rough proposal regarding our two companies. Once you've had a chance to think about it, if you're interested in hearing more, we'll set up another meeting to discuss the details. But right now, I don't want to talk about my company or your company or any company at all. I want to talk about you."

He searches my eyes, and I'm drawn in as deeply as I was at Alesca the moment I saw him. I don't know if there are forces at work in the universe that demand I be attracted to him, if meeting him was nothing more than a coincidence, or if he's putting off a personal brand of pheromones that makes it as impossible for me to walk away from him as it does for an addict to walk away from heroin. Whatever it is about Greyson James that stirs not just my attraction but my passion, I want more of it.

Surrendering, I glance toward his phone then meet his eyes. "Okay, Mr. James. What do you want to ask me first?"

_________

Greyson

She's waiting, watching me expectantly, her eyes shimmering fiery brown in the dim candlelight from the table's centerpiece. A hidden sense of adventure sparkles in their depths.

I smile and glance down at my phone, but the first question I want to ask isn't on the list I pulled up.

I look back up and drink in her stunningly beautiful smile. It's time to reveal the layers that make us who we are. Time to learn who the other is. Time to see if what we found Saturday night was real and worth pursuing or just a passing fancy. After all, a relationship can't be built on sex alone. There needs to be more to it than that if it's going to last.

"Did you always want to follow in your father's footsteps and take over the company someday?"

The question comes from a personal place inside me. One that sometimes feels guilty that I didn't follow in my father's footsteps. My dad was not only a miracle worker with cars, but also an artist. Maybe my guilt stems from the fact that I knew I could never live up to his talent, so I chose to make my own path. But not only is Katherine's father still alive, she's also taking up his legacy in a way I never got the chance to with my dad.

"When I was a little girl, I actually wanted to be a surgeon when I grew up."

"A surgeon? That's quite an aspiration for a little girl."

Coy flirtation dances over her face. "I wasn't your average little girl."

"Somehow I totally believe you." She's an above-average woman, and—in my own way—I'm an above-average man. I'd say we're a match.

"My mom's favorite TV show when I was growing up was _ER_ ," she says. "I remember us watching that show together faithfully every week. I thought it was so exciting and fascinating how they brought in patients and the doctors performed miracles, saving them, and I just knew that's what I wanted to do when I grew up."

"What type of surgeon did you want to be?"

"Heart," she says without hesitation. "There was this episode during _ER's_ first season where a patient needed a heart transplant or he wouldn't survive the night. I decided right then that I wanted to be a heart surgeon."

"What happened? Why didn't you?"

She shrugged. "I grew up." Her long fingers curl around the base of her wine glass. "I learned how much schooling I would need to become a doctor, let alone a surgeon. And after doing more research, being a surgeon wasn't as exciting as I thought. That was my first lesson in how Hollywood dresses up reality so that it looks more glamorous than it really is."

"Hollywood has a way of doing that." I give her a teasing wink when she glances up at me. "It tricks innocent children into thinking life is a lot prettier than it is."

The corner of her mouth quirks. "Are you making fun of me, Mr. James?"

I take her hand, and she folds her fingers over mine as she inches closer on the leather seat. "I wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Clayton."

"So what else do you want to know about me?"

For the next hour and a half, we work through the list of questions, which makes us laugh more than anything, eat our fancy dinner, share an opulent dessert of chocolate cake so decadent it's fit for royalty, and drain the last of the bottle of wine into our glasses.

"So, what's your favorite color?" I ask, taking a break from the list of questions on my phone.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"My mood. The season." She smiles and brushes her hand in the air. "The direction the wind is blowing." She winks and gestures toward my suit. "Let me guess, _your_ favorite color is blue."

I glance down, smoothing my hand down my lapels. I'm wearing blue on blue on blue.

I grin sheepishly. "Normally, I would say yes, but blue hasn't been my friend for the past couple of days."

A cute little _V_ forms above the bridge of her nose as her eyebrows scrunch. "Why? What happened?"

"Nothing happened." I lower my voice and lean closer. "It's just that blue balls aren't very comfortable."

She nearly spits out her wine as she bursts into laughter. We're both tipsy, and it shows.

I kick back in my seat and lift my glass, swirling the last bit of my wine. "You laugh," I tease, "but blue balls are nothing to laugh at. I was in a lot of distress."

She dabs her cloth napkin under her eyes. "I'm sure you were." She continues giggling.

"But yeah, that's why blue isn't my favorite color today."

She sighs as the last of her giggles evaporate. "I hope I'm not the reason for your blue balls."

I only smile and sip my wine, holding her gaze.

Realization surfaces in her eyes. "Oh."

Grinning slyly, I slide closer on the cushioned seat. "Don't worry, I prevented the worst of it. But damn, Katherine, you've given me a lot to think about the past two days. Not that I'm complaining. I like thinking about you. It's just distracting when I'm trying to work."

Her cheeks flush red, and she touches the tips of her fingers to the skin at the base of her neck as she averts her gaze. "I'll try not to do anything tonight to make your _predicament_ worse." She glances up at me out of the corners of her eyes.

I drape my arm over the back of the cushion behind her and meet her wry smile with one of my own. "It's too late for that, Katherine. It was too late the moment you walked in the door. I'll be thinking about you the rest of the week now."

She drops her gaze, her face flushed, her smile both contemplative and awkward. She's rattled, and I can see her arousal mounting both by the way she nibbles the inside of her bottom lip and the way her chest rises and falls more heavily.

"Greyson James," she says slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to distract herself. She's sitting so close now that her leg is pressed against mine. "You have a strong name. It rolls nicely off my tongue."

Hearing my name purr out of her works better at turning me on than if she'd licked the side of my neck.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I think Katherine Clayton rolls nicely off mine." The double entendre is intended, and from the way she bites her bottom lip as she angles her face toward me, I know she picked it up.

And that's when I know.

Despite my plans to behave tonight, I'm going to do something careless. Something foolish. Something undeniably reckless.

Something liberating.

_________

Katherine

My face heats as I decipher the double meaning to his words. I would very much like to be rolling off his tongue right now. Or rather, I would like his tongue rolling over me. I have yet to experience that particular pleasure from him outside my fantasies. But I have no doubt that his tongue will be just as masterful on my lady parts as his impressive cock.

It's suddenly too hot in the restaurant, and I give him an over-the-shoulder look that I'm sure is sending all kinds of fuck-me signals. As in, fuck me in this booth, fuck me on the table, fuck me on the floor, and fuck me against the wall next to that impressive, silver-framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower.

I shouldn't have had so much wine. It's impaired my judgment, and I can feel myself slipping further into lust's clutches. Gochet Arlain's atmosphere doesn't help. The candlelit centerpieces on each table create tiny, intimate pockets. Private bubbles where diners can feel like they're in their own closed-off world. Greyson and I are in ours, and we're creating our world as we go.

He touches my hair again, and his fingertips brush across my neck, sending electric shockwaves through my body, all of which converge between my legs. I don't dare look at him, or I'll melt into a puddle of need with only one cure. Sex. And not just any sex. Sex with him. Sex with Greyson.

And, God, I would prefer not to have sex with him again tonight. I mean, sure, having sex with him would be fantastic, especially given how things went with him Saturday, but I would _really_ like to prove to him that I can behave like a lady. Dropping onto my back and pulling him between my legs isn't very ladylike.

A moment of lucidity somehow finds its way back into my consciousness. Probably because all kinds of warning signals are going off in my body. If we don't back away from this line of conversation, I'm going to end up flat-backed on the table with my legs wrapped around his hips as he fucks me blind in front of God and everyone.

"You know, I promised myself I wouldn't get carried away the next time I saw you."

He blinks and pulls back a fraction, awareness alighting in his eyes as if he's coming back into himself, too. "So did I." He smooths his hand over his tie then straightens his suit jacket.

"Not that I don't like where our conversation was going," I say with a smile, "but maybe if we stick to the questions on your list, we'll stay on safer ground."

"Right." He clears his throat and loosens his tie as he picks up his phone. "Good idea."

From the bulge in his trousers, he's as aroused as I am, and I'm reminded of how all that flesh felt inside me.

I have a bad feeling I'll be breaking my promise to myself before the night is over, but I'm going to at least try to see it through.

He scrolls through the questions on his phone. "Ah, here's a good one. If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?" His eyes meet mine.

I bite my bottom lip and let my gaze travel down his body and back up. "I kind of like my present company."

He's breathing harder than he was earlier, and his eyelids are heavier. "I could say the same thing." He surveys my face. "But if you were to have dinner with someone other than me—anyone in the world—who would it be?"

I'm struggling to think of anyone _but_ him, but I manage to come up with a name. It's the first one that pops into my mind, but only because I was singing along to "Walk this Way" on the way to the restaurant.

"Steven Tyler."

"Of Aerosmith?"

"Yes."

"Why him?"

"Honestly, he's the first person I thought of." I laugh, and he laughs with me. "But he's so interesting, don't you think? He's funny and honest and doesn't pull punches. How refreshing would dinner with him be?"

"I like your choice." His arm is resting on the cushion behind me again, and the tips of his fingers are slowly brushing back and forth on my shoulder. "I saw this video of him a few weeks ago where he was standing in a crowd watching a street performer who was singing his song . . ." He frowns and snaps his fingers as if trying to recollect a memory. "What's that song he did for that movie, the one with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck?"

"'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing' from _Armageddon_?"

"That's the one," he says. "Anyway, he's standing in the crowd and this street performer is performing his song, totally oblivious that Steven Tyler is right there, watching him. After about a minute, Steven walks up to the guy and starts singing with him. Poor guy was shocked to hell. Looked like he didn't know what was happening." He lifts his glass as if he's making a toast then brings it to his mouth for a quick sip. "I mean, here's this superstar rock singer, and he's just out doing whatever and takes the time to stop and listen to some kid on the street singing his song, and then he joins him, singing a duet with the guy. How incredible, right? Not many public figures with his popularity would do something like that."

I nod. "He seems really down to earth, but in a larger than life kind of way. That's why I think he'd make the perfect dinner companion. It'd be like spending a couple of hours with a star about to supernova."

He throws his head back and laughs, and the full, rich sound rolls over me like ocean surf. Not calm surf, either. More like the kind surfers brag about. Big waves worth riding like the watery stallions they are.

And I would definitely classify Greyson as a stallion.

"What about you?" I ask. "Who would you want to have dinner with?"

His laughter fades, and a note of sadness touches the outer corners of his eyes. "My father."

The way he says it is almost a cry of despair spoken on a whisper, and I instantly know his father is dead. This conversation just took a grim turn, and my heart breaks a little at the somber line of his mouth and the look of loss that sets up shop in his expression.

I lay my hand over his wrist, and he lifts his gaze to mine.

"He died when I was fifteen," he says in explanation.

Offering him a sympathetic smile, I slide my palm over the back of his hand. "I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"He was my hero."

Part of me wants to ask for more. How did he die? What happened to him?

I can tell there's a deeper story here than Greyson's telling, but I've known him less than forty-eight hours. I'm not entitled to such private memories yet, especially ones that are as obviously painful as his father's death seems to be.

He smiles and turns his hand over to knit our fingers together. "What about you? Are you close to your father?"

It's a clear attempt to change the subject, but I don't object. I know if it were my dad who died, I'd be devastated, and I doubt I'd ever feel comfortable talking about it.

"Yes." Fondness wraps around my heart. My dad and I are very close. I'm what you might refer to as a daddy's girl. "He was my hero growing up, too. Still is, really." A private smile engulfs my face as I recall all the special moments I shared with my dad, and I relax into the leather seat, crossing my legs as I angle my body toward Greyson.

"Do you have any favorite memories with him?" he asks.

"Fishing."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

I pretend to be affronted. "Is it so surprising to learn I enjoyed fishing with my dad?"

He scoots closer. "Very surprising . . . but hot." He winks. "A woman who knows how to tie an arbor knot is so sexy."

I laugh. "Don't get too excited. I was horrible at knot tying. In fact, I don't even know what an arbor knot is." But the fact that he does confirms that he's more of an outdoorsman than I originally thought.

His fingers grip mine more securely. "An arbor knot is used to tie your fishing line to the spool. I'll teach you how to tie one sometime"

"Don't get your hopes up. My dad tried for five years to teach me how to tie fishing knots before giving up. For some reason, I could never grasp it. No matter how hard I tried, I was a colossal failure." I shoot him a playfully sardonic look. "The only knot I'm any good at tying is the one that keeps my sneakers on my feet."

His warm, attentive smile hits me deep in my belly. He really does have a nice smile. A genuine smile. One that's infectious and speaks of compassion and a kind heart.

So far, Greyson isn't cooperating with my quest to find any faults with him.

"Did you and your dad go fishing a lot?" he asks.

I nod. "One summer, we went fishing almost every other weekend." That was the summer after Mom died. We'd both needed the time away.

"Are you saying that after all that practice, you never learned how to tie a knot?" He's teasing me.

"What can I say? I'm fishing knot challenged." I take a quick sip of wine, pushing aside thoughts of my mom. "Let me put it this way. If the world were in jeopardy of total annihilation, and humanity's survival relied on me being able to tie a fishing knot, the human race would perish."

Once more, his rich laughter rings out, and it fills me with warmth the way Christmas carols fill me with the holiday spirit.

He turns to face me and props his elbow on top of the seat cushion then rests the side of his head against his hand, watching me. "Why hasn't someone gobbled you up already?"

His words wash over me like a refreshing breeze. He sounds as if he can't believe he's fortunate enough to have this chance with me.

"Someone did . . . once."

"Your ex-husband." He appears curious but unfazed. "Phil."

I'm not surprised he knows about Phil since he knew my married name was Kelley.

I nod. "I met him in college."

"And he let you go?" There's a hint of jealous concern in his voice.

I stare into the last inch of wine in my glass. The bottle is already empty. "Actually, _I_ let _him_ go. After what he did to me, I couldn't stay with him."

Greyson's head tilts more sharply as he studies me. "I can already see where _this_ is going."

I swallow the last of my wine then set my empty glass aside. "I probably should have known what was going on," I say, "but I was a lot more trusting when I was younger. By the time I learned he was cheating on me, the affair had been going on for almost two years. I felt like such a dummy."

"You're not a dummy."

"Just blind."

He issues an exasperated huff. "You're not responsible for your ex-husband's infidelity."

"But I feel like I should have known."

He places his free hand over mine. "Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, Katherine. Once you know the truth, it's easy to look back and say his cheating should have been obvious, but we have to go by what we know when we know it. In real time. We don't get the luxury of foresight in the present moment. Besides, when someone wants to sneak around behind your back, they can be very convincing." He sighs then says quietly, "The best cheaters usually are."

I'm grateful for his kind, reassuring words.

Even though it's been over six years since I found out about Phil's extramarital escapades, I still feel as though I'm partly to blame. Maybe not for causing him to cheat, but for not catching on sooner. The pattern was there. Every time he traveled to Los Angeles, which was at least once a month, he rarely called. When he made trips to Seattle, San Francisco, Phoenix, and every other city on the West Coast, he called every night. Now I know he only did that to keep up appearances. Los Angeles was the only trip where he maintained radio silence.

Then there were the text messages he received at nine o'clock at night. Messages he claimed were from his boss. But men don't generally smile like adolescent boys about to get lucky with the head cheerleader when they're texting their bosses.

I'd been so blind. But Greyson is right, it wasn't my fault. Phil was very convincing. I'd loved him, and part of loving is trusting. Being faithful is also part of loving, but Phil couldn't live up to his end of our marital vows.

"I hate adultery," Greyson says almost absently, but despite his quiet tone, the words snap out of his mouth like rocks from a slingshot. "It's probably the only thing I can truly say I hate."

Looks like I'm not the only one who's been affected by infidelity.

I turn my hand over and secure it around his. "I couldn't agree with you more."

He smiles, and the gesture appears as victorious as I feel. But there's more to it than that. I sense hope in his smile. As if he's ticking items off his own mental checklist of the perfect woman while I'm still searching to find a fault in him.

Does he even have any faults?

For the first time since starting these annual summer flings, I consider that maybe I don't want to find any faults this time around. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . the end of summer will come and I still won't have a reason to break up with him.

But I have to. That's the way these flings are supposed to work. That's the promise I made to myself.

A fault will present itself. It always does.

Chapter 13

Greyson

It's after ten o'clock. We've been at Gochet Arlain over two hours, but I have no desire for the night to end.

The conversation has flowed more easily than I expected it to. There's something comfortable about Katherine that makes talking to her easier than pulling on my favorite sweatshirt. There hasn't been a single quiet or awkward moment between us since we moved past the business part of tonight's dinner.

We ate, we laughed, we toasted to the Broncos' next season. Turns out she's a football fan, too.

During the main course, she shared one of her scallops with me, and I fed her a bite of my bass. The food was succulent, the courses light but satisfying. We decided to share a piece of chocolate cake for dessert, and she devoured almost two-thirds. I loved that she wasn't afraid to eat like that in front of me. Most women refuse to eat even an ounce of confection for fear of putting on unwanted pounds, so the fact that she ate dessert with gusto pleases me.

But as close as I've felt to her all night, it doesn't compare to the connection I feel with her now. Learning that her ex-husband cheated on her opened up a whole new dimension of our fledgling relationship. One I can relate to. I understand the pain a cheating spouse can create, and that forms a tighter bond between us.

She smiles and picks up my phone, swiping the screen to bring up the list of questions again. "Okay, speed round. Rock climbing or zip lining?"

"I've never been zip lining, so that."

"You like trying new things?"

"I thrive on it."

"I can't say I'm surprised."

I take the phone from her and scan the list. "I'm a serious adrenaline junkie."

"Like skydiving and jumping off bridges wearing only a wingsuit?"

I smirk. "Skydiving, yes. I haven't done the wingsuit thing, though. Not sure I will. Being an adrenaline junkie isn't the same as having a death wish." I stop scrolling through the questions. "Your turn. Stage play or movie?"

"Movie."

We begin flying through the questions. One after the other.

"Do you prefer to watch TV or read a book?" she says.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"How mentally exhausted I am." I leisurely drum my fingers on the table. "If I've put in a long day, I just want to go home and watch TV. If I'm simply relaxing, I like reading."

"What kinds of books do you like?"

"Mostly suspense, thrillers, and horror."

She angles her body toward mine, legs crossed. "Who's your favorite author?"

I have to think about that for a second. "It's a tie between Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and James Patterson, but I also like John Sandford."

I gaze at her heart-shaped mouth, wanting nothing more than to lean over and taste her lips. She has full lips that curve invitingly, making me want to trace the outline with my fingertip . . . or my tongue.

I didn't notice her mouth Saturday night, except for when she was taking me down her throat. Then again, I'd been too aroused to notice much else other than the space between her legs. Now it's the space between her ears that's sending my dick into the stratosphere and making it increasingly uncomfortable to remain seated in this booth. Nothing turns me on more than a woman with a brain. Intelligence has always been my weakness, but finding a woman with both beauty _and_ brains is like finding the Holy Grail.

"What about you?" I say. "Who's your favorite author?"

She shrugs. "I don't have one."

"But you do read?"

She gives me an energetic nod. "I'm what you call a speed-reader. I can churn through two or three books a week when I'm on a binge."

My mouth drops open. "That's impressive. It takes me three or four weeks just to read one book."

"I've always been a fast reader." She slides my phone toward me. "Next question. We're speed-rounding here, remember?"

I want to be speed-rounding my body all over hers. I don't think she realizes just how hard it's been for me to be this close to her for so long without kissing her.

I drag my gaze away from her full breasts and stare blindly at the list. We've been dancing around our undeniable sexual chemistry all night, and a needy ache has steadily been growing inside the pit of my stomach, deep within my groin.

The memory of Saturday night makes a resurgence in my thoughts. Her mouth swallowing me whole. The way her gaze drank me in as I unbuttoned my shirt. The way our eyes met in the mirror right before we both climaxed.

I'm breathing heavily, and I can sense that Katherine feels the direction my thoughts have taken. She's grown quiet, and her skin has turned rosy. She shifts beside me, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.

My gaze lands on a question, and it's as good as any. "Do you like or dislike surprises?" I lift my eyes to hers, and an intense magnetism fires between us. So fierce is my pull to her that I have to catch myself before I claim her mouth with mine.

She's looking at my mouth as if she wants to kiss me, too. "I love surprises."

"Why?"

"Because they're so unexpected."

"But that could be a bad thing, couldn't it?"

A sultry smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Not in your case it isn't."

I inch closer, and my thigh presses gently against hers. "I didn't realize we were talking about me."

"You've been very surprising." Her lashes flicker as her eyes fall from mine to my mouth and back up again. "I have a feeling you're going to keep surprising me, too."

I play with a stray tendril of her hair, loosely coiling it around my index finger. "I hope so."

She smiles tenderly and breathes out a quiet, salacious sigh as she picks up my phone. "Your turn." She scrolls through the list then stops and looks up. "What subject would you most like to study?"

"You." The answer breathes from me unbidden, before she's even had a chance to set my phone back on the table.

_________

Katherine

My gaze collides with his, and the heavy-lidded, smoldering look he's giving me unlocks something primitive inside my belly. A hunger only one thing can satiate. But I'm not ready to concede the fight. Not just yet. I still have a shred of self-control left. Just one. I'm not sure how long it will last, but until he completely obliterates every last ounce of my restraint, I'll keep my white flag in my pocket.

"So . . ." I take a deep breath and force myself to keep my shit together, which is damn hard to do when the sexiest man I've ever met just told me I'm the subject he most wants to study. I'm grasping for a witty reply. Anything. But my mind just went blank. "So, uh, I think I actually own a few pieces of Rugged sportswear."

Could I be any lamer? Seriously? He hits me with that, and I respond by taking the conversation back to his company?

"You do?" He pulls my hand into his lap, and I think my temperature just shot up another five degrees. "I think I'm jealous of my company's clothing."

If I weren't so turned on, I'd laugh. But right now, I'm jealous of _his_ clothing. I know what lies beneath his suit. I've seen it. I've felt it. I feel it now as he presses my hand to his firm thigh. I've had a part of his body inside me. I want it inside me again.

I'm losing this battle with each passing second.

He leans closer, briefly presses his lips to my ear, then whispers hotly, "I really want to fuck you again." Below the table, he slides my palm up and places it over his erection.

His behemoth, knee-weakening erection.

I pull in my breath, waving the white flag as my thighs turn to molten lava. "Now?" I'm a goner. If I didn't think I'd get arrested, I'd fuck him right here in the booth.

He nods, pressing my hand more firmly against him. "Right here. Right now."

I glide my hand up and down his hard length, making him suck in his breath before he lets out a quiet moan and tips his forehead against my temple.

"Where?" I whisper, darting my gaze around at the other diners to make sure no one's watching us.

I'm wet. Intensely wet. Panties-soaked-through wet. What is it about this man that turns me on faster than I can say "abracadabra." He's the Houdini of hedonism. The David Copperfield of sex. The Criss Angel of lighting a fire in my vagina with one well-timed glance of those smoldering grey-blue eyes.

I'm practically panting, my fingers curled around his thick shaft under the table, when our server returns.

"Can I bring you anything else?" he says.

Greyson barely looks away from me and shakes his head. "Just the check." He finally breaks his gaze from mine. "Please."

"Certainly, sir." With an understanding tilt of his head, our server departs.

When he's gone, Greyson places his hand over mine and presses my palm against his massive cock.

God, he's like steel. Hard. Solid. Colossal. And it's all for me.

I glance toward the hallway that leads to the restroom. His gaze follows mine.

"I think I need to fix my lipstick," I say, my breath hitching as his impressive length kicks against my palm.

He groans quietly then leans in and whispers, "I'll settle the bill. Wait for me inside."

I nod as if by rote and shift to the side.

He grabs my hand and tugs me back. His lips brush mine, and while the caress might look innocent to the casual observer, I feel every ounce of his lust shower me from the slight contact. His wolfish gaze cuts to the heart of me, and it feels like I have an entire butterfly conservatory in the pit of my stomach.

"Don't work too hard on your lipstick," he says, kissing me again. "You won't be wearing it long."

Holy. Fuck.

I think I'm going to come before I can even get out of the booth.

I nod, barely able to breathe.

He releases my hand and sits back, his erection clearly evident inside his pants.

He looks me up and down as I slide out of the booth and rise, a little unsteady on my feet. Then again, the way he's fucking me with his eyes has turned my knees to jelly.

His gaze drops to my feet and my strappy black stilettos, and the corner of his mouth turns up as he meets my eyes again.

"Leave your shoes on."

Why does his unusual request send a lick of fire up my inner thighs? There's just something erotically domineering and deeply carnal in his tone that speaks to a base need of mine. No. More like a long-held fantasy that I gave up on so long ago I'd almost forgotten I'd ever wanted a man to take control of me this way.

He smiles wryly, and there's a hint of self-discovery in the gesture. As if he's always wanted to do something like this but never thought he'd get the chance. A sense of curious wonder sparkles in his eyes, and it lights fresh excitement inside me.

We're two people discovering different parts of ourselves for the first time, and there's something thrilling about that.

I hurry down the hall and look over my shoulder before pushing through the heavy wooden door of the ladies' room. I'm the only one inside, but what delights me even more is that the stalls in this restroom are the kind with floor-to-ceiling doors and walls. Given what's about to happen, I'm thankful that Gochet Arlain's interior designer wanted to afford a girl a little privacy when tending to her personal moments.

I rinse my hands then check my face and hair in the large mirror hanging over the pair of bowl sinks in the stretch of rust-colored marble along the wall across from the stalls.

I pace while I wait. I know what will happen once he walks through that door. We'll have sex. Dirty sex. Primal, take-my-breath-away sex.

Leave your shoes on.

Make that kinky, command-my-soul sex. The best kind.

How did I end up here again? In another restroom? At least this is an upscale restroom. One with mood lighting and sparkling fixtures. But it's still a restroom.

I really don't care. There's something sexy about fucking in a public bathroom. Something so naughty—so unbridled—as if there is no other choice than to answer passion's savage call the moment it hits.

Bed sex is normal sex. It's vanilla. Not that there's anything wrong with normal sex. But what Greyson and I did two nights ago! There'd been something incredibly exciting about that. I'd never done anything so tawdry, and I have to admit, I liked it. I liked it a lot. And now we're going to do it again, only in finer surroundings.

The door pushes open, and I freeze as he quickly and quietly slips inside.

For a moment, I fear he's going to tell me he's changed his mind. Then I notice the volcanic desire in his gaze.

He consumes the space between us in two steps, whips his arm around my waist, and spins me into the first stall.

The door slams shut, and he locks it. We're sealed in. With the walls stretching from floor to ceiling, it feels like we're in a tiny, private room.

"You didn't put on any lipstick," he says, loosening his tie as if he'd been dying to do so for the past hour.

"I don't like wasting good lipstick." I slap my hand on the back of his head and pull his mouth to mine.

Our lips crash together, and his firm hand clamps down on my breast. Strong lips. Strong hands. Strong tongue. Everything about Greyson is strong, including his personality, and I grow weak in the knees and weak of willpower under his influence.

"You make me crazy," he whispers hotly, shrugging out of his suit coat. He tosses it over the hook on the door.

"Is that good or bad?" I unfasten my slacks and shimmy out of them, making sure to leave on my stilettos.

With a smirk, he arches one discerning eyebrow and scans my legs. "It's good. Very good." His hands glide over my hips as he eases up between my legs. "I like your shoes."

"So I gathered."

"You have sexy feet."

I stroke him through his slacks. "Are you going to talk about my feet or fuck me, Greyson."

A heated breath seethes from his flared nostrils. His irises dilate under hooded lids.

In a flurry of movement, he unfastens his belt and lets his slacks fall to the floor. As he rolls on a condom—it seems he came prepared tonight—I hurriedly unbutton his shirt. He grips the front of my lace panties and tugs me forward.

"Tell me these aren't your favorite panties."

I shake my head, consumed by the frenetic, abandoned energy that is Greyson James. "They aren't."

He rips them off me as if they're made of paper towels, tosses them aside, and a moment later, he hefts me off the floor.

I glance down and nearly faint. His cock looks even bigger tonight than it did Saturday. Huge. Swollen and ruddy and potent. The condom fails to diminish its virility, and I'm overcome with the need to have it inside me. Overcome with the desire for him to do exactly what he told me he was going to do. Fuck me.

I want to be fucked hard. Mostly because I don't feel like I ever have. Greyson has enough packed below the waist to leave me feeling well used if he lets himself go, which I hope he does.

Saturday night, I could tell he held back, and I don't want him to hold back now.

Oh sure, he'd made me come. He'd made me come harder than any man ever had. But I want more. I want to know that when he's finished with me, I won't be able to move. I won't be able to think. All I'll be able to do is feel.

He breeches me, and my back slaps against the wall as he grunts and takes a staggering step forward.

"Jesus . . . you're tight." His eyes roll back and he goes stark still. A faint smile touches his lips as if he's savoring the feeling of being inside me.

No one's ever called me tight before.

No one.

Before him, no one's ever given me pause, but at one moment Saturday night, I did worry he might be too big. Now that I've had him inside me, I know better. He's perfect. He fills me completely, but in a way that still feels like he's testing the limits of my capacity.

"Am I hurting you?"

I shake my head, squirming. I need him all the way in. I need him to do what he said he was going to do. And I need him to do it hard.

"You're not hurting me."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Now fuck me, Greyson."

With a growl, he thrusts into me. My back slams against the rust-tiled wall again, and I dig my fingernails into his shoulders as I cry out.

I like facing him while we have sex. I like wrapping my legs around his hips. I like holding him and pushing his shirt back to bear witness to all that muscle in his chest and torso contracting, straining, working hard to drive his body into mine. And I like how my body welcomes his and responds.

Watching him is as arousing as feeling him move inside me. He's a sensual feast. Not only can I feel his potency, but I can see it. I can smell his clean, manly scent. Hear his primal grunts as he presses me harder against the wall. Taste his strength when I slide my tongue over his.

The total package that is Greyson James is the most erotic thing I've ever known, and my senses are overwhelmed by him. I'm swept away on sensation.

A broken, unbridled moan bursts from his throat, and he's lost, totally consumed by his passion. A sense of power rises within me. I have a power over Greyson the same way he holds power over me. As delirious as I am to satisfy my carnal urges with him—urges he has awakened—he's just as delirious by the fire I've stirred to life inside him. We're like a forest blaze, scorching the wilderness, born of a tiny spark that spreads into a maelstrom of churning hunger until it's burning out of control.

Greyson and I do primal well. We excel at it. Like primitive cavepeople, we're captive to our base urges, driven by instinct. Neither of us can stop if we tried. With us, momentum takes over, and there's nothing we can do but follow along as the point of no return quickly passes.

Tonight, Greyson and I reached that point the moment he tore off my panties. Actually, we reached it when he placed my hand over his cock at the table. Everything after that was simply foreplay to get us where we are right now. Fucking against another bathroom wall.

Animal attraction.

That's what Greyson and I have. That's what this incredible, mind-blowing chemistry is between us. We're magnetically drawn to each other. Hadn't that been how I felt with him at Alesca? I'd felt eyes on me. I'd felt drawn to the sensation. As if by a magnet, my gaze pulled around and locked onto his. Then we clung to each other all night, hypnotized by the wild abandon roused by our attraction.

Tonight has been more of the same.

Greyson and I simply can't be in the same place at the same time without being drawn together like we're interlocking pieces of a puzzle.

And the way he fits me so perfectly, in a way no man has ever fit before, I'd say he's definitely an interlocking puzzle piece.

The restroom door opens. I hear voices. Two women.

Greyson stills.

No!

"Don't stop," I whisper urgently against his mouth, even more turned on now that the risk of being caught has increased.

His breath is coming in staccato bursts and a trickle of sweat slides down his temple. "I'm about to come."

One of the women enters the center stall—the one next to ours—and the other enters the last one. I can still hear them talking, using loud voices to be heard through the wall separating them.

"So am I." I rock my pelvis against him. "Don't stop."

Eyes flaring, he begins fucking me again, pumping his hips into mine, more restrained than before, but it's enough to stimulate my pending orgasm back into a crescendo.

"Fuck," he whispers abruptly.

His jaw clenches. His expression tightens as his brow scrunches with determination, and he shifts his grip to wrap his arms under my thighs, pressing his hands against the wall on either side of me, supporting me on his forearms.

This new position forces my legs to open wider as his pace quickens. He's thrusting, cursing under his breath, body rigid.

And I'm with him. My pussy contracts, and we both groan at once.

"Did you hear that?" says one of the women, now at the sinks.

"No, what?"

"Sshh. Listen."

But Greyson and I are too far gone to care. We're already riding the wave up to the pinnacle, our orgasms beyond the point of no return just like we are.

"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck," Greyson's gaze burns into mine.

His eyes are the only things grounding me. His harsh grip on my body is the only thing keeping me from taking flight.

"I don't hear anything," says the other woman.

I hear running water. It's gushing from the faucet.

Gushing.

The way I'm about to gush all over Greyson's cock.

I've been known to squirt, and I'm shocked I didn't Saturday night. Probably the long dry spell I've endured. I've only ever squirted with Phil. Until Greyson, he was the only man to stimulate me enough to squirt. But tonight. Oh yeah, I'm definitely going to squirt.

"It was probably nothing," says the first women. "I'm probably just hearing things in my old age." The women laugh.

She wasn't hearing things, and if she and her friend don't leave soon, they're going to hear a whole lot more. I'm not sure I won't be able to hold in the squeal working its way up through my throat. Something about squirting orgasms demands me to make a lot of noise. I've been known to scream.

"I'm coming," Greyson whispers against my lips.

He's fucking me, pounding into me, but I can tell he's still holding back. I think he's still afraid he's hurting me, even though I told him he isn't. I want him to let go. To completely unleash. To destroy my body with sensation and ruthless sexual brutality.

Some other night. I'll make him see how much I want him the next time we're together.

Right now, this is good enough. Right now, I'm about to let go.

The wave crests, and I feel my orgasm filling me.

"Fuck!" Greyson growls, and he's coming. He's twitching inside me, feeding my orgasmic frenzy.

I can't hold back. The cry releases from my throat as my body falls into violent tremors. My pussy convulses around Greyson's cock, clenching and releasing him as my ejaculate trickles out around him as he continues thrusting through his orgasm.

I think I might black out. The room spins and goes foggy for a second, and then I'm coming again. This is how squirting affects me. I become a vortex of nonstop orgasms. As long as Greyson continues to stimulate me, the orgasms will continue coming, and I'll keep right on squirting through each one.

I hope he doesn't mind getting a little wet.

I cry out again, and another volley of vicious twitching travels up and down my body.

Greyson seems oblivious to what's happening to me, too caught up in his own release to notice that I've become a gushing faucet of female ejaculate. Will he freak? Will he be grossed out? A lot of men find squirting highly arousing, but some men think it's disgusting. I hope Greyson is the former.

"What the . . .?" Greyson glances down, finally coming back to his senses enough to realize I'm leaking all around him, dripping onto the floor. He pulls out of me abruptly, and as he does, he releases another orgasm. I cry out and slap my hand over my pussy, pulling back the hood from my clit as a spritz of ejaculate shoots out of me.

"Jesus!" His eyes flash wide, and he wavers, weaving forward and back briefly, staring down at me as if he's found the Fountain of Youth. For a moment, I think he's going to fall to his knees and clamp his mouth over me. Instead, he pushes me against the wall again and seals his mouth over mine in a breathless, all-consuming kiss.

My arms and legs are weak, knees trembling, lungs working hard to feed my starved muscles with oxygen.

Greyson's lips disengage from mine. "Do you know how fucking _hot_ that is? How goddamn sexy?" He glances down then runs his palm between my legs before kneeling and sucking my sensitive clit into his mouth.

I nearly topple over as his fingers dip inside me, triggering one final mini orgasm. My knees quake as a trickle of ejaculate escapes me.

He moans, and his tongue does dirty, delicious things to me as he laps up the remnants of my release, making me gasp.

Holy fuck. Not only does he appear to be a man who gets off on female ejaculate, he appears to be a connoisseur.

"Mmmm." He grins and slowly rises to his feet, running his fingers up and down my labia again. "I like. A lot." His chin is wet, and he wipes the back of his hand over it.

Outside our stall, the restroom door quietly closes, and we both freeze, eyes shooting open wide. We both forgot about our audience. Those two women heard everything.

Everything!

I giggle and cover my mouth with my hand. "Oh shit."

Greyson laughs and pulls his hand from between my legs. Licking his lips and flashing me a wry, just-wait-until-the-next-time-I-fuck-you look, he bends and starts pulling up his pants.

I do the same after straightening my blouse, and begin fastening them around my waist. The fabric is wet, and my panties are lying in a tattered, useless heap a couple of feet away.

"What is it about us and bathrooms?" I say, helping him button his shirt.

He laughs breathlessly, his fingers dancing around mine as we hastily pull ourselves back together. "I have no idea, but this is becoming a pattern." He leaves his collar unbuttoned. "But you have to admit, we're good in bathrooms."

Laughing, I grab his suit coat from the hook on the door while he reties his tie.

Remnants of my release slick the floor, and as he shrugs into his jacket, I unroll a wad of toilet paper and began mopping it up with my foot. He helps, and within seconds, the floor is mostly dry.

"Do I look okay?" I take a step back, holding my hands out to my sides.

His gaze rakes me up and down. "Honestly, you look good enough to eat."

I tilt my head. "You know what I mean."

He grins and steps closer, sliding his hands over my hips. "You look fine. No one will ever know how thoroughly I just defiled you."

"Defiled?" I grin. "And you're wrong. Those women know."

"I doubt they'll utter a word of what they heard in here." He winks, drops a simmering, postcoital kiss on my lips, and steps back. "How about me? Do I look presentable?"

His suit is a little wrinkled, and I got some of my release on his pants, but it's nothing that will be noticeable as we leave.

"You look like the cat who ate the canary."

He arches one brow and licks his full lips. "Which makes it all the more frustrating I hardly got to eat a thing."

Now he's just teasing me. "You ate dinner."

His eyes narrow and he steps into me again, caressing my hips and sides. "You know what I want to eat, Katherine, and it isn't dinner."

Oh my.

Greyson seems to be coming into his own. I think seeing that I can squirt unlocked a part of his libido he didn't know existed, and I get the feeling that the next time we have sex, I'm going to see a whole different side of him. The side that might fuck me harder than I've ever been fucked.

My insides vibrate at the thought.

"Next time, then," I say, holding his gaze.

"Definitely next time." He kisses me again, and his mouth lingers. Then he breaks away and motions to the door. "You go first. See if we're alone."

As he stands to the side, I unlock the stall door and peek out then check the other two stalls. "We're alone." I open the outer door then call back quietly, "The coast is clear."

He slips out of the stall, quickly washes his hands, and together, we hurry out of the restroom and head toward the front of the restaurant.

My face is flushed and hot, and my quick steps are unsteady.

Greyson takes my hand, and I'm grateful for the extra support he provides.

I smile up at him. He's watching me out of the corner of his eye and grins back. We're like horny teenagers who almost got caught having sex by our parents. I feel young again, reckless and daring, and I can tell he feels the same way.

Outside, he walks me to my red Audi.

"I certainly hadn't planned on _that_ happening tonight," he says with a chuckle.

That's when it hits me. He thought he was going to meet my father tonight, not me.

The original purpose of tonight's meeting slams into me like a hurricane-force wind. Tonight was supposed to have been about talks of mergers and acquisitions. About two CEOs discussing the possibility of one buying the other's company. But like a sex-starved adolescent, I couldn't resist him. I simply couldn't behave like a responsible, professional adult.

How could I have been so reckless? So harebrained? So damned irresponsible?

I take two backward steps away from him, lowering my gaze. "What am I doing?" I mutter.

He quiets, and I sense his confusion. "What's wrong?" He takes a step toward me.

"No, Greyson." I hold up my hand, backing away. "We can't do this."

"What do you mean?"

I look up at him. "Do I really have to spell it out?"

He frowns and pulls back. "I don't understand."

I gesture toward the restaurant. "You thought you were going to meet my father here tonight, Greyson. You want to buy Freedom Cycle. What are we doing having sex when we're supposed to be negotiating terms of a sale?"

It's his turn to hold up his hand. "Whoa, wait a minute. We're not negotiating anything. You said you weren't interested in selling."

That's right. I did say that. Oops.

"Well, maybe now I am. I don't know. After what you said in there"—I gesture toward the restaurant again—"you made me think we at least need to discuss it." I'm not too proud to admit that his offer holds some merit, especially if he intends to keep Freedom's infrastructure in place.

The corners of his mouth tick upward, but he's still wearing a subtle frown. "Okay, so what does this mean? You're not going to get involved with me if there's the possibility that my offer to buy your company is still on the table?"

I work my bottom lip between my teeth, not liking my options. What Greyson and I have—even though it's only just started—is more real than any other relationship I've experienced. He feels more right than Phil ever did. And there's no denying how incredible the sex is.

We're good together.

No, we're great together. We're like Cupid and Psyche, destined to be together despite the obstacles meant to keep us apart.

But this obstacle is too big to overcome. If my staff learns I'm fucking the CEO of the company trying to buy mine, feathers could ruffle. Backs could turn on me. They'd suspect I'm trying to save my own ass while throwing their asses in the fire. I can't risk such a coup so soon after taking over.

And what about _his_ staff? His attorneys would certainly advise him that having a sexual relationship with me could jeopardize everything. Not just the deal, but also his personal and professional reputation.

But my reputation would take a bigger hit than his. The woman always becomes the bigger fall guy. And since I've only just inherited my role as CEO, I'll be especially targeted. Gossip and criticism of my apparent lack of judgment would ripple through the industry, poisoning my relationships with vendors and customers.

My desire to sleep with Greyson could have a longstanding or even permanent negative impact on Freedom's bottom line.

Is the sex worth it?

"We shouldn't do this," I suggest, hating the ache that blooms in my chest as I say it. "We can't, Greyson."

He snaps to attention. "What? No. No, Katherine."

"Think about it, Greyson. The heads of two companies who are in merger negotiations while fucking each other silly doesn't look good, especially if things don't work out."

To compound matters, I'm still committed to ending our fling at the end of summer. What happens then? How will we be able to work together if I decide to sell Freedom to him?

Our relationship just took on a shit load of complexity I hadn't planned for when I cozied up to him Saturday night. My summer flings aren't supposed to be this complicated. They're meant to be simple, easy, and straightforward. Easy to get out of, too. Nothing about Greyson has been any of those things, and it's only going to get worse if I try to make this work, even though the thought of walking away is killing me.

My head is pulling me one direction and my libido another. And let's face it, my heart isn't allowed to have a dog in this fight. But if it did, my heart would be siding with my libido.

Greyson sighs, raking his hand through his hair as if he's frustrated and searching for a solution. "I don't want to stop seeing you, Katherine."

"I don't want to stop seeing you, either, but—"

"Then don't do this."

"Greyson . . ." I sigh. "Do you still plan on pursuing my company?"

His intense gaze burns into mine with the resolve of a hungry lion eyeing a lame zebra. "Yes."

"Then we have to end this." I gesture back and forth between us. "We can't continue seeing each other. It's the _smart_ thing to do."

The random thought that this would be so much easier if I were stupid runs through my thoughts before I show it the door and kick its ass out of my brain.

"We'll still see each other, Katherine. We have to, to discuss terms."

"Then let me clarify. We can't continue having sex."

He lets out an amused but frustrated huff. "Can you really call what we just did having sex?"

I try not to smile, because I can tell where he's going with this. "What would you call it?"

"Fucking. Crazy, insane, addicted-to-you fucking."

I stifle a soft laugh, because he's right. We don't have sex. We don't make love. We fuck. And I'm already as addicted to him as he just claimed to be to me. Like I said before, we seem to bring the primal out of one another.

"Okay, fine." I bite back a smile. "We can't continue _fucking_ when we're talking about merging our companies."

"What if we don't merge?"

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

But I know we won't. Now that he's captured my professional curiosity, negotiations will last well into summer, if not into fall. By then, Christian and Rose will be home, and the window for my summer fling will have closed.

My _last_ summer fling. Because I already know I won't do this again next year. Partly because I don't want to, and partly because Greyson has ruined me for other men. Just knowing he's out there will be enough to prevent me from wanting anyone else for a long time.

He seems to sense the direction of my thoughts, because he lets out a gruff sigh as he rolls his head back. His body language is that of a man who feels helpless and frustrated, as if he knows this situation isn't one he can control.

"And what if our companies do merge?" he says. "Then what?"

"Do you really think that will change anything?"

His jaw sets determinedly. "I'm not one to give up when it comes to fighting for what I want, Katherine, and right now, I want _you_."

"I'm not for sale," I say quietly, taking his hand. "Greyson, please don't make this harder than it already is."

He sighs, and it sounds like the weight of the universe just fell onto his shoulders. He turns and props his back end on the side of my car and drops his gaze to our joined hands as he laces his fingers around mine. "I really wanted to prove I could behave myself the next time I saw you." He boyishly peeks up at me.

I quietly park myself beside him. "I know. So did I."

He smiles sadly. "Behaving isn't something we're able to do with each other, is it?"

I shake my head and let out a soft laugh. "I'm beginning to think that the chemistry between us is larger than we are."

Still holding my hand, he faces me, and I feel the urgency in his touch as he shifts his hold on my hand, wrapping his around mine. "Then don't end this."

"Greyson . . ." I should have known he wouldn't make this easy.

"I really like you, Katherine." He cups my cheek with his free hand. "I'm not ready to let this end."

"I really like you, too, Greyson, but I can't see how this is going to work, whether we strike a deal between our companies or not."

His fingers linger on my face as he stares at me. "Forget about my interest in Freedom. If I didn't want to buy your company, would you want to be with me?"

I search his face. I could lie, but I know he'd see right through me. "Yes." And I want to be with him for reasons other than how good the sex is. I just don't want to admit that out loud, let alone to myself.

"Then don't end this." He puts the exclamation point on his plea by claiming my mouth with his. In an instant, I'm in his arms, holding him, pulling myself against him, caught up in the heat that seems to swallow us any time we touch one another.

The animal attraction and physical connection is so incredibly strong. So strong that once it builds to a certain point it overtakes everything else. Logic, rational thought, reason, restraint. All else pales in comparison to our chemistry.

Which is why this has "bad idea" written all over it.

Somehow, I break through the supernatural haze trying to cloud my judgment and gently push him away, bowing my head so I won't keep kissing him.

"Katherine . . ." He cradles my cheek.

"Greyson, don't . . . please."

"No one has to know," he pleads.

"Someone will find out. Someone always does."

He's backed into a corner, and while I can see resistance edging into his expression, I also see realization. He knows I'm right. He doesn't like it, but he knows it.

He takes a step back, glances over his shoulder at the restaurant then faces me again as he combs his fingers through his thick hair. "Don't make any firm decisions tonight." He's not ready to give up, and I admire him for his tenacity. But it's not going to change things. "Think about it for a few days. I've already made reservations for the Red Room at seven o'clock on Friday. If you still think it's better that we don't see each other, I'll dine alone, and the only time you'll see me from here on out is when we meet to talk about whether or not we can make a business deal work between our companies." His gaze drinks me in as he takes my hand again. "But if you're willing to see where this can go . . . if you change your mind and want to continue what we've started . . . well, you know where I'll be." He gives my hand a squeeze then lets it go. "The Red Room. Friday. Seven o'clock." Without another word, he turns and crosses the parking lot to his SUV.

I watch him go, feeling a part of me go with him, hurting inside, because I know tonight was the last time we'll be together. As in, _together_.

Guilt falls over me. He held such hope in his gaze. It had shone with barely bridled optimism from deep inside his eyes, but I didn't have the heart to tell him I'm not going to change my mind on this. I'm crazy about him, and the sex is amazing, but my job is more important than great sex. In two months, he'll be gone, but I'll still have to face my employees. I can't have them seeing me cavorting with the person trying to put them out of a job. Okay, so it didn't sound like he wants to put anyone out of a job, but my employees won't see it that way.

Maybe if we'd met under different circumstances, at a different time and place, we could have made a run at whatever this is between us. And maybe someday we can try again, but not right now. Not under these circumstances.

I stare at him as he drives past, barely holding in my tears, but once he turns the corner, and his SUV is gone, I break down.

With tears streaming my face and doubt that I've made the right decision—even though I know I have—choking my heart, I climb behind the wheel of my Audi and pull out of the parking lot.

Maybe I'm thirty-four years old, but I still hurt like a college coed when I suffer the end of a relationship. What surprises me about how I feel about the end of this relationship is that it only lasted forty-eight hours, yet it feels like it lasted a year. Ten years. A lifetime.

The other thing that surprises me about how I feel is that I'm the one who ended it.

As I'm driving away from Gochet Arlain, fighting to see through my tear-blurred vision, a thought occurs to me. I finally found the fault I needed to break up with him. It just wasn't _his_ fault.

Greyson has no faults.

The fault is all mine. My sense of responsibility and ethical conduct have done me a disservice tonight, and I'm not sure I'll ever recover.

How am I going to make it through the summer without Greyson?

DID YOU ENJOY THE BOOK?

This concludes Choose Me, book one of the Banger Trilogy. If you enjoyed this story, please help others enjoy it, too.

Review it.

Recommend it.

Lend it.

If you leave a review, please send me an email at donya@donyalynne.com or message me on Facebook so I can thank you with a personal e-mail.

Now, turn the page for an excerpt of Covet Me, book 2 of the Banger Trilogy.

Excerpt from Covet Me

Greyson

Did Katherine really break up with me last night?

I think she did, even though I can tell she's as attracted to me as I am to her.

Sure, we've only been on two dates. Two unplanned, surprisingly erotic dates that felt more like sex than substance, but dates nonetheless. Dates that created a burn inside me that demanded I continue getting to know her and continue exploring this newfound sexual awakening she's kick-started in my libido. Breaking up wasn't even on my radar, so how could it have been on hers?

I've learned the hard way that I'm a lot of man. More man than most women can take. But not Katherine. She can take me just fine. In fact, she's the first woman I've been with where sex felt the way it's supposed to. All savage freedom and red-hot pleasure. And like an archaeologist who has searched his whole life for the Holy Grail only to have it ripped away the moment he finds it, I'm not handling it very well that she broke things off with me.

But she has it in her head we can't see each other if we're talking about merging our two companies. Something she adamantly insisted she wasn't open to discussing at the beginning of last night's meeting, by the way. But somewhere between telling me that she had no desire to sell her company and our hotter-than-an-inferno fuck session in the restaurant's ladies' room at the end of the evening, she changed her mind. Suddenly, she was open to hearing more about my offer.

I guess I sold the idea that a merger was in her best interests better than I thought I did. Unfortunately, that meant ordering a cease-fire for any extracurricular sexual activities I might have been planning.

Go figure, the door was still open on one venture but seemed to have closed on another.

I need to figure out a way to get _both_ doors open again, but right now the ball is in her court. She's the one who said we can't see each other socially, anymore.

I enter the office building where Rugged has its corporate headquarters on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors and stroll into the elevator bay. The eight o'clock crowd crushes in around me.

"Grey!"

I turn to see Mike approaching. He's wearing his trademark khakis, golf shirt, and a faded purple and black Colorado Rockies baseball cap. Given our industry, Rugged is a pretty casual work environment. It has to be if employees want to wear the clothes we manufacture. Biking shorts, sports bras, team uniforms—including those for the next Olympics—as well as golf shirts, T-shirts, and outdoor sandals. Hell, I'm the owner of the company, but even I occasionally wear cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and fisherman sandals to the office.

"Hey, Mike."

One of the six elevators opens. I allow a trio of women to enter in front of me, and then I step inside, holding my arm over the door to keep it from closing on Mike.

"How did the meeting go with Robert last night?" he asks.

I catch two of the women checking me out. They quickly avert their gazes and smile secretly at each other as the doors slide shut.

"It didn't."

"Did he cancel?"

"No." I remember looking up to see Katherine walk around the corner from the restaurant's vestibule, behind the maître d′.

"You've lost me." The elevator stops, and Mike glances at the digital display marking which floor we're on. He steps aside to let the three women out. One casts me a demure, come-hither glance as she passes. She's attractive, but right now no one holds a candle to Katherine.

"His _daughter_ took the meeting."

Mike frowns at me. "His daughter? Why the hell did she show up?"

The elevator starts its upward climb again.

Keeping my gaze straight ahead, I say, "Because she runs the company now. Apparently Robert Clayton retired Friday. Publicly announced it yesterday."

I'd been so busy all day that I hadn't heard the news until after I got home last night and listened to the voice mail Brent left me.

"No shit," Mike says.

"No shit." The elevator stops again on the twelfth floor, and another passenger hops off. "But that's not the best part. You'll never guess who his daughter is."

Mike smirks. "Everyone knows who his daughter is. Kate Kelley."

If only he knew.

"Clayton," I correct.

"Huh?"

"She recently changed her last name back to her maiden name."

"Okay, so what? She changed her name."

"Yeah, but what I'm saying is that you'll never guess who she is to _me_."

The only other person in the elevator seems curious where our conversation is going, but the elevator stops again at the fifteenth floor, and he has to bail before I get to the good part. The doors close again, leaving me alone with Mike.

Mike shifts the shoulder strap of his briefcase on his shoulder. "I didn't think you knew Kate."

"I don't. Or, rather, I didn't. Not until Saturday night."

"Saturday night?" Mike's eyes narrow. His wheels are turning, but they're not connecting.

"Where did we go Saturday night?" I ask, leading him.

"Alesca?" He says the name slowly, the last syllable lilting upward like a question. I can almost hear the unspoken "So?" as he continues staring at me.

I glance up at the digital number as it hits eighteen and the elevator slows to a stop. "Come on, Mike, you're usually a lot faster than this. Who did I meet at Alesca?"

His mouth falls open as his eyebrows scrunch in disbelief. "You mean . . ."

I raise my eyebrows and angle my head in acknowledgement as I step out of the elevator. Mike's hot on my heels.

"Are you saying that Kate Kelley—I mean, Clayton—is Katherine? The woman you left Alesca with?"

Tilting my head and raising my eyebrows at him, I open the door to Rugged's lobby. "The very same."

"You're shittin' me." Mike enters as I hold the door for him.

"I couldn't make this shit up if I tried." I trail after him and nod at the receptionist. "Good morning, Elena."

"Good morning, Greyson." Very few people refer to me by my full name, but Elena does.

So does Katherine.

My heart takes a dive into my stomach.

I don't want to think about this upcoming Friday night and whether she'll show up at the Red Room. She didn't leave me with a lot of hope last night, but I can't bring myself to think we're over before we even had a chance to begin.

Mike and I make our way to the break room, where we stop for coffee before starting our day.

"So, you and Katherine, huh?" Mike says, waiting as his cup fills in one of the two Keurigs. "How did she react when you told her you wanted to buy her company?" He makes a sour face that suggests he already knows how that went.

"She already knew."

"How?"

I shrug. "She and her father are smart. Besides, there aren't a lot of reasons why the CEO of one company would ask for a meeting with the CEO of a competitor if one of the topics on the table isn't acquisition. It wasn't a stretch to deduce my intentions."

"So, what did she say? Is she going to come quietly or is she going to play hardball?"

I lift my coffee to take a drink then stop, the cup hovering in front of my mouth. I honestly don't know the answer to Mike's question. And, right now, I don't care. The only thing on my mind is if she's going to play hardball with me regarding our Friday night date.

"I'm not going to force her to sell if she's dead set against it, Mike."

He gives me an appraising look as his coffee finishes brewing. "Going soft?"

"Hardly."

"So, what's your plan?"

I shrug. "We schedule another meeting and see how it goes." I'm really not in the mood to think about the merger.

"Is she at least open to talk with us?"

Her words as we said our good-byes last night haunt me.

"She wasn't at first, but by the end of dinner, she'd come around. I think she's open to negotiations. Whether they go anywhere, I can't say, but right now we're still in the game."

But am _I_ still in the game? I guess I'll find out Friday night.

Mike and I head toward our offices along the back wall. "I need to set up another meeting with her for early next week. I'll want you and Ed involved. And Brent. We need to start a full-court press while she's interested. I don't want her reconsidering."

"And what about the two of you? Are you going to see each other again?"

I hear the concern in his voice. Like Katherine and just about everybody else who would offer me business advice, Mike doesn't think it's a good idea for me to be screwing the CEO of the company we're trying to buy.

"Don't worry. She closed the door pretty hard on that idea last night." After we fucked like horny teenagers again, which doesn't help the yearning I still feel for her in my heart. And in my dick. And everywhere else in my body. "She thinks it would look bad to her employees if she were to get involved with me personally."

"She's a smart woman. Smarter than you from the looks of it." He snickers and lightly chucks my shoulder.

I turn and frown at him. "What do you mean?"

"I can tell you're all over that, Grey." He shakes his head and laughs. "Man, you just can't catch a break, can you?"

Like Ed, Mike's been with me long enough to know all about my woman troubles.

"I'll live." But inside I'm miserable. Every hour that passes only serves to feed my growing despair that Katherine and I will never see each other again on a personal level, and I can't accept that.

As we pass Ed's office, he looks up from his computer. I brusquely nod a greeting at him, and he nods back, but I don't stop. Ed didn't come home last night, which means he spent the night with Katherine's friend Jess. Since he's not divorced from his cheating wife, Anabel, yet, I can't condone his behavior, but I'm not going to lecture him on it, either. He's a grown man. He'll have to live with the guilt that's sure to come when things don't work out with Jess, and I can't imagine they will. Rebound relationships never do.

We come to Mike's office, and he reaches in and flips on his light then pops back out, stopping me. "You're still coming tonight, right?"

Mike and I belong to a cycling club that meets twice a week. I've been too busy renovating my house for the past two weeks to meet up with them more than once, so I'm overdue for a ride.

"I'm not sure I'll make it. I've still got painting to do before the flooring guys come tomorrow." I'm starting to wish I'd hired professional painters, but I'm almost done. A couple more hours, and I can write this project into the finished column.

Ed joins us. "I can do the painting if you want to go." I think he's trying to suck up, because he knows I don't like what he's doing with Jess. And maybe part of his offer is to make up for the fact that I'm allowing him to stay with me while he works out a separation agreement with Anabel.

"Yeah," Mike says, "let Ed do it. You come riding with us. You're getting out of shape." He bats my stomach with the back of his hand.

I laugh. "Out of shape, my ass."

But I really do need to work in a ride. I can only get so much out of my gym workouts. I rely on my outdoor workouts to provide the something extra I crave. Something that adds fulfillment and enrichment to my life. Everyone needs to get outside to experience total health, and I thrive on the outdoors. I wouldn't be a good CEO for a sporting goods company if I didn't.

I turn toward Ed. "You sure you're up to painting my living room?"

"Yeah, sure."

I address Mike. "Okay, fine. I'll be there. But I won't be able to stay after for dinner." We always finish a ride by hitting this little Italian place down the road from where we meet up. The food can't be beat, and neither can the atmosphere.

"No problem. I can't either. Andi and I are meeting with the caterer, and I think Emmet and Jones both have something going on at their kids' school tonight, too."

Emmet and Jones are the two most committed riders in our group. It sounds like we should probably just cancel this evening's ride, but these are hardcore riders, so of course they'll squeeze in a few miles whenever they can.

I take a pair of backward steps in the direction of my office, lifting my coffee cup in farewell. "Sounds good. I'll get with you later. Right now, I've got to call Brent." My brother is going to want to know how things went last night. For all he knows, I still met with Robert, despite his surprise retirement. He needs to know the players have changed.

As I unlock my office and switch on the light, I think about the implications of just how much the players _have_ changed.

Am I ever going to catch a break in sex and romance? Or am I destined to be alone the rest of my goddamn life? Because if Katherine doesn't show up Friday night, that just might be what happens.

Books by Donya Lynne

All the King's Men Series

Rise of the Fallen

Heart of the Warrior

Micah's Calling

Rebel Obsession

Return of the Assassin

All the King's Men - The Beginning

Bound Guardian Angel

BLACK

Micah's Bride

Strong Karma Trilogy

Good Karma

Coming Back to You

Full Circle

Banger Trilogy

Choose Me

Covet Me

Cherish Me

Savage Storm Trilogy

Coming 2018

Standalones

Finding Lacey Moon

Little Things

Suspicion

Standalone M/M Titles

Winter's Fire

Collections and Anthologies

All the King's Men Vol. 1 (books 1-3)

All the King's Men Vol. 2 (books 4-6)

Strong Karma Trilogy Boxed Set

About the Author

Donya Lynne is the bestselling author of the award winning All the King's Men and Strong Karma Series and a member of Romance Writers of America. Making her home in a wooded suburb north of Indianapolis with her husband, Donya has lived in Indiana most of her life and knew at a young age she was destined to be a writer. She started writing poetry in grade school and won her first short story contest in fourth grade. In junior high, she began writing romantic stories for her friends, and by her sophomore year, she'd been dubbed _Most Likely to Become a Romance Novelist_. In 2012, she fulfilled her dream by publishing her first two novels and a novella. Her work has earned her two IPPYs, five eLit Awards, a USA Today Recommended Read, and numerous accolades, including two Smashwords bestsellers. When she's not writing, she can be found cheering on the Indianapolis Colts or doing her cats' bidding.

Connect with the Author

Sign up for Donya's newsletter

AKM Fan/Reader Group:

Donya Lynne's Reader Group

Facebook:

www.facebook.com/AuthorDonyaLynne

Amazon:

Donya Lynne Amazon Author Page

BookBub:

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/donya-lynne

Fan Page:

www.facebook.com/DonyaLynne

Twitter:

@DonyaLynne

If you'd like to email me:

donya@donyalynne.com

Website:

www.donyalynne.com

