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  He smiles, but it is an automatic response, his eyes still on my lips. When he pours us another shot, I don’t object.

  Chapter 17

  MARCO

  The atmosphere in the car is changing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that I’m exhausted and delusional, but whatever it is, she’s now resting her weight on the armrest between us. Her legs are crossed, and when she occasionally bounces her foot, it brushes against my leg. We’re three shots down, and I can feel the edges of my control diluting.

  Is it a mistake to bring her to Spring Lake? Absolutely. Probably. I don’t even know. I don’t like how convenient it was, literally running into her as we left. A younger, more optimistic man, might have thought it was fate. But I don’t need fate. And I don’t need a soulmate. I’m looking for a woman to bang the fuck out of. And right now, with her next to me, I’m finding it hard to figure out why she’s not the perfect candidate.

  She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t seem the type to gossip, to jump on social media and brag on, or research, me. She hasn’t pulled out a phone once since we met. There will be no Instagramming photos of the Rolls Royce, no tweets about the Vince Horace party.

  She’s perfect. So…why am I hesitating?

  I look in Edward’s direction, the partition between us still closed. He won’t be able to stay at Spring Lake, I’ll have to send him home, and he’ll wonder why. Maybe he’ll even suspect the truth. He’s not stupid, and he’s spent a decade with us. If he hasn’t figured out the truth by now? I could lay this woman across the hood of the car, fuck her senseless, and he’d still be clueless.

  Still, regardless of what Edward might suspect or know, I’ll have to send him home. I won’t be able to think straight with him there, I won’t be able to enjoy myself, knowing he is somewhere in the house, in potential earshot of the absolutely filthy behavior I plan on participating in. I need this. I need this so badly that my fingers itch, my blood pumps, heart pounds. I can’t stop looking at her, at the way her shirt clings to her curves, and the peek of bare skin I can see through the rip in her jeans. I can’t stop thinking about how soft her skin felt when I touched her face, the warm hitch of her breath when I leaned in close, the faint smell of fruit and honey that drifts off of her.

  I need it.

  She shifts in the seat and I allow the tips of my fingers to graze her knee. Her eyes drop to the contact, then snap to mine. I can see something heavy on her lips, the start of a sentence welling in her throat, but she swallows it down and says nothing.

  The car turns, climbing the hill to Spring Lake, and I should make my move now or back away.

  She tilts her leg toward me, a clear signal for more, and I want to slide my hand upward, along her inner thigh, until I get to the cheap button of her jeans. I clamp my mind down on the next fantasies, ones that involve her on her knees, my cock in her mouth. Her on my lap, naked. Bouncing. My hands on her bare breasts, my mouth on her flushed skin.

  I let go of her knee and run my hand over my mouth, forcing my gaze to the window. I point to the dim lights of the town. “That’s Spring Lake. We’re almost there.”

  I need to get ahold of myself.

  Chapter 18

  AVERY

  * * *

  I hooked up with a girl once. I was in a hotel bar in Atlanta, doing peppermint shots with a gorgeous blonde from Amsterdam. Our bodies grew closer with each shot, our elbows brushing, her hair tangling in the sequins of my top. She scored a barstool and we shared it, one of her legs flung over mine, and we discussed ex-boyfriends and the city as her hands roamed over me. First, it was just the tickle of fingers along the top of my jeans. Then, the slide of her hand across my breast. I let my hand rest on her bare thigh, and leaned in closer than was necessary when I whispered things into her ear. Between us, the air heated, and when we went to the bathroom to freshen up, I let her pull me into the biggest stall, her hand flipping the lock, her giggle filling the air.

  * * *

  She had tasted like alcohol and bubble gum. She had kissed in the tentative way of a high-schooler. I had pulled down the top of her dress and marveled at the look of her breasts, the soft and squishy feel of them. I’d flicked a tongue over her nipple and felt the grip of her hand on my hair.

  * * *

  The anticipation and buildup had been like a drug. A foreign, forbidden, drug. But the act itself?

  It had done absolutely nothing for me.

  Fun. Different. But unimpressive just the same.

  * * *

  I watch Marco Lent pull away and wonder how far this gay boy thinks he’s going to take this. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s his grief. Maybe it’s the upheaval in his life, and my unexpected arrival in the midst of a personal crisis. But there’s no way he’s sexually confused enough to fuck me.

  * * *

  I think.

  * * *

  I fight the urge to dig in my bag for my phone, Google his name, and reconfirm every detail I’ve read about him. Because in every article I’ve read, he’s definitely gay. Not a bi-sexual confused individual who waved a rainbow flag once. He’s like… super gay. Speaks at annual conventions. He and Vince hosted and orchestrated almost every gay pride event that’s occurred in the last decade. I’ve seen photos of them kissing, photos of Vince’s arm around him on the deck of their yacht, read articles that describe orgies in their pool and sex-filled parties in the Hamptons.

  * * *

  There is no way, according to everything I’ve read about Marco Lent, that he is anything other than 100% gay.

  * * *

  And there is no way, according to everything I’ve felt in this car, that he isn’t planning on ripping off my clothes with his teeth once we arrive at his home.

  * * *

  The car slows, the dark ocean coming into view, and I find the button on the door, lowering the window. The whip of ocean air fills the car, and there is a sound from Marco that sounds suspiciously like a growl. I ignore him, my eyes on the gate, which shudders to life, parting before the car.

  * * *

  They like their gates. I think of the one in New York, and this one is almost laughable in comparison, a low-slung frame that would keep out vehicles, and not much else. A fountain comes into view, the car curving around a circular drive until my side is right up next to it. My vision adjusts to the dark, and I laugh when I see the fountain’s centerpiece, a naked man, in a pose similar to that of David, if David’s package had been five times bigger.

  * * *

  “Interesting.” I open the door and step out, looking up at it, surprised to see that the statue’s face is Marco. I let my eyes fall back to the marble manhood and raise my eyebrows. “Really?” I drawl and look over my shoulder at him.

  * * *

  Marco steps out and rests his wrist on the open car door, looking over the top of the Rolls at me. “Ignore that.”

  * * *

  “It’s hard to ignore.” I laugh. “I mean, seriously.” I turn to face it. “You know this is really weird, right?”

  * * *

  It must have been something Vince commissioned. And if it was, I like my potential father more for it. I can’t exactly blame him. If I was dating a guy who looked like this naked, I’d put statues of him in every single room. But Marco doesn’t know that I know about Vince, and I use that to my advantage, moving closer to the statue and crossing my arms, giving it a detailed exam.

  * * *

  “God your ego is…” I let my eyes fall to the massive organ that hangs between muscular marble thighs. “Huge,” I finish, turning to him, and he makes a face in response.

  * * *

  “Did you pose for this thing? Or…” I wince. “Is this a small penis thing? Like, you don’t want people to know what you really look like, so you overkill it with this giant … presentation?”

  * * *

  He ignores me, climbing the front steps of the house, and I am hit with a withering look from his driver, who lifts
my bag with a distinguished scowl. “Madam, your knapsack.”

  * * *

  I grab the bag, hurrying around the back of the car and jogging up the stairs to catch up with Marco. “Or… is this your signature architectural flair? Like, buy a house plan and get a free giant penis statue of yourself?” I ask the question as innocently as possible and am awarded a black look. Entering a code into the lock’s keypad, he grips my arm and opens the door, practically shoving me inside.

  * * *

  “Stay,” he commands, holding up a hand as if I’m a dog. I snort, a response he probably doesn’t catch in the moment before he closes the door and leaves me inside. He jogs back to the car, and I watch him speak to Winston Churchill, a discussion that probably involves me. I take advantage of the moment and turn to see the house.

  * * *

  It is, in every seam, corner, and pillow stitching, gorgeous. I had expected a Versace-like display of color, everything gaudy and over the top. This was the opposite. White granite floors with veins of gold and dark chocolate swirling across the massive expanse. Giant leather couches dotted by white fur throws and fluffy pillows. A stone fireplace stretches three stories high and is framed by a floor-to-ceiling view of the water that dominates the room. I think of my watch and glance from it to the room, the mix of edge and class present in both. I move closer and notice the smaller details that give the room bite. The giant polar bear head mounted on the fireplace that is in a teeth-baring snarl. The lamps, suspended from the ceiling, that are more gothic than beachy. The glass globes on the coffee table that hold shark teeth and tiger eye eggs.

  * * *

  I step into the dining room, looking at everything. It is a visual orgy and I wish I had time to go through every room and examine every piece. The dining room table is set, glass crystal set off by red china and bone, a fresh flower arrangement stretching down its middle. On either end of the room, the ocean view between them, giant oil paintings display more nudity. I stop before the first one, a closeup of two male torsos, side by side, one hand over each other’s cock, the organs still visible between their splayed fingers.

  * * *

  The front door shuts and I turn as Marco strides into the room, his features calm, hair mussed. He sheds his jacket, then shirt, tossing them onto the couch in a fluid motion that could have been on a Milan catwalk. He yanks the scarf from his neck, baring his chest, and God, he’s beautiful. No wonder, out of all of New York, out of the entire fashion industry, Vince chose him. I can’t imagine a more beautiful specimen, can’t look at him and find any flaws. And if what’s under his pants matches the outside … Good God. My knees almost buckle at just the thought.

  * * *

  “You seem to be a little obsessed with penises,” I joke, watching him round the end of the table and approach me. I nod toward the painting and am caught off guard when he doesn’t slow. His hands grip my waist and lift. My boots leave the floor and I grab at his shoulders for balance. “What are you—“

  * * *

  I barely get the words out before my ass hits the table. Table settings fly as he sweeps his forearm over its surface, and I watch as a pile of expensive china hits the floor and explodes into pieces.

  * * *

  “Do you want this?” He pants out the question, his hands sliding down the back of my jeans, gripping my ass, and he pulls me to the edge of the table, his body fitting between my open knees.

  * * *

  I don’t know what he’s asking, but I know I want it. Even if it is a drunk gay man’s attempt at a one-night stand. I nod, and his lips crash down on mine.

  Chapter 19

  MARCO

  There is fire in her kiss, an electrical impulse that shoots through my mouth, burns my chest and hits straight to my dick. I’m hard before she even reaches for me, before her hands collide with my chest, run down my stomach, and her nails scrape across my abs. Her legs move, wrapping around me, and I plant my hands on the table behind her, leaning forward until the table digs into my thighs, and I deepen the kiss, pushing her back, a futile attempt she fights with the energy of a stallion.

  Fuck, I love her kiss. It’s wild and untamed, unapologetic as it captures my tongue, samples what I have, and gives it all back. Have I ever been kissed like this? Have I ever met a mouth so addictive? I think of it wrapped around my cock, that tongue wild against my tip, and I almost nut from just the thought of it.

  I straighten a little, leaning back, and grip her hair, pulling her tighter, and dive back into her mouth.

  I used to hate kissing. I used to hate it and now, with her, I never want anything else.

  Her hands slide lower, blindly finding the top of my pants. Outside, the dim beam of a flashlight bobs along the surf and catches my eye, a reminder that we are in a million-dollar fishbowl, on display for anyone who walks on the beach. I reach down, stop her hand, and pull away from her mouth. “Wait.” I lift her off the table and flush against my body. “I don’t want to do this here.”

  She glances over the mess of china and glass, then smirks up at me. “Maybe you should have decided that before destroying three place settings.”

  “Fuck the place settings,” I growl out the words, and that smirk, that light in her eyes, it does something to me.

  “I’d rather fuck something else.”

  Five simple dirty words that destroy any thought of stepping away and being a gentleman. I let out a hard breath and nod toward the front of the house. “Up the stairs. Any bedroom on the right. Now.”

  She almost runs up the stairs. In the bedroom, her shoes fall to the floor with a few quick yanks of laces. Her socks skim off easily. She lays back on the bed, undoes her pants, and I hook my fingers under the denim and work the material over her hips, my mouth finding the exposed skin and kissing it, sucking it, biting it. She squirms beneath me, working her pelvis and helping me shed the jeans. When I get them off, she crosses her legs, and all I can see is a V of red cotton, half-hidden by the tee she wears. I wrap a hand around each ankle, pull her to the edge of the bed, and when I reach for her shirt, she stops me. “No.”

  No. The most painful syllable I’ve ever heard. “Please.” I’ve lost all composure and the word is practically a beg. I undo my pants, push them down and step out of them. I run my palm along the outside of my underwear, gripping my dick through the thin cotton, and watch her eyes drop, her cheeks heating. I move closer and pull down on the boxer briefs, letting them fall to the floor, and stand fully naked before her.

  “Please.” I work my hand over my cock, squeezing the shaft with one hand as I gently tug on my balls with the other. “You have no idea how badly I want to see you.”

  Her eyes are huge, and I can’t wait to see them when I push inside of her, when she feels every inch of me, and all that this cock is capable of. She scoots back on the bed, reaches out, and pulls on the cord of the bedside lamp. The room goes dark, a hushed silence falls, and all I can hear is her breathing, soft huffs of air, ones that lead me closer until my knees bump against the mattress.

  “Come here,” she whispers from the dark, and I crawl onto the bed and toward her.

  * * *

  It’s so dark. The blackout curtains do their job, the Tiffany clock unlit, no source of illumination anywhere. If I’d had them properly prep the house, there’d be a fire in the hearth, candles glowing along the mantle, and the curtains would be open, bed turned down, fresh flowers on the sill.

  There is none of that and I curse, then reign in my frustration, because there’s also perfection in the darkness. I can’t see anything, and am forced to go completely by feel, by scent, by sound. Her hands are hesitant, softly patting over me, and when her hand brushes against me, I can hide the break of my face, the dissolve of control. I almost, but don’t quite, suppress the grunt. A second hand joins her first, and she grips my shaft with both hands, one on top of the other, my head coming out of the top. When she tightens her grip, I almost come, the delicate touch of her hands, coupled with t
he absolute darkness in the room … I pinch my face in concentration and reach forward, moving closer, my knees sinking into the bed, brushing against smooth skin, and when my hands find her in the dark, the blouse is gone, no bra to be found, and I slide my palms over her stomach and across the curve of a bare, perfect breast.

  “You’re so big,” she whispers the words, and I’m lost to them, lost to everything but the feel of her body underneath my hands. I’m a fucking teenager again, a teenager with wood so hard it’s painful, one whose orgasm is barely contained, and who is fascinated, fucking fascinated, by the feel of this woman. It wasn’t like this, the last time, or the last ten times I’ve been with a woman. This is a fucking holy experience, and I don’t know if it’s because Vince is gone, or if it’s just been too long, or if this woman’s body is some sort of a drug, but I kneel over her, her touch exploring my cock, and worship her body with my touch.

  I slide my hands down, run my fingers over the soft thin cotton of her underwear, and tug gently on the fabric. “I need these off.”