About the Authors

ANNE MARSH writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in North Carolina with her two kids and five cats.

CARA LOCKWOOD is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than twenty-six books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her husband and their five children. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, friend her on Facebook, Facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood, or Instagram, Instagram.com/cara_lockwood.

Award-winning author of sensual, emotional adventures of the heart, REBECCA HUNTER writes sexy stories about alpha men and spirited women set in Australia for Mills & Boon DARE. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Award-winning author of sensual, emotional adventures of the heart, REBECCA HUNTER writes sexy stories about alpha men and spirited women set in Australia for Mills & Boon DARE. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

FAYE AVALON lives in southwest England with her super-ace husband and one beloved, ridiculously spoiled golden retriever. She worked as cabin crew, detoured into property development, public relations, court reporting and education, before finally finding her passion: writing steamy romantic fiction. Between writing, practicing yoga, trying to remember the difference between a plié and relevé in ballet class, and keeping the keyboard free of dog hair, Faye can be found checking out Pinterest for hero inspiration.

Visit her at fayeavalon.com.

Also by Rebecca Hunter

Best Laid Plans

Playing with Fire

Baring It All

Also by Faye Avalon

Rescue Me

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Dare Collection March 2020

Hookup

Anne Marsh

The Sex Cure

Cara Lockwood

Hotter on Ice

Rebecca Hunter

Slow Hands

Faye Avalon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90688-7

THE DARE COLLECTION MARCH 2020

Hookup © 2020 Anne Marsh The Sex Cure © 2020 Cara Lockwood Hotter On Ice © 2020 Rebecca Hunter Slow Hands © 2020 Faye Avalon

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Hookup

Back Cover Text

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Sex Cure

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Hotter on Ice

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Slow Hands

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

About the Publisher

Hookup

Anne Marsh

Enemies make the best lovers when an angry ballerina and a brash billionaire face off in New York Times bestselling author Anne Marsh’s latest hot-as-hades DARE novel!

If billionaire Max O’Reilly doesn’t take my video off his hookup app, I’ll destroy more than his high-end laptop. But this computer genius is no geek. He’s all tanned skin and hard muscle and knowing looks. And my man picker must be broken beyond repair, because I can’t help responding to his cocky grin.

Max has figured out my secret: I love to be watched. But I never imagined my hateful ex would upload a video of me pirouetting in nothing but my ballet slippers. Now my job as a social media influencer is on the line. Because who’s going to hire an unwitting porn star to promote their products?

The Silicon Valley CEO wants to make it up to me, and I do need a respectable-looking fake boyfriend to save my reputation. But when a game of beachside truth or dare turns X-rated, the heat between us could fry any electronic device. And when the king of kink wants more than a hookup, I know I should exit stage right before I’m the one who gets burned.

Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha heroes and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

Four new Harlequin DARE titles are available each month, wherever ebooks are sold!

CHAPTER ONE
Maple#goddessofwar #eraser #accidentalpornstar

I MAKE MY grand entrance, bursting through the doors of Kinkster in San Francisco’s gritty, dirty, fabulously alive Mission District. Kinkster is a hookup app for people who preferred nonvanilla sex, but you wouldn’t guess it from the office space. It’s all bland start-up chic, a wide-open, minimalist stage of tables and laptops ringed by a jeans-and-T-shirt-wearing chorus staring at me with varying degrees of shock. Yes, look at me.

Righteous anger surges up in me again, temporarily swallowing the too-familiar sense of shame. I wish I weren’t here, that Madd Dixon was every bit as perfect as he had seesmed. Hot and poetically sweet, he wrote me an honest-to-God card after our first night together, swearing I’d reformed his bad-boy self. Charming, rugged, downright dirty in bed? Yes, yes, and oh you betcha please. We’d been an instant couple from our first date, sharing sleepovers and late-night laptop sessions as we built our respective online businesses. While I built my influencer kingdom, he’d sourced a paper goods supply business, delivering monthly subscription boxes of pretty notebooks, pens, and sticky pads to thousands of home offices across the country. We’d planned to adopt a rescue puppy and last weekend I’d cheered from the sidelines as he played rugby with a brutal, ferocious masculinity that melted my panties right off and made me think, He could be the one. Right now, however, I’d settle for taking his head off—the big one or the small one.

God, he’s a liar.

Madd Dixon also turned out to be a cheater and a bastard, his decision to post our personal video on Kinkster being the cherry on the shit sundae he’d served me. For your eyes only, I’d texted when I’d sent the video I’d made of myself with my phone. Ours, he’d agreed with a winky face and a kiss—and I’d stupidly believed him. Now a gazillion Kinkster subscribers have watched me pirouetting in nothing but my birthday suit and ballet slippers. My inadvertent show-and-tell has already garnered me five hundred hookup requests.

A blue jeans–wearing engineer pads toward me, eyes widening as he takes me in. Sure, he might recognize me from my successful five-year career with the San Francisco Ballet—but I’ll bet he remembers me naked and dancing in that stupid video. Him and everyone else in San Francisco.

He’s willing to play nice, though, asking, “Can I help you?”

No, no you can’t, I want to scream. My picker is irredeemably broken given my recent man choices. My pre-Madd pick was equally a disaster, and the guy before that…let’s not go there. My feet settle automatically into first position, no longer poised to leap.

“Yes,” I lie. What I really need is a brain transplant or a lobotomy. Some kind of drastic intervention. “Someone’s posted a video of me on Kinkster without my permission. I want it taken down.”

“There’s a take-down form on our website for reporting copyright violations.” He volunteers this information cautiously and I bet he wishes he hadn’t stood up because, hello? Helpful, nice people get handed a shit sandwich from the snack cart of life.

“I don’t want to fill out a form.” I inhale deeply, centering myself because otherwise I’ll do something even more stupid than dating Madd. “I want this fixed. Gone. Deleted.”

Lola, my best friend and wing woman, tried to warn me about Madd. Over the years, I’ve razzed her about her broken man picker, but it turns out that I’m the one who needs “Remember: Guys Are Assholes” tattooed on my forehead because over and over I pick the assholiest asshole of the bunch. And my stupidity matters more now than ever because one of my post-ballet career moves is my Instagram brand. Being an Instagram influencer has much in common with a circus seal juggling a bright red ball on its nose. If I serve up the cute, perky and well-balanced version of me and create super popular online content, I’ll not only be able to promote my own athleisure line, but I’ll score paying gigs promoting other products. The downside? I’m always on; the curtain never falls on my performance because I share my personal life with a gazillion insta-friends.

“Take me to your leader.” I stab a finger toward Hot Nerd, who nods nervously, spins on his (bare) heel and marches toward a glass-walled office on the far side of the building.

“Max?” He tosses the name over his shoulder for confirmation, although clearly he’s already decided that Max Whoever-He-Is gets the pleasure of dealing with me.

“Is he responsible for Kinkster?”

Welcoming-Committee-Nerd nods vigorously and the mental soundtrack in my head picks up steam. Today’s theme song is “Ride of the Valkyries.” What kind of guy codes an app specifically for kinky hookups? And what does it say about me that I’ve spent hours scrolling through it? When Hot Nerd pauses in front of an office door, I barrel through it before nerves can get the best of me. No script? No worries. I’ll improvise.

Sunlight floods the office, silhouetting a big, rangy guy sprawled behind yet another laptop. They must pass those things out like candy. The iron-and-wood shelves bolted to the exposed brick walls house an impressive collection of Star Wars figurines outnumbered only by stacks of books. I register dark hair just long enough to run my fingers through and suntanned skin. Head Nerd clearly gets out of the office. A lot. Long lashes sweep up as I storm toward him. God, he has the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen. I might accidentally fall into them for just a second before I recover and continue my self-righteous advance.

He certainly doesn’t look like a geeky code genius. He wears faded blue jeans, work boots and a battered UC Santa Cruz T-shirt, with nary a pocket protector or a button-up shirt in sight. When he crosses powerful forearms over his chest, I catch a glimpse of ink. Worse, his eyes crinkle up as he shoots me a cautious smile. Stupid, hot bastard.

I look at his handsome, arrogant, knowing face and I throw my phone at him as hard as I can. It’s a dramatic gesture—and a futile one. I should have thrown the coffee I held in my other hand. My phone bounces off his shoulder, hits the trendy concrete floor of this stupid, stupid loft space and makes an audible cracking sound. It’s not his fault that Madd is a first-class asshole, but the “Ride of the Valkyries” soundtrack blasting in my head thankfully drowns out logic, because I need to blame someone for my own stupidity. He’ll do.

He shoves effortlessly to his feet, making himself an even larger target. “Max O’Reilly.”

“Asshole,” I counter.

He lifts one broad shoulder. “Guilty as charged. Or were you introducing yourself?”

A hint of a smile still plays about his gorgeous mouth. Stubble roughens his jaw. He hasn’t shaved and I suspect he simply can’t be bothered. His gaze drifts down my body and I wait for the moment of recognition. Sure, I’m fully clothed now but naked ballet makes an impression, as the number of hookup requests I’ve received attest.

“We haven’t met.” He sounds certain, although now he frowns. “But you look familiar.”

He shifts those killer hazel eyes to my phone as he bends to pick it up. Thanks to the unlocked screen, he gets an eyeful of me dancing, a graceful Swan Lake-esque solo that’s all pirouettes and graceful leg extensions. If only I’d bothered with a tutu. A leotard. Something. Since I’m wearing only my favorite pink ballet slippers in the video, however, there are many less-than-PG moments. When Asshole Ex and I broke up because I wanted an exclusive relationship whereas he desired a harem, he’d had the last laugh. He’d created a whole fake fucking profile on Kinkster for me (you really couldn’t call it dating). He’d then shared our video and my favorite dirty fantasy with the entire world. I love being watched and I thought I enjoyed the risk of being caught, but this is next-level risk. This is the difference between getting busted by the mall cop making out with your boyfriend and waking up naked in bed with an entire SWAT team surrounding you, guns drawn.

Max studies the cracked screen for a moment before turning it off and setting my phone on his desk. Hazel eyes sweep over me. “You dance really well.”

So not the point. “Take it down.”

Give him credit. He keeps his eyes on my face. “Why?”

And just like that he plunges into negative territory for those of us keeping score—and yes, he’s earned a penalty.

“Are you insane?” I extend my arm, lean over his desk and pour my coffee on his keyboard. The queen of impulsivity—that’s me. “Why would I choose to share my private video with the world?”

That devastating hint of a smile returns. “Why would you take it down when you look gorgeous?”

Sadly, I’m still reeling enough from Madd’s betrayal that Needy Me laps up the compliment. Bitter Me gets right on his ass, however. “That was a private video.”

“And that was an expensive laptop.” He sounds calm. He doesn’t leap to clean up the coffee carnage. “Your video has 2,348,992 views and it’s trending.”

Maybe I should club him with his hardware? “Take. It. Down.”

“So you’re Maple.” He gets this little puzzled crinkle between his eyes as if I’m a math problem and he’ll have me worked out in a minute.

“Like the tree.” I wave my hand impatiently. I’ve heard all the jokes before.

“That’s not it.” He thinks some more, taking his goddamned time when my entire life is slowly imploding before my (and a million other) eyes, then he smiles. A full-on, sun-wattage-worthy grin. I want to kill him. “You’re Lola’s friend. I know Lola.”

Okay. So if he knows Lola, he’s likely one of those dot-com wealthy boys that hang around her new billionaire boyfriend. They’re like frogs or mosquitos spawning and where you find one, there’s bound to be a whole bunch. It also certainly explains why he’s not outraged at my violation of his hardware—not only does he have loads of money, but he’s probably also in possession of some new, shiny insta-backup system and hasn’t lost so much as a second of work. I think I could hate him. After I kill him.

“Look,” I say. “I’ve had a shitty, shitty day. It kicked off with discovering that I was dancing a naked solo on your Kinkster app because Asshole Ex decided to branch out into the revenge porn business. Then it escalated because it’s not just me being embarrassed that you and a million billion other guys have seen more of me than my gynecologist. This threatens my job, okay? Companies won’t hire an influencer to pimp their products if she’s cavorting naked on the internet, because they figure she’s too busy pimping her personal assets to be bothered with theirs. And since I happen to like electricity and eating and all those other useful things that a girl has to pay for, I need to keep those contracts rolling in—which means you need to take the video down.”

Max studies me some more. Thinking maybe, but it’s hard to tell. “Work here. For me.”

WTF? I have a job. Plus, he’s seen me naked.

“Pass.”

Apparently, he misinterprets pass as a different four-letter word, one that rhymes with duck, because he counteroffers. “A new job to replace the old one, thirteen hundred stock options, and a date. With me,” he adds, lest I think he’s being overambitious and asking me to take on the entire engineering team.

“Who let you out of the cave?” I step into him.

My new Neanderthal acquaintance stands firm, but I’ve already figured out that Max O’Reilly lacks the boundaries most people possess. And because he won’t back up and I won’t back down, we end up thigh to thigh, our bodies brushing as if we were dancing. I’m far too aware of the heat of his body, the controlled strength concealed beneath his clothes. He isn’t a professional dancer—I’d know him if he was—but he does far more than code all day.

“Why did you make the video?” God. That voice, low and smooth, perfect for phone sex, and parts of me demand that all of me pay attention, especially since when he lowers his head, his mouth ends up so very close to mine. His lips demand kissing. Nibbling.

Maybe even outright biting.

Except he’s seen me naked.

He’s watched my video.

This is totally, absolutely crazy, even for me. There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’d work for him or go out with him. Plus, I have the whole broken man picker thing to work on. It’s the shame talking, I decide. I’m embarrassed that I fell for Madd’s lines, and now I want to prove to myself that other guys like me just fine.

“It was a surprise for my boyfriend.” Max O’Reilly works in an office that has windows rather than walls, and I’m certain we have an avid audience. I can feel my cheeks flush, my body heating up because I have a dirty little secret of my own. Hi, my name is Maple and I love being watched. “He wasn’t supposed to share it.”

“How did you know he wouldn’t?” Max looks genuinely curious.

“Because we were in a relationship? Because I trusted him?”

Max shifts, and for a moment I think he’s giving up. But then he leans into me. “I don’t have relationships.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“I have hookups,” he continues. “For sex.”

I give his announcement a moment of silence because wow. This man either has no filter or he’s entirely too honest—which he proves with his next words.

“It’s more satisfying, yeah?”

It certainly explains why he’s used his coding skills to develop a hookup app rather than, say, curing cancer through genome sequencing. I intend to explain the joys of a committed relationship (again, liar), but something entirely different comes out of my mouth. “Did you jerk off to my dancing?”

“Yes.” His lips quirk, as if he’s maybe trying to rein himself in but can’t quite manage it.

“Fix it.” I stab my finger into his big beautiful chest. Obviously, I’m not on the dating market at the moment, but he is muscled. You, sir, are definitely more than just an engineer.

He looks down at me, that slow smile curling his mouth. “How?”

“How should I know?” I throw my hands up in the air. Yes, I’m being dramatic. No, I don’t care. “Take it down. Make sure there are no copies anywhere and then forget you ever saw me.”

I turn and storm out of his office, ready to bring down the curtain on this particular performance. No one stops me as I march past the tables of software engineers and through the front door. No one knows that I’m silently replaying what happened in that office, the way our bodies brushed, the way Max O’Reilly knew. He knew what I liked. He recognized the heat that curled through my body at the thought of him watching me dance. Maybe he even knew about the freedom in exposure, in dancing wide open and free. Or maybe he’s just a dirty pervert—a pervert who still has my phone in his possession.

CHAPTER TWO
Max

DON’T SUE ME but my eyes are glued to Maple Washington’s dramatically exiting and truly spectacular ass. I keep it discreet, but I’m a huge, huge fan of the yoga pants. She came, she spoke, she gave me a boner despite my legitimate, good faith efforts to listen to her. In under three minutes, I’m six thousand dollars poorer (the laptop) and my balls are Smurf-blue (the boner). What the fuck just happened? And how do I fix it? I pull out my phone and start a new list of Things I Learned Today:

Item: Ms. Washington’s parents shouldn’t have been allowed to name a child because adding anything to a birth certificate from the Acer genus is wrong.

Item: Bad breakup + revenge porn = most popular video ever

I can’t remember a more successful share on my app and I have an excellent memory for numbers. Leaving the video live is tempting. Naked, dancing Maple is amazing and she’s making me cash—but since the word yes has yet to come out of her mouth, it’s a no-go. I believe a hundred percent that consent is nonnegotiable—plus, she’d just come right back here. And while my dick definitely votes for a repeat visit, my brain suggests that angry hate sex will never, ever top Maple’s to-do list. She’s more likely to kick me in my Smurf-colored balls.

Still, she hasn’t lawyered up to hit me with a lawsuit—she’s just demanded I fix her problem, and even if her timeline and expectations are unreasonable (the internet is forever, ladies and gentlemen, until or unless a gigantic EMP wipes out the world’s electronics), she hasn’t bullshit me, either. Unhappiness is inevitably and directly proportional to monetary demands, so I would have expected Maple’s demands to include a mountain of cash. Instead, she’s all righteous indignation. I half expect her to take a flying leap over desks or an engineer as she barges out of Kinkster. Energy crackles almost visibly off her, along with something else, some charisma or star power, a secret charm I’ve never mastered and that has me—and everyone else at Kinkster—staring after her as our front door bangs shut.

She barely skimmed my shoulder, putting her at five feet four inches tall in shoes. The blond hair piled on top of her head added three more inches. The yoga pants, a cropped shirt and a long-sleeved drapey thing (San Francisco is notoriously damp and chilly) completely covered up what was on display in the video—and before you insist that people don’t walk around naked and gyrating, remember that this is San Francisco. We host annual parades devoted to sex and naked people. I allow myself a minute to imagine Maple leading a parade down Market Street. Fantasizing is inadvisable, but since she won’t work for me and she’s flounced out of my life, imagination it is.

I have her phone, so it isn’t even as if I can call her. Which would have been inadvisable idea number two. She’s gone, making her dislike clear—ergo, I don’t get to fuck her. Ever. I add that to a new list, the list of Things that Suck—Get Over It. Having had her within touching distance, I know the real Maple has brown eyes. And even though she wore flats rather than pink ballet slippers, she moved through my office as if she were dancing. Just thinking about her feet makes me swallow. She has small tits and the lean build of a dancer, a sexy, flexible package that drives every remaining thought from my head.

I need to let it go.

Let her go.

Instead, I watch her dance one last time on my phone, staring at the screen where she spins effortlessly in beautiful loops and spirals, her right leg extending and flashing me as she whips through a series of beautiful, obscene kicks. I’m both turned on and resentful that I can’t stop watching her.

When my lead engineer sticks his head in my door, I trigger the script to remove her video from our servers, shove my phone back into my pocket and silently hand him my coffee-soaked laptop. I keep spares on the shelf in my office. Stockpiling avoids downtime. Returning to the code I was working on when Maple busted in seems anticlimactic, however, so instead I amuse myself by looking up my guest. I stay respectful, though, and stick to Google and stuff found online. I do no digging into her personal life, but I still add the following to my Things I Know about Maple list:

1. Maple danced five years for the San Francisco Ballet. They have awesome photos of her dressed as a swan princess (white feathers everywhere) and a hot corsair’s date.

2. A year ago, Maple left the ballet and became an influencer in the athleisure space. This means she works out in fancy clothes eighty hours a week and lives on either ramen noodles or air unless she has a new supply of free energy bars from a partner. In which case, she lives on those. In all cases, she takes pictures. An insane number of pictures.

3. Her Instagram is vibrant, colorful and loud—and full of pictures of Maple in the aforementioned athleisure wear, with food, and in places like the beach, the gym and the airport.

4. She loves puppies.

5. And kittens.

6. People pay her to do photoshoots and spend time in yoga pants. She smiles often, she’s a bit of a goofball, and I’d bet she sells a lot of clothing. I’d buy whatever she’s selling.

7. She’s always on the move—running, dancing, twirling, twitching. It’s entirely possible we could run together and she’d keep up with me. Or beat my ass. She’d certainly look better doing it.

8. There’s a photo of her in a big, poufy fuchsia skirt with a white T-shirt supporting Alzheimer’s research. She’s doing more twirling, along with smiling and standing up for what she believes in, and it’s hard not to smile back because she’s just that passionate.

9. Number seven promptly makes me imagine what Maple would be like in bed.

10. I need to stop this.

It’s child’s play to trace the account that originally uploaded the video. I hack into the owner’s laptop and discover that Madd Dixon didn’t bother to cover his trail or delete the original video. Given his demonstrated lack of ethics, I don’t limit myself to publicly available data, instead going for a deep dive into his cyber life. Just call me Miss Marple. Or maybe Poirot. Mustaches and suits are a better look for me than cardigans and pearls.

When a paper cup and straw materialize in front of my face, I reach for them automatically. The cup retreats. My first thought is that Maple has come back. It’s illogical because she hates me. Still, when I look up and realize it’s just Jack, I’m disappointed if not surprised. We have a standing Thursday taco truck date and I’ve worked through my alert.

“You stood me up.” Jack waggles the cup just out of reach. “And yet here I am, putting out.”

“You’re easy.” I take the cup and hit Save. “And I was busy.”

“Eat.” A paper bag thumps down next to my laptop and I smell cilantro and cumin.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Jack says something else, but I’m no longer listening. I’m planning the next step in my Madd campaign.

“What’re we doing?” He leans against my desk, tearing into his first taco. Jack’s a big guy and he requires a constant fuel supply. He’s also much more observant than most people give him credit for.

“Getting even.”

His brows lift in amusement. “Turned white knight?”

“You don’t have a Kinkster account.” Which means he’s likely the only adult male in San Francisco who hasn’t seen Maple’s video. And while I’m unexpectedly glad he’s a Maple virgin, it also makes asking his advice harder.

“I’m married, remember?” Jack wads up the tinfoil from his taco and lobs it into my trash can in a perfect two-point shot.

I attended his wedding, so I definitely remember. There are, however, married people using my app—and not all of them are hooking up with each other. I note, not for the first time, that Jack doesn’t sound one hundred percent happy. Maybe 70 percent. Sixty even. It could be a bad day, week or year in the venture capital world he rules, but I suspect money’s not the problem.

I look up and engage in some wishful thinking. My people skills are minimal, whereas Jack is a great guy. Everybody loves him, and not just because he’s a big muscled guy and outstanding eye candy. I’ve heard him labeled teddy bear, lumberjack and Thor. Whatever. He’s one of the few people I care about, and so for him I make an effort. We’ve been friends since freshman year at Santa Cruz when we shared a dorm room and terrorized the computer science department. When we graduated, we went in different directions. He married on the beach and founded a venture capital company. I coded dating apps and had hookups. We also each made a billion dollars along the way but, to be fair, we’re still fundamentally the same people we were back in our college days. We know when the other is full of shit or having a bad week or just needs to get out on the ocean and surf. I’m sure a surfboard is enough to fix Jack this time.

Jack steals a second taco from the bag. Right. He’s waiting for an answer.

“I was at your wedding.” I snatch the bag back and assess. Ten tacos plus the two currently residing in Jack’s bottomless stomach make six each since California is a community property state and dividing shit in half is legally mandated. I pull four foil-wrapped tacos from the bag and pass them to Jack. “Don’t worry, I’ll bear witness that you’re married.”

Jack is suddenly very interested in his taco.

Item: Jack isn’t a hundred percent good.

He points his half-eaten taco at my laptop and even I recognize a brilliant diversionary tactic. “What are you really working on?”

“Revenge. True story.”

Naturally, Jack slides my laptop around to see for himself. The picture of Maple is downloaded from a cached version of the San Francisco Ballet website. In it, she balances on the toes of one foot, her other leg extending into space behind her. Her arms are flung wide as if to hug her audience, and despite the solemn look on her beautiful face, her eyes smile at us. Sparkly white fabric fills the frame around her and there’s something on her head that looks as if a tiara and a peacock mated and produced feathery diamanté babies. I prefer the naked dancing.

Jack returns his attention to his taco. “Who is she?”

“Lola’s friend. She paid me a visit this morning.”

“And you decided to get to know her better?” Jack raises a brow. It’s one of his innate talents and it drives me crazy that I’ve never mastered the move myself.

“She was upset. Her boyfriend posted a video of her on Kinkster. It was our number one video.”

Jack sighs and knuckles his eyes with his hand. “Kinkster doesn’t post cute puppy videos, so I’m assuming there’s a connection between her upset and the boyfriend’s video.”

I’m never a complete ass, not on purpose. “It’s down.”

“But how many people saw it first?”

“It has 2,348,992 hits. It turns out that Maple is a very talented naked dancer and she’s totally uninhibited.”

Jack groans. He’s always been Mr. Rules, while Dev and I are a little more flexible. Dev was the third guy in our freshman suite at UC Santa Cruz, the first of us to earn a billion dollars, and the member of our friendship triumvirate most likely to use his coding skills for evil. His is a wicked taste for revenge. Steal his ecommerce software and you’ll wake up one morning to discover that you’re unexpectedly selling dildos or other hard-to-explain items. I admire the effort he puts into keep our world fair.

Jack clears his throat. Right. He believes we’re having a conversation in which we take turns talking. Honestly, it’s more like a one-way sermon—as his next words prove.

“Which is 2,348,991 people more than Maple intended.”

Is it?

I’m not so sure about that.

I feel my mouth curve up in a smile as I repossess my laptop.

“I can’t make people unsee her,” I say when the silence stretches on too long. Duh. Even I don’t possess superpowers. “But I can get even with Madd.”

“What kind of a name is Madd?” he mutters. I don’t say anything because the answer is obvious. Stupid, pretentious, owned by a man with a small dick and no brains—take your pick. According to Madd’s website, he was born in Orange County, California, but I’d bet five bucks his mother didn’t put that name on his birth certificate.

Jack’s eyes shift up and to the left. Now he’s thinking, too, which means Madd is totally screwed. Jack’s brain is scary good when it comes to revenge and diabolical plots. “Public access records?”

“Mostly? This is why it’s important to beef up government security. Since I’m using my powers for good, however, you can save the lecture.”

To be fair, there will undoubtedly be a next time and the next time might not be motivated by a belief in justice and fairness. I’m a big fan of rule breaking for any reason, plus I’m nosy.

“And the public good is somehow best served by stalking Maple’s boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend.” Five fun facts about Madd?

1. The password on his voice mail was 123. I add fourteen decimal places and record a new message announcing his move to Siberia to seek a natural cure for his STD.

2. He’s either unaware that his phone automatically saves the photos he takes to the cloud or he’s the ultimate narcissist because his cloud storage includes 129 dick pics. I make picture 116 his avatar on all his social media accounts.

3. Madd isn’t into charitable giving. I help him out by rerouting the contents of his checking account to an erectile dysfunction research group and a save the gorillas campaign. Personal growth is important and this way he’s covered literally and metaphorically.

4. Madd’s inbox is a busy, busy place after I run a handy little script that signs his email up for every known newsletter on the planet without an unsubscribe link. He currently has 19214 welcome emails.

5. He uses the same insecure password on his dating profile, his bank account, his rideshare apps and multiple online shopping sites. Naturally, I change them and his security questions to a twenty-seven-character password complete with arcane punctuation in random spots.

6. His real name is Raymond. I haven’t decided what to do with that yet. I’ll save that dessert for later.

Jack shakes his head when I close the lid of my laptop three minutes later. Mischief managed. “I hope you have a good lawyer.”

This is a rhetorical question since we have the same firm on retainer. You get what you pay for and we pay a lot. I flip him the bird. “I won’t get caught.”

“This isn’t college,” he says, and I hear the warning there.

“I know.” I do, too. Sometimes I miss those days. Not the broke-and-starving part, but the freedom to do whatever we could get away with. Having a company of people who depend on me for their paycheck and health insurance took some getting used to, but so far I haven’t let them down and Kinkster makes good money. Still, I’m standing on the steps in the pool of life while Jack and Dev splash around in the deep end. While the number of married couples in the United States with kids is currently at an all-time low, it’s still not unlikely that Jack and his wife procreate in the none-too-distant future and then things will change even more.

I finished inhaling my first taco. “How’s Mrs. Jack?”

Jack shoves the remainder of his taco into his mouth and chews methodically. I count to freaking forty before he swallows. I’m never quite sure when people are legitimately acting weird—maybe he’s on one of those diet quests where you chew twenty times and commune deeply with your meal so that you enjoy more, consume less and magically shed weight. It’s equally possible, though, that he’s avoiding answering my question.

“You killed her and buried the body,” I deadpan, going for my second taco.

He frowns. “She’s traveling for work.”

Huh.

Mrs. Jack travels a great deal. I’d share that comment or make a joke, but Jack’s face takes on a closed-off look I process while I consume tacos three and four. He doesn’t want to talk about Molly, I decide. Usually Jack’s an open-book guy, happy to share and either tell you all about the awesomeness that is his life or bitch about the work-related stuff. Sometimes, though, he gets in a mood and slams the book shut. I’ve had my fingers pinched more than once, so I back off. I’ll ask Dev and then we’ll figure out how to fix whatever is wrong with Jack.

“Maui?”

“No.”

“Mexico?” Molly’s work takes her mostly to tropical destinations. She’s visited Mexico, the Bahamas and Thailand in the last year. I had no idea that being a pharmaceutical sales rep was so much fun, but Jack claims she’s really, really good at it and that these trips are often company-sponsored rewards for being a superstar employee. While Jack tries to remember where his wife is this particular week, I briefly debate with myself whether or not my fellow Kinksters would be more or less productive after a week in Mexico.

Honestly, we’d probably single-handedly destroy trade relations between Mexico and the US. At the very least, some of us would end up on a first-name basis with the consulate and since I like keeping my vacation options open and my engineering team intact, I finish off my fifth taco and reluctantly scratch “group tropical vacation” off the mental prize list I keep. When I was a kid with a reluctant acquaintance with toothpaste, my dentist used to motivate me with postcleaning visits to a cardboard treasure chest he kept underneath the receptionist’s desk. I’m the dentist now in this scenario and my employees are fishing for prizes. The most popular is cash, although Prada bags and Harleys come in second and third.

“Iceland,” Jack announces.

What?

Right.

Mrs. Jack.

“They sell drugs in Iceland?”

Jack takes a sip of his drink. “Molly went to Iceland.”

Iceland has never struck me as a hotbed of industry, but I’m pretty sure that’s where the northern lights are and it sounds really cool. And then I have a moment of sheer genius.

“Why don’t you join her for the weekend?” My fingers are already flipping the laptop open, pulling up my favorite travel site, and plugging in dates and airport codes. Wow. If you get bored having hookup sex, you can stare out the window at glaciers and lava fields. Or go fishing! Or have sex in geothermal pools! (Actually, I’m not sure of the effect of what is essentially superheated bathwater on the male penis, but kissing has to be possible.)

Jack frowns. “She’s working.”

24/7?

I open my mouth and close it. Don’t go there.

Plus, Jack’s already off onto another topic.

“Are you planning on hooking up with Maple?”

Quickly finishing my last taco, I protest, “I’m not interested in her.”

Jack just snorts. “Sure you aren’t. She’s a girl and you haven’t hooked up with her yet. That makes her your type.”

I shrug. “Clearly, she’s attracted to asshole idiots and I only qualify on one count, not both.”

Jack laughs, which was my plan.

The thing is, Maple and I might have something pretty important in common.

I love to watch.

And she clearly lives to perform.

I’m not Mr. Relationship—hello, I wrote a hookup app. Can I be any clearer? Hookups are short, expectations are agreed upon in advance, and everyone goes home with the fabulous parting gift of an orgasm. Plus, when I open my mouth I run everyone off. I’m blunt, I love numbers and I’m the nerdiest billionaire ever. Yes, I own a Jedi lightsaber and I’d have levitated out of bed and through my day if I could. I have two PhDs, I type at light speed but my handwriting is shit, and I remember everything in numbers: miles, seconds, URLs or IP addresses. The ladies not on Kinkster frown on numbers unless they’re the number of zeroes in my bank account. Maple is obviously creative (very, very creative, particularly at 1:12 in her video), so there’s no way we could ever work. Plus, she’s more than a little crazy—and (let’s be honest) I’m an engineer at heart. A dirty, filthy rich billionaire engineer, but she’s way too unpredictable for me. Code does exactly what you tell it to do, with no surprises, no messy emotions and no drama.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack abandons my office for his and I go back to stalking Maple online. Ten minutes more and then I’ll stop. I promise. From their respective Facebook timelines, I learn that Maple and Madd had been seeing each other for eleven months. In dog years, that’s fourteen years. In human years, that means hundreds of cute couple photos. There are so many that I skip counting them because I’m burning through my minutes and I already know that Madd is a total dick.

I’m not sure I’ve done enough, to be honest. A quick check in Kinkster’s databases reveals Maple currently has an impressive 937 hookup requests. I send her 937 lavender roses as an apology because purple is the color of royalty (I google it) and she’s a fucking queen.

Deleting her video from our online storage takes even less time. A few keystrokes and Kinkster no longer has its very own dancing ballerina. Removing her performance from our backups requires a few additional steps and documentation, but five minutes after I start, I’ve erased all traces of her. No breakup was ever quicker or more thorough.

Goodbye, Maple.

CHAPTER THREE
Maple#cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex

“HE SENT YOU the flowers?”

The he is one Max O’Reilly, hot, sexy, frustrating-as-hell, impossible-to-read billionaire bachelor. Yes, there’s an entire app devoted to dating financially successful San Franciscans. Yes, I looked him up. Yes, despite his weird dating-and-job extra value combo meal proposition, he’s as commitment averse as any of the guys I’ve dated before and the only relationships he seems to have embraced have been brief connections between his penis and a handy vagina. He’s like public transit in San Francisco, rushing from stop to stop and predictably overcrowded, while I’ve always been more of a Trans-Siberian Railway girl, in it for the long haul and the memories.

Lola stares at me, nail polish brush hovering over my bare feet in her lap as she waits for my answer. Or possibly she’s just dizzy from the overpowering scent of roses in full bloom. I’ve been walking around in a rose-scented cloud since they arrived three days ago. I hum a few bars from The Blue Danube waltz. Strauss wrote it to cheer up the Austrian nation after they got their butts kicked in the Seven Weeks’ War and went broke, so it seems like a good post-Madd-breakup theme song. Plus, it’s catchy and the ultimate earworm.

I’m hosting our monthly girls’ night in my San Francisco studio. Despite the limited space (made even more limited by the addition of 937 roses in full bloom), I love my tiny, closet-sized living quarters. Said quarters are at the very tippy-top of a house fronting a square that’s alternately foggy, hot or just outright grimy, and inhabited by trees, pigeons and the occasional homeless guy. Everything in San Francisco is short on space and so the house is tall and gangly like a twiggy, sun-starved plant reaching for the occasional spot of sunshine when it breaks through the inevitable clouds and fog. The outside is all decorative bric-a-brac and a real-life turret with a wind vane sitting on its red-tile top. I had a choice of living in the turret or the unit next door, which has a balcony. If I’d been a billionaire, I’d have gone for both and knocked down the wall between them, but instead I chose the balcony. I do a morning barre routine there, fingers curled around the balustrade while San Francisco trundles sleepily below me as I plié.

Lola alternates pink with white polka dots and pink stripes on white, which means my toenails are as cheerfully pretty as the rest of my feet are not. Years of dancing en pointe have changed the shape and look of my toes, and even though they’re no longer blistered and bloody from hours of daily dancing, they’ll never look the same again. Doesn’t matter. I love them. They’re a reminder that I really can do anything if I try hard enough and long enough.

“He sent 937 roses when he returned my phone.” At least I’m almost certain they’re from Max. The handwriting on the florist’s card was really bad, to the point where if you’d told me the note was in Cyrillic, I’d have believed you. The one person I know, however, who did not send those flowers is my ex-boyfriend. Madd never sent me roses. In retrospect, I’m lucky he didn’t gift me with an STD. Part of me wants to laugh or find a way to rub my ex’s face in my flowers (starting with the thorny bits), but the rest of me is still a sad, angry llama that appreciates expensive flowers. And the quick phone repair job. I definitely wasn’t offended by that.

“Wow.” Lola caps the polish. “That’s random.”

“It’s very precise,” I counter. “I think he sent one rose for each hookup request I had on Kinkster.”

Frankly, that number is obscene. Literally. I need no more dick pics in my life, so flowers and a free phone repair are a welcome change even if the only “message” was Max’s name scrawled on the florist’s card in black Sharpie, bold and impatient. The picture I snapped of my new floral accoutrements already has a thousand likes on Instagram.

Lola just grins. “That sounds like Max actually.”

I try to sound cool, as if hot, smart guys send me the contents of a florist’s shop all the time. “He sends flowers wantonly and indiscriminately?”

Lola considers this for a nanosecond. “Max is not a flower guy.”

“His mother? Dead coworkers? Nada?”

“You’d have to ask him, but flowers are for the well mannered. Max is blunt.” She makes a face. “Wrecking-ball blunt. He tends to put people off. It’s the precision flower-sending that makes perfect sense. He wouldn’t send a dozen roses, but 937? Absolutely. That number means something to him and he loves numbers. He’s equally likely to send you 937 truffles or 937 thong panties or 937 of whatever else pops into his dirty mind.”

“Tell me more.” The smile stretching my own face is as big and goofy as, say, a bouquet of a thousand purple roses. I only want to know more because he’s seen me naked, I tell myself. And never mind that by that standard I should be holding mass meet and greets across the foggy, fine city of San Francisco. “Is he seeing anyone?”

Lola snorts. “Not for more than an hour at a time.”

I don’t have relationships.

I have hookups. For sex.

Doesn’t he realize that relationships are special? Any two people can hook up, but it takes effort to maintain that connection. It’s the difference between a salad of edible flowers and growing a garden from seed. It’s what makes Madd’s betrayal so much harder to stomach, because not only had I almost decided that he was my forever man, but I’d invested a considerable amount of time in us.

“He’s a billionaire,” Lola says. “That makes it harder, if you know what I mean.”

Now it’s my turn to snort. “Because not having any money makes everything so much easier? Pardon me if I’m not feeling sympathetic.”

“People date him for the experience or because they want stuff from him.” She turns my foot, admiring her handiwork.

I’m not stupid. I’d connected a few dots even before flouncing out of his office on Monday and then promptly checking him out on the Billionaire Bachelors app he created, an app that’s apparently the best way to meet the love (or lay) of your life. Think about that for a moment. He’s the CEO of a company that hooks people up for kinky sex and DIY porn. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s a money-making idea, but billionaire conjures up images of hot, cut guys (or old, fat guys) in expensive suits. But maybe that’s like assuming all dancers run around in tutus 24/7?

“That explains how he could afford all the roses.” I can’t remember the last time I dated someone who was financially solvent enough to purchase a dozen roses, let alone almost a thousand apology flowers. Not that Max and I are dating. Or hooking up. Or even remotely interested in each other. Although I do appreciate the fact that he did what he promised to do and took my dirty dancing video down. Madd had definitely set the bar low in the promise-keeping department.

“Do you want me to cut Madd’s balls off? Or send Dev to perform the amputation?” Lola grins, clearly enjoying her mental revenge fantasy.

Frankly, it appeals.

“That would be a career-limiting move,” I say finally. “I think I’m going to have to take the high road here and avoid a recreational stay in San Quentin. I’m holding out for the round-the-world tour.”

“Madd’s a dick.” Lola waves the nail brush for emphasis. “I never liked him. Next time, you should listen to me.”

“Duly noted. Walking away from a long-term relationship sucks. Madd and I were a couple and I invested time in us. I thought I knew him.”

Does that sound plaintive? Yes, it does. I make a note to kick myself in the butt.

Lola’s already shaking her head. “How many times have you gone out with a guy just for fun?”

“We had fun,” I protest.

“You go from zero to sixty,” Lola says. “You move him in and then it’s all future plans and serious talks because everything has to be a milestone and a step forward and special.”

“Lola.”

She leans her head against my shoulder. “You need to slow down, Maple. You don’t think about what’s happening right now because you’re so busy planning for a future that never arrives.”

“The future never arrives because I pick shitty men,” I say.

“You don’t know them, Maple. You just fantasize them into being right. I think you need to take a break.”

“From life? From sex? Or just the entire male gender?”

Lola sits up and slaps my shoulder. “Just have fun the next time you go out with someone. Use him for sex. Don’t go plunging into another long-term relationship five minutes after meeting someone.”

I make a face, willing someone to knock on the door or a telemarketer to call. Now would even be a good time for the upstairs neighbor to do the galumphing walkabout she usually saves for 3 a.m. “No more relationships. Just fun. And business. I’m still trying to get offered that contract from the Live Your Best Life people.”

I’m not ashamed to beg. Please, please, please pick me to be the face of your yearlong campaign because there is nothing I’d love more than to spend twelve months touring the world on your dime and shooting fabulous, yoga-and-dance-related content. Can you imagine what that would be like? Jet-setting from one tropical island to the next? They just fired the influencer who was the social media face of their campaign for drunken scooter driving in Thailand, so they need to find someone fast.

My phone pings, alerting me that dinner has arrived. Saved! I lever myself off the bed and walk to the door on my heels because it would be a shame to spoil Lola’s handiwork. I haven’t had pretty toenails in years—it’s one of the downsides to being a dancer. Nightly ice baths, gauze, blisters—none of those scream “pedicure.” Even now that I’m no longer dancing professionally, my feet are still tough and I love them.

When the intercom buzzes, I let in the delivery guy and carefully walk over to the door on my heels to retrieve our dinner.

Lola frowns at me. No, at my feet. “How do you do that?”

I look down automatically, but those are the same feet she was painting seconds ago, albeit slightly dustier. I need to up my housekeeping game. “Do what?”

“Walk so gracefully,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

“Years of practice.” I dig into the bag and pass her a set of wood chopsticks. While anybody can dance, ballet requires a commitment. In relationship terms, it’s a monogamous, twenty-five-year marriage rather than a fun hookup. And while I think I like my new life, it feels strange not to be spending sixty-plus hours a week dancing. “How are things with Dev?”

She grins. “He’s amazing.”

“Out of bed, too, I hope?” I arrange my food on the table and snap a picture then ten more because the lighting’s not quite right. #cheatnight #notsohealthy #betterthansex. Which, I discover when I dig into the first carton, isn’t an exaggeration at all. Mmm. Chow mein with those bright red chunks of pork.

Lola launches into a Dev story, something about a romantic weekend up in Napa. I think there were supposed to be wineries and maybe a romantic picnic surrounded by grapevines, but Lola’s story meanders from a really cool-sounding lunch in a restaurant that even I’ve heard of to a roadside pit stop (kissing) to finding a stream surrounded by wildflowers (where far more than kissing happened).

Her face glows when she talks about Dev. She met him by crash-landing in his lap at a networking event, and then followed the introduction up by hiring him as her new summer intern. Of course, it turned out he’d really come to her office to find out why she was illegally using his software (a completely innocent mistake on her part) and then they’d had hate-sex before agreeing to mutually use each other for orgasms. Or so Lola tells it.

Because there’s that glow that says their relationship is far more than crazy hot sex in some pretty kinky places. They’re happy together rather than angry and I think they may be working their way toward that long-term monogamous thing sooner rather than later. Like picking-out-a-puppy-together territory or possibly even a permanent move to the Kingdom of Happily-Ever-After. I’ve heard they have engagement rings and killer ceremonies there. Lola’s Dev stories are pretty freaking amazing, but I hope he realizes just how lucky he is. Lola may not have a billion dollars, but she’s worth the world to me and I’ll kill him if he can’t see that.

The Kinkster app on my phone pings and I can’t stop myself from giving the screen a quick glance. “Max owes me a rose—I have another hookup request.”

And eww. This guy also sent a picture and my eyeballs are burning. There are things you can’t unsee, no matter how small the phone screen.

Lola grabs a carton of kung pao shrimp and digs in. “I thought you deleted that app.”

I shrug. “Just keeping track of my fans.”

At first, I kept the app on my phone to make sure Madd hadn’t uploaded anything else. Then, I kept it just because. Just because I’m curious. Just because the kink other people get up to is amazing. Just because it reminds me of Max and then I can’t focus, imagining the way his mouth curled into a grin and his legs brushed mine. Maybe just because part of me wonders if he really deleted all the copies of that video—or if he’s still watching me.

CHAPTER FOUR
Max

SATURDAY IS THE crown jewel in a week that went rapidly downhill after I met Maple on Monday. It takes twenty minutes to find a place where I can pull off the Santa Cruz highway because the sandy stretch fronting the Pacific Ocean is busier than an In-N-Out drive-through after a pot festival. And then, when I finally battle my way to the surf break, rookies clog the water, battling for a shot at the waves. Secrets have a way of getting out. The whole time I’m out on the ocean, my brain keeps rewinding my encounter with Maple. Did she really believe her boyfriend would keep her video secret? Does she think about my watching her video? Does she imagine, even for a second, what I look like fisting my dick as I watch? Watched. After an epic wipeout on what should have been a good wave, I abandon my surfing attempt and head in. The sun is setting and tomorrow is another day. Just call me Scarlett.

My board bumps against the backs of my knees and I adjust my grip, towing it to shore and up onto the sand. Splashing behind me indicates Jack and Dev are following my lead.

I lob the usual no-brainer over my shoulder. “Tequila and tacos?”

Jack, Dev and I always hit up T&T after our Saturday surf. Not only is it just down the road from our favorite beach, but the bartender makes all sorts of weird margaritas and there’s a taco al pastor that’s the best this side of Cabo. This time, however, no one rushes to agree or joke about whose turn it is to pick up the bar tab. Instead, the silence stretches out between us. I turn until I can see their faces. Nope. I’m still clueless.

Jack finally shrugs. “Sure.”

He doesn’t sound sure.

A frown puckers his forehead. When did he get so distant?

Dev’s not even looking at me because he’s head down in his phone. “Lola’s in.”

This is supposed to be our time together, but things have changed since Dev met Lola and our Saturday nights have changed.

“The more the merrier,” I say because I can’t let him know that I mind. I’m the laid-back one in our group, the one who bounces from hookup to hookup because anything longer than twenty-four hours is too long.

Dev shoots me a look and I bite back a wince.

Right.

Lola’s a default setting now and not a user preference.

After four years at UC Santa Cruz and then flopping together in a crazy small San Francisco studio while we got our businesses off the ground (and I finished off PhD number two), old habits die hard. It’s always been the three of us. Four, I guess, if you count Jack’s wife, Molly, whom he married six weeks after graduation. But things change.

Items one and two: Dev and Jack have changed. Is it terrible that I feel a little bad about that? We’ll sort it out, but right now I feel unsettled. I don’t like not understanding the rules.

By the time we’re seated on the deck at T&T, the sun’s down, it’s dark, and I’m feeling better. T&T is the best beach bar in the world. The thatched roof talks back to the near-constant ocean breeze, whistling and flapping and filling up any silence not handled by the waves crashing on the shore just yards away. The furniture’s a comfortable, mismatched set of wooden Adirondack chairs (not Mexican but I cut the owners some slack) and swings suspended from the palapa roof so that you can rock gently back and forth while you belly up to the bar. There’s no better place to unwind and analyze the day’s waves and rides. It’s so good, in fact, that I’ve given serious thought to buying a beach bar of my own on some fun tropical island in the South Pacific but ownership laws for noncitizens are draconian and I suspect I’d get tired of listening to drunk people whine because they won’t own their shit.

For the first hour, drinks flow steadily as we break down the waves and our rides. We complain about the rooks crowding our sand, and for a few minutes, it feels like it always did.

But eventually Lola pops in, making a beeline for our usual table in the corner. She’s wearing a tank top and a pair of athletic leggings like the ones Maple wore. I calculate the distance between her San Francisco place and here, and come to the obvious conclusion that she’s once again spent the night at Dev’s Santa Cruz place. At some point, the two of them need to just move in together, if only to cut down on the carbon emissions.

Item: They have no qualms about kissing in public.

In fact, Lola launches herself at Dev and they end up wrapped around each other, arms, hands and tongues going all sorts of places. This isn’t a bad thing, although I prefer watching strangers go at it rather than one of my best friends. Dev also tends to be possessive and private, so I’m not sure what to make of this change.

Lola waves a greeting at Jack and me when she comes up for air, and for the next half hour we chat about the easy stuff—which companies have IPO’d, who’s seeing who, and who’s gone bankrupt since the last time we caught up over nachos. Silicon Valley is tough. We tease Jack about being Silicon Valley royalty, but he always counters that he’s more pirate than prince. Nice people get eaten alive.

“I hear you’re sending girls flowers now.” Lola digs her elbow into my rib cage. Is she being friendly or is she pissed off?

“One girl.” I stare at her for a moment. “And how do you know about those?”

“Maple’s my best friend?” She makes a face. “Plus, it’s really hard to overlook a gazillion purple roses in a San Francisco studio.”

“Nine hundred and thirty-seven roses,” I correct automatically.

Lola’s grin widens. “You owed her six more by the time we finished dinner last night.”

It takes me three seconds to work out that she’s joking, although my fingers itch to order the missing flowers from my phone. “She didn’t delete the app?”

Lola slurps her margarita. “Nope.”

Oh. I try to figure out what that means. Is Maple interested in kink? I remember the heat in her eyes when I said that I’d watched her dance. I think she liked that.

Lola stares at me speculatively. “Why did you really send her flowers?”

“I wanted to,” I say truthfully.

Jack looks up from inhaling his beer. “You like her.”

I certainly like specific parts of her—and is that such a terrible thing? She’s lovely. A whole list of adjectives pops into my head and I let them filter through my head. Funny, talented, tenacious, vibrant. Plus, I’ll bet she’s unbelievable in bed. Her eyes give away what she’s thinking and she’s super bendy thanks to that ballet career of hers. I suspect she’d surprise me, and in a good way. She’s completely unlike anyone I’ve had sex with before, and not just because she can touch her head to her toes.

But the thing is? We’d never work. She’s the queen of relationships, scouring her kingdom for The One; I’m the king of hookups. She has a wholesome business brand to manage and preserve, whereas I’m all about the dirty and the not-so-secret fantasies. After scrolling through her Instagram, I get why she’s not so happy about her Kinkster stardom. Everything on her Instagram is the kind of pretty polished that makes you wonder why your life doesn’t look that way and if buying a pair of leggings and doing a session of hot yoga might be the magic answer.

Maple’s selling fantasy, just like me, but hers is a clothes-required world.

Lola’s phone erupts, an entire troupe of Polynesian drummers banging and whooping it up in her purse. She pulls it out, looks down and frowns. Since I’m sitting next to her, I look down, too, so I can read along.

Rude.

Obnoxious.

Effective.

Sticks and stones—call me whatever you’d like but Lola has a text from Maple. I know this because the picture of the sender is Ballerina Maple, complete with crown. She looks like a wholesome, pink, sparkly princess, which just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover. I pluck the phone out of Lola’s hands so I can double-check the message for myself.

HELP

My inner fixer revs, begging to go into overdrive, and I remind myself to step back. Assess. Maybe she’s just got a shoe emergency or needs help picking out dish towels or forgot the name of the awesome Chinese restaurant they ordered from last night. Maybe it’s nothing.

Bubbles dance across the screen as Maple texts.

And dance.

And dance.

No words appear—just more stupid dots. Even Tolstoi handwrote War and Peace faster than this. Lola makes a grab for her phone, but no way I’m giving it up. Instead we (she) compromise: I let her squeeze up against my side and angle the screen so we can both see. Finally, Maple finishes her text and hits the send button. A riff of Polynesian drums announces its arrival on Lola’s phone.

Calling it in on the girlfriend code. Send troops ASAP. Need rescue before this guy cums on my butt.

And then nothing. I nudge Lola, slapping the phone into her hands. “Text her back.”

I should try to be nicer. More polite. Something.

And if Maple wasn’t asking for help, I’d try. Maybe. Lola opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it and starts tapping away. She texts even more slowly than Maple. I resist commiserating with Dev because sexting is clearly not going to play a part in their future life together. Finally she settles on: Where r u?

That’s the wrong question. “I can find her.”

Jack groans. “We’ve discussed cutting back on the felonies.”

“I won’t get caught.” I never do.

Maple saves me from any felonious behavior by responding: Club XYZ.

The photo that pops up on Lola’s screen is both slightly out of focus and badly lit. I think Maple’s on a dance floor. Looking down over her shoulder. Where some guy is grinding on her ass and I see red.

Think.

I grab my own phone and bring up a little app I wrote. Five seconds later, I have Maple’s GPS coordinates (south of Market in San Francisco) and a plan (drive there faster than a speeding bullet, kill the creep, rescue the girl—hot thank-you sex forming an optional epilogue). Fortunately, I’ve had a quarter of a beer so I’m good to drive. I stand up, registering the surprise on Dev’s and Lola’s faces. Jack just looks resigned.

“Going” is all I say.

I’m no one to Maple. Of course it’s none of my business. Do I care? Not really.

Lola bolts upright. Nachos fly. “Not without me.”

“Keep texting her,” I order Lola. “Let her know help is on the way.”

I don’t deny that I’m going after Maple, but I drive a Porsche that’s far faster than the piece of crap Jeep Lola owns. I’m going to get there first, and from the way Lola bellows after me as I stride away from our table, she knows it, too.

I execute the first part of my plan—the speeding bullet step—successfully, arriving in record time at 10:07. Club XYZ is indeed deep in the warehouse district. The surroundings are sketchy enough that I don’t like the idea of Maple walking around here on her own. I bound out of the Porsche, toss my keys at the valet parker along with a generous tip and head for the front door. From the quantity of bandage dresses and sparkles decorating the line of people already waiting to go in, I’m seriously underdressed in my post-surfing uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. Fortunately, cash is always the perfect accessory and the bouncer happily lets me skip the queue when I share a little sartorial wealth with him.

The music’s so loud that it’s more vibration than sound, the kind of mind-numbing decibel level that entirely rules out conversation. A DJ spins in a cage above the dance floor. It reminds me a bit of my last launch party. I’m downright terrible at interacting with people, and the closer I get to the dance floor, the harder it becomes to avoid my fellow clubbers.

The outsize price of admission included a private table and bottle service in the VIP section. Eyes follow me as I’m led to my table. Having a table makes the next step in my find-and-rescue-Maple plan easier because I simply jump onto the table, searching for the dance floor. Spotting Maple is easy.

She’s shockingly beautiful. I stand there a moment too long staring at her face—if only because I can.

Her hair falls around her face in a silky, flat curtain as she moves. Her part is a perfect white line down her scalp. I don’t know if she came here alone or not, but three men crowd her. They likely think they’re dancing with her but instead they fill up her space, throwing off the line of her dance, forcing her to either move backward or dance thigh to thigh with them. She’s wearing a fabulously short dress with wide straps and a scoop neck. The whole thing is covered with silver sequins. Flowers? Spirals? Pi? Whatever the pattern is, I like it.

She dances all out, body moving fast and sure to the beat. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling, as she thrusts her hands over her head as if she’s reaching for the moon or the stars. God, she’s special, I think, wishing I was the one dancing with her. Not that I dance. People crowd the floor, bodies brushing, arms touching, everyone moving together for as long as the song plays.

Maple’s skin glistens beneath the heat of the lights and one hand traces the line of her collarbone, dipping down. I’m staring at her and I don’t want to stop. My fingers itch to touch her, to kiss her and learn the salty-sweet taste of her. Dev was right when he said I was the hookup king and bad news for Maple, but he forgot to factor Maple into the equation. She’s a new variable and that could change the entire outcome of the problem.

I like to think that when she looks up, eyes roaming over the watchers crowding the edge of the dance floor, she spots me.

That she’s dancing for me.

She stares up at me, at someone, for a beat. Another. Her head falls back, hair spilling everywhere, and her lips move. Does she sing along when she dances, make up words when there are none? Is she smiling that secretive half smile for me? I look down, she looks up, and there’s something between us.

Item: She makes me crazy.

Item: I don’t mind.

Item: She needs rescuing.

Each step dances her farther away from one particular asshole who refuses to get the memo. He follows her relentlessly, gaze lingering on Maple’s tits and ass. He doesn’t look her in the eye and he’s definitely not interested in her smile. He’s missing out and he doesn’t deserve a single second of her attention. Be smart about this. She’s got it. The SOS was a girl thing, a joke, not an action plan.

And then he says something, Maple stops dancing and I see red. It’s not a pretty color.

That’s it.

No more.

I launch myself over the narrow wall separating the private tables from the dance floor. I’m no superhero, not even close.

Maple exhales, her eyes digging daggers into the stupid fuck who’s now touching her arm. I agree with her. The guy’s got a death wish, and tonight? I’m happy to play the tooth fairy and fairy godmother to his stupid.

He’s going down.

Down.

Down.

CHAPTER FIVE
Maple#nightlife #vip #sexydance #lifesituations

WHEN I’M CLUBBING, I dance all out. I throw my body into the techno music, finding the pulse, the beat, the rhythm that perfectly fits each measure and note. The heat of the lights overhead is a familiar weight against my skin, as is the burn in my muscles and lungs, the beat of the music in my body. Tonight I’m dancing solo and it feels good, even if I sometimes miss the intimacy and trust of a pas de deux. You have to trust your partner to be strong enough to lift you high above the stage, to know his part in the dance and support you in yours. Those were good nights.

Someone puts his hand on my ass.

I don’t think so.

Shift onto my left leg.

Jeté.

I’m reaching back with a sharp heel when strong hands close on my hips and lift me off my feet. For a brief moment, I’m flying through the air, connected to the ground only through the man dancing with me. I should pull away but I can’t stop myself from smiling; I miss dancing with a real partner. I land gently, my knees automatically bending into a plié as the hands let go.

I turn my head but he’s behind me already, big body leaning in, eliminating any distance between us. Somehow, even though it’s been five long days since we meet, I’m not surprised it’s Max. For a moment, I tense in anticipation, wanting his hands back on me, lifting me, partnering with me in this dance. This is what I miss most about my ballet days, this connection, the disciplined intimacy between myself and another dancer. He breaks the silence, though, and with it the spell or whatever it is.

“Holy shit, Maple.” He growls my name. Possibly, he yells it because the music is loud and we’re on a dance floor after all. He’s staring at me, his eyes full of emotions I can’t sort out.

I noticed his eyes when I stormed his office, dark and watchful but a deceptively sweet, rich hazel with flecks of green like little secrets that you have to get close to discover. He’s just as gorgeous tonight as he was then and no happier, either.

I look again. But no. So much unhappiness.

“Problem?” I lean back against him, resting my head on his chest as I slide my arms up around his neck. My hips move to the beat, teasing his with dirty circles. The poor baby’s not feeling playful, though. He stands there like the Colossus of Rhodes, a big, broody, expensive statue just daring me to topple him.

Okay, maybe he didn’t come here to dance.

Maybe he doesn’t see the challenge he poses.

“Dance with me.”

Hazel eyes hold mine. “I don’t dance.”

“You’re not dancing right now,” I correct. “But we can fix that. Move your feet.”

“I saw your SOS.”

And…still not moving.

SOS doesn’t compute until I think for a moment. Right. The text I sent to Lola—and not to him. I narrow my eyes at him.

“Breaking some more rules, Mr. Bigshot Billionaire?”

He outright laughs, a devilish smile playing over his pretty, pretty mouth. It’s a miracle I can hear his laughter over the music but we’re pressed close together, so I definitely feel it. His chest shakes so hard he almost throws me off. I press my ear to his chest, grinning up at him. His breath feathers over my cheek, my throat. Laughter looks good on him.

His head dips. “Did you like your flowers?”

“Dance with me and I’ll tell you,” I suggest.

He shakes his head but then one hand settles on my hip, pulling me tight against him as he tries and fails to find my rhythm. His front bumps awkwardly against my rear and one thing is immediately clear: Max was first in line when God handed out penises and he got the biggest, widest dick of them all.

“See? Anyone can dance.” I tilt my head back, grinning up at him. “One foot, two feet, no feet, you move what you have.”

He frowns now, his mouth curving down. I reach up and gently tap the corner. “You’re so sulky.”

He jerks back. I’ll bet billionaires don’t get much constructive criticism and that’s okay. I’m a dancer—I live for that shit. “I don’t know how to dance,” he grumbles.

Right on cue, his jeans-covered hips bump my ass as he loses our rhythm again. He’s not kidding. He really can’t move. I dance with exaggerated slowness until he finds me, us, again.

“You don’t dance well.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”

He snorts. “Says the professional dancer.”

The other guy, the one who wouldn’t leave me alone and kept trying to grab my ass, hovers a few feet away. He’s stupid enough to believe he still has a chance. The delusion is strong with that one. Max’s other hand, the one not cradling my hipbone, splays low over my stomach, his fingers brushing dangerously low. Awareness heats my skin where he touches me.

“I like this.” I close my eyes, the better to feel each shift of his body behind me. I think he may say something else, but words don’t matter right now. We’re dancing and the whole world could be watching and that just makes the moment better. I curl a hand behind his neck, setting the other on his thigh. As if he’s fucking me slow and deep from behind, each roll of his hips making my panties wetter even though I’m almost certain I don’t like him.

When the song ends, however, he stops. I pout, not ready to stop, but his hand on my lower back steers me toward the edge of the dance floor. Eventually we push through the crowd and lock in on the VIP section. Of course he’ll have a table there. I’m sure throwing money around must be a membership requirement of the Billionaire Bachelors club.

People watch us. It isn’t just that I enjoy dancing for an audience—which I do—or like cuddling up against Max—which is a hell yes despite his rather prickly personality. It’s the way he makes me feel as if all of his attention is focused on me and that he’s okay with my taking the lead if that’s what I want. I feel safe with him, especially in a club crowded with drunken assholes, because he’ll step in if and when I want, but otherwise it’s my dance.

He doesn’t so much as pause when he reaches the stupid velvet rope the club uses to separate us masses from the wealthy special snowflakes and sure enough, bouncer dude unclips it with a respectful nod. Max sails straight through, headed for prime real estate loaded with unopened bottles of champagne and one of those dark-chocolate-colored whiskeys that scream money.

I’m not a big drinker, so I pass when Max waves at the bottles. You have to pay for bottle service to sit in the VIP section, but clearly he doesn’t feel the need to actually consume the alcohol.

“Phone,” he demands.

What?

“Didn’t you just go to a whole lot of trouble to return it?” I plant my backside on the already crowded tabletop because my feet are too antsy for full-blown sitting and this way I can swing them back and forth. “That seems like wasted effort.”

“Phone,” he repeats, leaning in. God, he smells good. “Please.”

I imagine his face if I asked him why he smelled like cedar and spice and everything nice. Does he smell like this every morning or only when he makes an effort?

Back off, Maple.

Don’t scare the nice man.

This could be why Madd left you.

Did I sniff Madd? Did I come on too strong, too fast, too much? Funny how I can’t remember now. I give up and I pull my phone out of my bag slung across my front. The bag’s awesome, all silver, beads and tassels. Lola swears I’m either a reincarnated Vegas showgirl or a disco ball wannabe. Whatever.

Max plucks the phone from my hand, taps in my passcode and frowns. “You didn’t change it.”

“What?”

“You should have immediately changed your passcode when I returned your phone.” He shakes his head. “You can’t trust random strangers.”

“Are we strangers? You’ve seen my vulva.”

The grin he gives me is crooked. “True, but if that’s your criteria, then you should trust most of San Francisco.”

“I probably could have Sharpied my passcode on my stomach and they wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe on my boobs.” I cup them in their sparkly dress-nest and consider the available real estate. “I could fit a four-digit ATM passcode on my left tit, but the phone’s eight-digit number is gonna get cramped. What do you think?”

He gets the cutest little crinkle between his eyes when he’s confused. “What?”

“Are my boobs big enough to hold eight numbers?”

The idea of knocking Max off balance makes me oddly giddy. He’s so logical. I stare at him expectantly, while the crinkle grows to Grand Canyon proportions as he stares at my chest.

He’s actually considering it.

Or he’s really, really checking out my rack.

Finally, he says, “How big are the numbers?”

“Max!”

He grins, and oh my God, I’m in trouble because it’s a total panty-melting grin that sparks joy in my southern regions. It starts in his eyes, crinkling up the corners deliciously, and then spreads to his mouth.

“Gotcha.” He returns his attention to my phone. “I’m putting my number into your contacts.”

“Why?” Max doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who randomly texts pictures of his cat but I’ve been tricked before. “Do you have pets? Because no more than three cute kitten or puppy photos or I’ll initiate the autodestruct sequence. Also, no bathroom selfies. Or gourmet food pictures unless you’re standing on my doorstep about to share.”

“You have a lot of rules.” My phone explodes into song in his hand, pealing out a rousing bar or six of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”

Madd’s calling.

Max hands me the phone and I decline the call because I’m not stupid. He’s a stupid, bad-news cheater but he was my mistake and it’s hard to let go of the potential I saw in him. Madd gave great fantasy.

Madd is also persistent. When I don’t answer, he texts a picture instead. In the photo he’s cuddling a brown-and-white puppy in a big white tumbled bed. I bought him that duvet cover and now it dips artistically, teasingly, beneath the sharp, sexy line of his hipbones. I think he’s naked. I can almost imagine that’s the thick line of his penis beneath the sheet that’s slipped beneath his lean belly.

Dreaming of u and our fur family.

I swear my heart stops for a second because this is the way I’ve imagined him for months and, now that he’s walked out on us, he wants to be my dream man?

Max growls something so profane that I revise my opinion of his creativity upward.

“I thought he was a dick but puppies are a new level of clickbait,” he says.

I cock my head, trying to figure out the man in front of me. “Wow. You truly don’t have a filter, do you?”

He shrugs, his give-a-fuck either as broken or nonexistent as that filter. “I don’t lie, if that’s what you mean.”

Madd did. Does? I look down at almost-naked Madd again. Is that Madd’s puppy? Ours? A prop for his insta-life? Responses to Madd’s text tumble through my head.

It’s too late.

Why are you doing this to me?

Why don’t I care more?

“Not-lying is good.” My fingers skim over the phone screen, but I’m not going to answer Madd. Not tonight, not ever. “I realize you’re just being honest with me, but I don’t think I’m ready to discuss my ex-boyfriend with you.”

He tucks my phone back into my bag. For just a moment, I feel the weight of his palm brush against my stomach and I fight the urge to lean in. “If you need me, text me.”

“Why?”

He lifts me down off the table while he thinks about it. I’m used to being lifted and moved about, although usually I’ve agreed beforehand and there’s a well-established script. I wouldn’t have predicted that Max’s high-handedness is sort of sexy. Part of me wants to explore what else I might find sexy about him, but that’s just madness. Or maybe horniness. Unfortunately, the guy attached to the very large penis isn’t particularly likable even if he is eminently sex worthy.

His hand settles on the small of my back, fingertips brushing my bare skin. Unlike the creep on the dance floor, I don’t think he even realizes he’s touching me. He’s just there and I’m here and somehow we have this bizarre connection. I should step away but instead I let him steer me in the direction he wants to go.

We’re moving toward the exit before he answers me. “For whatever you need. Because I owe you. Because you clearly need either a fake boyfriend or your own personal bouncer until your San Francisco fans forget about your video.”

If you had asked me earlier what I wanted, forgetting would have topped my list. That’s why I Ride of the Valkyried his ass and issued a personal takedown notice.

I look over at him. “I lost a campaign today. I was supposed to shoot this big dancer, little dancer number with a pink-tutu-wearing mini-me, but now some other influencer will land it.”

“They saw the video?”

I try to be fair. “They claimed their budget was maxed out so they weren’t going to move ahead with the campaign after all, but my agent heard through her network that they booked a different influencer because I was trending for some very unwholesome reasons.”

I’d been so excited to be scouted for that campaign because I’d always loved that brand. They were my first shoes and I still have them in my box of dance souvenirs.

There’s a handful of paparazzi waiting outside the club in the hopes that someone shot-worthy or famous will exit and they perk up when they spot Max. Questions fly: Who’s the date tonight, Max? Are you and Hannah through? How about Melissa? Alice? Are you seeing anyone?

“No comment.” He frowns, his hand at the small of my back urging me toward the waiting car.

Nothing to see here.

Move along.

CHAPTER SIX
Max

A MISSILE CRASH-LANDS on my chest. Instinctively, I roll, cradling my laptop. Everything’s backed up but replacing hardware is inconvenient and I’ve already done so once this week. For a brief second I’m airborne and then I fall, my shoulders hitting the floor hard as the rest of me slides off my sofa. The laptop slides to a gentle landing beside me. Fuck me, but I should invest in carpet. Maybe one of those shaggy rugs or a faux sheepskin.

I haven’t slept in a bed since moving into my Santa Cruz place as I prefer to work until I pass out. The couch is the only piece of furniture in the big empty living space. It came with the house and has three legs; the missing fourth has been replaced by a stack of books. The Realtor described my style as postmodern. My housekeeper has declared it “easy to clean.” I crack an eye, but the only thing on eye level is a Roomba slowly gliding over the floor. The black wood shows every piece of lint and dust. It drives me nuts, hence the Roomba army. There’s a scratch in the floor by my nose that I need to get fixed.

Sun pours in the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. I don’t own curtains. If you want to watch, watch. The sofa creaks a warning and I tense as the missile hammers my rib cage. I grab it with my free hand. Danger. Did I hook up last night after rescuing Maple and forget? Because that’s a female hand. I let go fast while my brain catches up with the rest of me and I pry my eyes open.

Lola crouches over me.

No.

Scratch that.

She’s straddling me.

“You suck,” she bellows.

Given her lack of an inside voice, I decide she’s talking about the way I abandoned her last night to go after Maple and not about any kind of sexual activity, but… I’m not sure. Houston, we have a problem. It’s not that she knows the passcode for my alarm system—using the first fourteen places of pi was predictable—but that we’re touching in ways a guy should never, ever touch his best friend’s girl.

Oblivious to my dilemma, she glares down at me. “Maple deserves more than a hookup.”

“What?” Despite my multiple PhDs, I sound less than intelligent but I require three hours of sleep to be functional and I’m now operating on less based on the angle of the sun on my floor. Rescuing Maple took the better part of the night.

“Do not mess with my friend.” Lola punctuates her words with additional and vigorous rib poking. I turn my head to check my laptop while trying not to move because grinding my morning wood against Dev’s girlfriend—even accidentally—would be disastrous.

“Can we discuss this over breakfast?” It’s not unusual for me to stay up all night, but this is the first time Lola’s paid me a solo call. Usually she’s attached by some body part to Dev and I’m busy trying not to perv on them.

Lola bounces, I grunt, and she must figure out what my problem is because now it’s her turn to freeze.

“Right,” she says, staring out the window. Pink flushes her face. “This is awkward.”

“Generally speaking, women don’t attack me or try to ravish me,” I offer. “In fact, I can remember zero instances. So I’m assuming I’m misinterpreting this situation and you’re not trying to get me killed by Dev or offering yourself up as a substitute for Maple. Which is a very friendly overture but one I’m going to have to pass on.”

Lola groans and pounds her head into my shoulder. I think. Honestly, I’m not sure what she’s doing, but she’ll have to do it by herself. Dev is a big motherfucker and I know exactly how hard he can hit. She climbs off me, however, which is progress.

I stand up cautiously, considering next steps. It seems likely that everything will become clearer after I caffeinate, so I head into the kitchen. Rather like my relationships, I have a policy of getting in and getting out of my kitchen. The room channels a Siberian snowstorm, all white subway tile, white marble and big-ass stainless steel appliances. You practically need a parka or snowshoes to fight off the pristine chill. I pull the fridge door open and check the contents. I need to place a grocery order. For all my dollars, I appear to own no more than a can of Coke, a bowl of Mini Moo’s and an unidentifiable white take-out container.

Fake milk it is.

I get busy with the Mr. Coffee, shoving an espresso pod in and cranking on the buttons.

“Why are we talking about Maple?” I hope I’m not smiling like a jackass.

Maybe I am, because Lola holds up her hand. “Your app shared her naked nudie dancing with most of San Francisco.”

She folds down a finger.

I think she might be really mad at me.

“She confronted you.” Another finger.

“Instead of simply taking down her video, you made offers that included a job, stock options and sexual intercourse.”

There’s a brief pause. I suspect Lola is waiting for me to confirm or deny, but I settle for a noncommittal shrug.

“You sent her roses.”

Finger, finger, finger.

“You rode your big, sexy white horse to the rescue.”

“Am I the knight in that analogy? Or a cowboy? Because I drove my Porsche to that club and I’m confused.”

Lola stabs her middle finger in my direction. Point made. “Poetic license. Either way, you don’t seem to be keeping away from her and you need to rethink that decision, big guy.”

“I didn’t realize that she was off-limits.” The coffeemaker finishes filling my lucky mug with tarry black goodness.

“You are the hookup king.” Lola peers in the cup and shudders. “That is so gross.”

I think she’s referring to my personal life and not the coffee, so I hand her the cup and Mini Moo’s and start drink number two. What does Maple drink when she gets up? Does she like her coffee milky and sweet? Dark and bitter? God. What if she doesn’t even drink coffee? She could be one of those weirdos who starts the day with hot water and lemon or a hit of matcha. Whatever that is.

“Executive summary.” Lola dumps a handful of fake creamers into her cup and then lobs the empty plastic cups at me. “Don’t mess with her.”

I redirect her missiles into the trash. “Do I look like a total dick?”

She looks around instead of answering. “This place is almost completely empty. You should buy some furniture.”

I look around, too.

I have a trash can, a fridge and a sofa.

I think she might be right. I should invest in something to fill up the space.

“They have people for that,” Lola points out. “You could support the local economy and hire out.”

“Dev hired a decorator, but I don’t want some random stranger waltzing into my place and making decisions that I have to live with.”

“Wow.” Merriment dances in Lola’s eyes. “And yet you’re totally good with random hookups?”

“Sure?” I guess it sort of is the same principle, picking out what I’ll live with based on the outside packaging. On the other hand, I’d have to pay a decorator and I’ve never paid for sex unless you count dinner and drinks. Which I haven’t because I’ve never expected a girl to sleep with me because I’ve fed her. That’s all kinds of wrong. You don’t drop a bag of canned goods off at the local food shelf and expect the recipient to put out.

“There’s nothing wrong with hookups.” Lola takes a sip of her coffee and makes a face. “Although your taste in coffee is bad. Sometimes you don’t want forever.” From the way her mouth curls, though, she’s thinking about Dev again. I’m pretty sure both of their hookup days are behind them.

“But you don’t think I should hook up with Maple.”

“Not really, no. She’s no good with short-term rentals.”

“So I’m not allowed to take her out and then get down on my knees, run my hand up her—”

Lola grabs my laptop. “Shop. Buy a room.”

I think I understand why Dev likes her so much. She’s fun. Since she’s taken and we’ve already established that I don’t do long-term anyhow, I do as she suggests and go online. I choose one of those mattresses-in-a-box for my bedroom, but after that I’m stumped. Houston, we have a problem. There are 11,298 furniture options and more filters on the website than the user interface for the space shuttle. I try a few sample searches before giving up and attacking the problem from a different angle.

“What would Maple like?”

Lola makes a face. “Maple is a hoarder.”

“More words.” I try to decide if I know what size my mattress is but I draw a blank. It’s big.

“Maple loves keepsakes. Or she’s a collector. Possibly a shopaholic.” Lola leans over and taps a few filters. My possible choices narrow to 1,456. I suppose I could just order them all and then donate the ones I don’t like, but then I spot the dreaded words: assembly required.

“She has lots of stuff?” I’m not exactly sure what Lola’s getting at, but now I sort of want to see Maple’s place. I’m also certain she’d hate mine because the only word to describe it is empty.

“She went to Bali.” Lola dumps some stuff into my cart. “When she came back, she re-created her hotel room because she’d had such an awesome time. Most people take photos or buy a T-shirt. She bought a Balinese bed. In Bali. It required a shipping container on a cargo ship to bring it back to San Francisco.”

“So?”

“She could have bought a cheaper, look-alike bed here, but she wanted the real deal. A Bali bed from Bali. Maple is an overcommitter.”

And again…so?

Lola sighs, so clearly I’m the problem here. “She’s all in when she loves something—or someone. Her bed is the biggest, most ginormous, out-of-place bed I’ve ever seen crammed into a studio. She had to drag it up the stairs one piece at a time. She didn’t quit.”

“Is that the kind of bed with posts?” I mime the sticking-up bits. “Because if so, I want one of those. Think of the promo shoots I could host for Kinkster, with tied-up people.”

Lola groans. “Never mind. Don’t share your dirty thoughts with me.”

“Right. No talking business.” I save the cart to look at later.

Lola waves toward the ocean. You can’t see it until you’re leaning over the edge of the minicliff where my house perches, but there’s a staircase to a private beach. “Are you coming down?”

“Maybe later.”

Lola sticks her tongue out at me. “Rapunzel.”

She darts out of the house so that she can have the last word, disappearing down the staircase to the beach. She’s the silver lining to a bad piece of business for Dev. When his hookup stole his software and illegally posted it on a freelancing site for five bucks, Lola bought it. Dev went rampaging after her of course, determined to exact vengeance, but then he fell in lust—and now he claims to be in love. Jack’s been off the market for years. Out of the three of us, in fact, I’m the only single guy left.

She’s right. It’s funny. I’ve always been happy hooking up before. I’ve never wanted more. And I don’t now, I tell myself. It’s just Maple I want. I kind of, sort of want to know more about the nonnaked parts of Maple, the parts she’s never, ever shown the world.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Max

ADRIFT IN WONDERLAND, Alice chose to believe in five impossible things before breakfast.

I’m an engineer.

I believe in facts.

Fact #1: Maple has never asked me to text her. Not once in the twelve days since I met her.

Fact #2: Maple has never texted me herself—and she has my number.

Fact #3: I suck at texting.

Fact #4: She just broke up with her long-term, rat bastard boyfriend and she deserves the unicorn of the dating world.

That unicorn would be Mr. Perfect, a Ken doll and happily-ever-after rolled into one hot, muscled package that adores her, her family, her pets and every quirky thing about her. In other words: not me.

All I have to do to remind myself of my inability to string together words is scroll through my non-work-related texts from the last week. There aren’t many—a pizza coupon and a reminder to put out the trash cans on Tuesday for pickup. Am I up for tacos? Yes. Surf Saturday? Where? I prefer communication to be both short and clear. Why waste time when you could be doing instead? Instead of taking a girl out for dinner and then forcing myself to engage in small talk, I hook up.

Still, I can’t stop myself from imagining what Maple might be doing right now. In fact (har har), I don’t even have to imagine her because I have the video of her dancing in the club saved on my phone. I replay it for the seventeenth time because watching Maple move is making this my favorite Sunday morning ever. I know by heart each dip her body makes to the music pounding around her. The way her hips find the beat and her arms rise as she turns. Something started between us when she exploded into my office a week ago. She may be ignoring the chemistry between us, as if the lack of words can put out what we feel or make us into friends or fuck buddies or some other neat label. Somehow my fingers fly over the screen, pulling up her contact info and tapping out two little letters: Hi. As soon as my thumb slides off the send button, however, I know I’ve made a mistake.

Hi? Why don’t I just text hey while I’m at it?

Embarrassed, I stare down at my phone, mentally willing Maple’s cell phone provider to have some kind of catastrophic server meltdown that will erase her messages from the last sixty seconds. The odds of that happening are low, so I’m weighing the odds of hacking in when my phone pings.

What’s up?

Okay. That’s a question and a question deserves a response, right? Not much. Lying on couch.

A long pause follows, during which I suspect she’s lost interest, but then she types back: Pretty tame for a billionaire?

Gave the private pilot the night off, I text back.

She responds almost immediately: You have a private plane for real?

Timeshare.

This time the pause stretches out until I get tired of waiting for her response. Fuck taking turns. Does my partial plane ownership mean you no longer respect me?

I haven’t checked my personal Kinkster app in a while. I pull it up while I wait for Maple to respond. I have 312 hookup requests, but strangely I don’t feel like looking at any of them. Or maybe it’s an abundance of riches. Or laziness.

Is it possible to be too lazy for sex?

The ping of an incoming text has me drooling like Pavlov’s dog.

Does that mean you get tipped out a third of the way to Paris?

I grin down at my phone.

Come with me and find out?

There’s a pause, and then: HAHA. Goodnight Max.

One text leads to another, and then somehow over the next two weeks we fall into a pattern. I don’t know what’s happening between us. We’re not hookups. Are we friends? Maybe. I mean, clearly we flirt and give each other shit. She’s funny. She teases me about her star status in the hookup world even though I know she’s still worried about her professional reputation.

Plus, it’s good to not be the odd man out anymore. My friends have all paired off, and while I don’t want happily-ever-after, I’m not a fan of awkward, either. Dev and Lola. Jack and Molly. That just leaves me. Do I want to hang out with Maple?

Maybe. I mean, she’s sexy as hell and I’d get naked with her in a heartbeat. Maybe.

Because I don’t want her to stop texting me, either, and that’s what happens when two people hook up. Maple’s on a man diet, or so she assured me. She’s just barely broken up with Madd and now he’s begging her to take him back, making promises and doing the woo. I could tell her that once an asshole, always an asshole, but she doesn’t want to hear that right now. That’s another reason I haven’t hit on her, not really. Madd’s holding out the fantasy of their perfect future together, and believe it or not, naked, spread-eagle me isn’t such a tempting counter offer that she’s rushing over to my place to drop her panties on my floor and rip my boxers off with her teeth. I figure there’s always tomorrow or next week—whenever Madd shows his true colors.

In the meantime, I get free decorating advice because it turns out that Maple really likes furniture and she’s willing to choose non-Balinese pieces. She also adores pillows and pictures and a million other pieces of crap, the absence of which marks me as a total barbarian. I spent a weekend making mood boards, which is way less kinky than I’d hoped. The best part about it was Maple’s snort-giggle when I asked her if a mood board was the Christian Grey, X-rated version of pin the tail on the donkey. FYI? Totally not. Drawing my favorite sexual fantasies on a piece of poster board with a handful of crap markers would have been cake.

I am acquiring a houseful of furniture, though. Maple has an unhealthy love of floral prints and faux fur. Leather also has to be of the faux variety because sitting on dead animals is inhumane. Today I’m considering a vegan leather couch to replace the hand-me-down in my living room. In the plus column: ninety-six inches long, twelve inches of Roomba-approved clearance between the bottom and my hardwoods, and the color of a high-end Cuban cigar or an apple-cider doughnut. In the negative column?

Max: Legs look like gold paper clips

Maple: Hairpin legs

Max: WTF?

Maple: Very trendy

Max: On a scale of 1 to 10, my give-a-fuck has achieved negative numbers

Maple: Think of how impressed your hookup will be ;)

Max: More worried about banging her on the couch. Too slippery? What if we break it? Think I should buy two in case there’s an accident? Do you want one for your place? I owe you.

Maple: TMI and no thank you. I have a big bed.

I ask for pictures but no go.

Maple is an early morning texter. Not the predawn hours when normal people are coming home from a wild time out at the clubs and bars or getting up to get ready for work because when you live in California, you’re going to spend hours commuting to the office. And before you go getting all judgmental, I’ll just point out that I’m usually up all night coding. Sue me if that means I like a nap at seven or eight in the morning.

Still, when she hits me up, three weeks after we started texting, I don’t see it coming. Partly this is because I’d just gotten vertical on my bed, pillow over my head, because I’ve just committed a huge check-in and there’s not enough Red Bull in the world to keep me up. I’m crashing hard when a herd of demented bumblebees erupts a few inches from my head.

Shit.

I grab my phone.

Maple: How’s your day going?

Max: Maple?

Maple: You forgot my name already?

I can feel the stupid grin stretch my mouth. Not that there’s anyone here to give a damn if I look stupid. She’s so cute.

Max: Right. Oak. Crepe Myrtle? I’m in bed.

I snap a picture of myself. Not that kind. I know better than to send Maple crotch shots. If she wants to see my dick, she’ll ask. I send her a perfectly lovely shot of my head. Yes, the big one. My hair’s sticking up on end, my jaw’s rougher than a cornfield after mowing and I’m naked. Not that she can see my goods, but I stripped off before dropping into bed and not even for Maple am I getting up to find a shirt.

Maple: Lazy bastard. They made me wear pants with buttons today at work.

Since she’s working, I suppose taking her pants off isn’t an option.

Max: What’s up where you are?

Maple: Wanna buy a blender?

She sends me a picture. Score. It looks like she’s standing in some kind of conference or exhibition space. There’s a ton of people around her selling crap and networking as if their lives depend on it. That’s just background music, though. Maple’s front and center, beaming at me. I take in her goofy smile, the tight white T-shirt with the name of a nutrition drink company scrawled over her tits. Must be one of her influencer gigs and I briefly wonder how much they’re paying her. Whatever it is, it’s not enough. Her phone’s aimed over her shoulder, which means I can’t see her ass in the picture, but I imagine it just fine.

Max: I’ll take a dozen

Maple: I need an honest guy opinion, okay?

Max: Hit me

Maple: Madd wants to meet for drinks tomorrow night. Bad idea to go?

Max: Don’t want to be a dick about this but—

Maple: Uh-huh

Max: No, seriously. I’ve got one, he’s got one, and that gives us a special bond, if you know what I mean.

Maple: Be serious?

Max: Delete and block. He’s playing you and it’s not the kind of game you’re gonna win. He wants a hookup. He wants your panties on his floor because he’s either got nothing better going on or he’s got nothing.

She goes silent after that. I try shoving my pillow over my head, but my brain’s awake and there’s no going back to sleep now. Since I don’t feel like getting up and adulting just yet, I take advantage of my naked, happy-to-see-Maple state and fist my dick. Whacking off alone in bed isn’t my first choice but Maple’s working and there’s no one else I want to call, so I keep my hand beneath the sheet and get busy. When my phone vibrates, I groan.

Max: Interrupting, Palm

Maple: You know anything about Madd’s sudden purchase of not one but two Mexican timeshares? He says he’s locked out of his online banking app so he can’t shut it down.

Maybe it’s because I had so much fun texting Maple about blenders earlier today, but tonight’s dinner meeting is excruciating. It’s like a hookup gone bad where you know before the main course ever arrives that you’re cutting the night short and nobody’s scoring. The guys pitching me are eager and they’ve mastered all the right buzzwords, but the deal they’re pitching isn’t one I’m interested in. In fact, it’s safe to say I’m bored, so when my phone buzzes, I look down discreetly. I have a message from Maple: What are you doing?

Dying, I promptly type. Business dinner. Send naked picture immediately to salvage day.

And even though I’m a firm believer in going for what you want in life, I’m surprised when Maple actually does send me a picture. She’s ever so slightly sweaty, mostly undressed, and there’s a railing behind her that I’ve learned is called a barre (preferably in a French accent). She’s wearing pink tights and I swallow. It’s not as if she’s naked, but… Fuck. Me. Pink toe shoes peek out beneath an enormous pair of wooly leg warmers. The black cotton of her leotard skims her breasts, hugging the curves. She’s leaning forward on her elbows, legs spread wide as she stretches, the phone held out in front of her. Better yet, since she’s in a studio, the wall behind her is all mirrors and I can see the heart-shaped peach of her ass. A mischievous smile lights up her face. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Hot and sweaty Friday night fun, she types.

I can’t resist. No hot date? Is this me-time?

Her reply is almost instant. Sex right now would be awesome. I need a boyfriend stat.

My dick tents the front of my Armani dress slacks, demanding we go help her out with her abstinence problem. I excuse myself from the table. Hiding out in the men’s room seems too clichéd, so I head outside to the restaurant’s private terrace. Forty stories below, San Francisco lights twinkle around me. Those stupid rosemary balls on sticks and other perfectly manicured plants line the deck. I feel like I’m in a zoo but I take a picture anyhow (of my face because I’m not stupid) and send it to her.

At your service.

We’ve flirted with each other the last couple of weeks, our teasing veering between the dirty and the playful. Sometimes it’s the kind of shit friends give each other, while other times I don’t know what we’re doing even if I want to do it all the time. I can almost feel her laughter shaking her phone. Maple loves dirty puns, bad jokes and having fun. I bet she fucking rocked that stage and lit up the room. I wish I could have seen her dance in the theater. I wish she were here. I wave off the waiter who approaches me.

Have a drink with me, I write back. To myself. Because even though she hasn’t responded to me, I’m all in. I text her directions and wait. I may or may not be holding my breath. I’ve hooked up dozens of times through Kinkster, but that was easier. I didn’t care about the women reading my texts; I just cared about having sex.

This is Maple and she makes me wait long enough that I suspect she’s actually seriously considering my invitation. Haha. People will think I’m after your money.

I type back: My dick’s even bigger than my bank account. I’m sure you can prioritize correctly.

Of course she’s not going to let that go. Ask Guinness out then and go for the world record.

Right. I’ll get right on that. I fire off: Record is 13.5 inches. How do you think they measured that?

I love numbers. Yes, I measured my dick when I was twelve. And then again when I was fourteen, sixteen and seventeen. If your boner clocks in at less than three inches, you’ve got a less-than-average problem—so I have nothing to worry about.

Maple’s still going to give me shit. She types: Pfft. That’s the official record. Unofficial guy in the UK is claiming almost nineteen inches. He can’t work because his dick is so huge. He might actually get Disability.

I make the mistake of googling this, thus burning the images of a pants-less guy with his massive schlong covered in what looks like panty hose into my brain forever. Def a future as a porn star there. I reply, You’re right. I can’t compete.

Maple sends me a smiley face emoticon. Emoticons are tricky. They’re not, as I’ve pointed out more than once, actual letters. They form no words. It’s an interpretive dance where you can’t hear the music and I hate the ambiguity. Is she smiling because she’s imagining my dick? Or is she being sarcastic because she wouldn’t be getting off on a foot and a half of panty hose? Maybe she’s just in a random good mood. Or messing with me.

I take a stab at answering anyhow. No boyfriend doesn’t have to mean no sex.

I’m sure this has occurred to her, but I feel the need to point it out. While I wait for her response, I abandon the pitch guys, settle our check and catch the elevator. It takes fourteen seconds to descend forty floors, and most of that time I spend imagining exactly what Maple could be doing with her boyfriend. Or to him. For him. Then I swap the pronouns around because I’m an enlightened kind of guy. I could do her. I know her feet get tired and ache. She claims that’s the dance tax, for slamming them into the stage floor over and over again, but I don’t think TLC would hurt. I’d be happy to rub them.

Or do other things.

There is a time and a place for a nonsexy, it’s-all-about-you-babe massage, but personal experience says that it’s also foreplay. Don’t lie. You know that when you’re naked and oiled up and I’ve rubbed all the places that hurt and the tension’s leaking out of your body like helium from a balloon, you’re going to start thinking about other things.

Jesus.

I come to a decision as I step out of the elevator and stride over to the valet parking podium. First, my hard-on’s reached ridiculous proportions and I’m in serious danger of snapping my dick in half if I move wrong. Second, the guys there either remember me or, more likely, my car. One of them darts off to retrieve my darling and I return my attention to my phone.

Maple hasn’t answered, but I totally think we should have sex. It’s practically a public service on my part. Sexless Friday nights should be illegal. While I wait for the valet to return, I make my pitch:

We could hook up.

Dirty sex.

Multiple orgasms.

Lots of fun.

Say yes.

I’m still waiting for Maple’s response when the valet hands me my keys. I slip him a twenty and slide into my Porsche. My music’s already pounding, the beat vibrating through my seat. I don’t flat out sing along or seat dance, but it’s tempting. I had a poster of this car on the wall of my bedroom growing up and now she’s mine. Of course, I also had a trio of sexy, naked ladies cohabiting in that same space. Hope springs eternal. I drive through the city while I wait for Maple to decide what she wants to say to me. Or, hopefully, do with me. I give her five more minutes to respond before I tell Siri to text her again:

Too blunt? I take feedback.

The highway here runs along the ocean. The road falls away from the shoulder in a steep, stony roll to the water. Waves break on larger rocks a few hundred feet from shore. I find a pullout and bring my Porsche in for a safe landing. I need both hands for this shit.

Ping. Two days ago, I decided that Maple required her own ringtone, so I assigned her the opening measure from “Flight of the Bumblebee.” She’d told me a story about trying to do fouetté turns to it as a five-year-old and I’d almost peed myself laughing.

My phone buzzes with her response: How do I know you’re not all talk? Prove it.

I’m Mr. Show, but clearly she’s mistaken me for Mr. Tell. I’m grinning like an idiot at my phone when she texts again.

Chicken.

The squawking, clucking bird emoji needs no interpretation on my part, although it looks more like an ostrich laying an egg to me. She’s on.

You want a menu? Am I a drive-through?

Her answering text is almost instant: Quit stalling.

Uh-huh. She thinks I’m bluffing.

If I give you a menu, you have to rank the options.

I don’t give her a chance to disagree. Instead, I start texting.

A. The gourmet foodie option. I’ll cook you a meal. Asparagus, oysters Rockefeller, licking your crème brûlée. A four-course meal on my table or my private yacht.

Not that I own a yacht, but I could. If that’s what Maple fantasizes about.

B. The trip to a strip club option. I can buy the club out so it’s our private place, or we can invite the whole world in. Lady’s choice. You dance for me and I’ll strip for you.

C. Blindfolded. You can imagine what’s coming next. I might even take orders.

D. Stairwell quickie. Your workplace, mine or whatever building you’ve fantasized about your boss in.

E. Can you be quiet? I’ll share my toys with you—and I have a great remote-controlled one. You know where it goes. You wear it and a pretty dress, I take you out to one of those fancy crystal-and-china places, and then I see how many times I can make you come before dessert.

F. Sex in a hotel room with the curtains open and you up against the glass. First floor, fortieth, four hundredth. How many people do you want watching?

G. Get your Fabio on. We’ll have sex in a meadow. I’ll pretend to be the big, bad duke. You can be the milkmaid, the misbehaving duchess in need of a spanking or the Queen of England.

That last one’s a little over-the-top but I’m all in if that’s how she likes to play. My phone slips in my hand as I wait for her to respond. To choose one. I try not to imagine Maple over my knee while I turn her butt hot pink. Spanking’s never been my kink but I’m willing to broaden my horizons for her.

I tap my phone.

Nada.

No texting bubbles, no message, no naked selfies.

Usually, I make an offer and then I’m out. I don’t have to beg and I certainly know how to take no for an answer. I’m not San Francisco’s biggest manwhore but I love sex and I love taking care of my temporary lady. Something about Maple makes me want to push, however. I can’t let this—her—go. Before I can overthink it, I call her.

“Hey.” Her voice is husky when she answers, or possibly she’s ever-so-slightly breathless. Or I’m indulging in wishful thinking—stranger things have happened.

“At least tell me what you’re wearing.”

“You saw. I’ve added pants.”

“Pants are overrated,” I murmur.

She pauses. “I’m headed home. Pants seemed prudent.”

“Alone?”

“Are you up for a ménage à trois?”

I drop my phone and have to retrieve it from the passenger-side seat. “Jesus, Maple. Play fair.”

“You’ve never had a threesome?” Laughter fills her voice. “Because it’s very, very popular on Kinkster. Don’t tell me no one’s offered.”

“They’ve offered,” I say mock gravely. “But I’m not a fan of eating family-style. I don’t want just a taste—I want the whole thing.”

“Wow.” She takes a moment, possibly to process what I just said. I didn’t think she was shockable, so she’s probably working on the perfect comeback. Sirens wail in the background, followed by a string of car alarms. She’s walking on a San Francisco street somewhere.

“So you’re selfish?”

“Focused,” I counter. “I prefer to give my undivided attention.”

She hums a bar from a jaunty tune. “Please. I bet you’ve fantasized about two women together.”

“I have,” I admit, “but I’m watching them. I’m learning what they like, how they make each other feel. If I got in that bed with them, then I’d be thinking about my dick, too, because he’s a selfish git and he likes having his turn. And then I’d also need to keep track of who I’d touched last. Or licked. Or finger-banged.”

“Wow.” Maple sounds breathless. Score.

“I’m not sure I’d have enough coordination to keep both my ladies happy without some serious one-on-one practice,” I say thoughtfully. “Which is why I’m calling you to follow up on that menu.”

“Oh?” She’s definitely laughing now.

“We had a deal,” I point out. “I give you a list of choices and you rank them from ‘omg yes let’s do that now’ to ‘only if it’s my last chance ever to have sex.’”

“What’s your favorite?”

I don’t have to think. “You.”

“I’m going into a tunnel. I’m losing you.” Laughter threads through her voice. She’s lying, she’s teasing. We both know it.

“There are only eleven tunnels in San Francisco. Is this a wormhole?”

She’s laughing when she hangs up on me.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Max

I EARNED MY first billion dollars with a dating app: Billionaire Bachelors. It’s a digital shopping list for all you out there who prefer Prince Charming with a generous side of cash. You punch in your zip code and then the app gives you the down low on all the Prince Charmings who meet your criteria. Billionaires are one of our most popular options, although you can pick your future mate based on other important qualities like good looks and favorite winery.

I whipped it up in the Santa Cruz dorm room I shared with Dev and Jack, spending every second we weren’t surfing with my head down in my code. I launched the app the day we graduated and I haven’t looked back since. Both Jack and Dev have bitched repeatedly about being two of Billionaire Bachelors’ leading men, but they weren’t willing to bankrupt themselves to lose their starring roles, so screw them.

My second app is Kinkster, and it’s equally popular (and unpopular with Dev and Jack who are adamantly vanilla in bed). One of the downsides, however, is that my PR team wants me to host a series of glamorous, sexy parties that sell the brand. Glamorous pool parties scream fantasy hookup, so tonight we’ve invited hundreds of celebrities, influencers and pretty people to my Santa Cruz pad to dance and get drunk on my dime. The music pounds away, drowning out the ocean and the buzz of dozens of conversations as my team puts the final touches on the event.

My fingers itch to text Maple and invite her over. It’s not that I think this party is her scene, but I’d like to see her again. I’d like to hear her laugh and just…hang out with her. Even if we don’t ever hook up, she’s fun. When we first started texting, our messages were purely functional. She said thank you for the roses. And then she asked something, or I did, but we fell into a rhythm. Question and answer. Rinse and repeat. Yesterday, though, when I gave her a menu of kinky sex options to pick from, I wasn’t joking. Not really. Something’s changed between us as we text. I stare at my phone, willing it to show me a clue. A sign. A multistep, results-guaranteed plan. I think I went wrong when I sent the menu.

I removed myself from the friend zone and went—

Somewhere.

Limbo sucks. I stare at my phone, willing it to buzz with an incoming text from Maple. Since it’s Saturday night, I don’t think she’s working.

Outside, the PR team continues birthing a party. Everyone’s focused on the infinity pool that spills over into the ocean, adding the little details that will make tonight one Instagrammable moment after another. Citrus trees in terracotta pots sourced from Italy. A pop-up bar with themed cocktails. White lights. White lotus flowers floating on the surface of the pool. The only thing missing is the kinky sex—but that will come later, after my guests have had time to settle in.

Those guests arrive thicker and faster as the night progresses. I watch from upstairs as they come. They’re allowed to roam downstairs, but the second floor is my haven and it’s off-limits. Two hours after the party officially begins, I’ve made a grand appearance and the music is so loud that I feel rather than hear my phone buzz in my pocket.

I step behind a particularly impressive citrus specimen and pull it out. Maple’s texted me a picture of take-out Chinese on a floral melamine plate balanced on the edge of a small tub, but it’s her words that have a smile tugging at my mouth.

Fancy a swim?

I do a quick volume calculation. You’d have to sit on my lap and even then there’d be no room for water. Immediate displacement. Need to know if downstairs neighbor has flood insurance?

My phone buzzes again, Maple’s picture flashing across my screen. Before I can overthink things, I answer.

“Hey, Maple.”

She launches into rapid-fire speech the way she does everything: bold and certain. “Do you like Chinese? Do you want to come over for dinner? We could watch a movie.”

“What kind of movie?”

She tells me all about the romantic comedy she’s Netflixing and the unlimited potential for happy endings. I mean, who doesn’t like getting his happy ending? I’m seriously considering ditching my party when a deafening series of shrill screams erupts from my pool. Water hits my back and I instinctively hunch to protect my phone. It’s water-resistant but that’s a lot of water. I’m enjoying our conversation and I don’t want to have to stop it in order to retrieve my backup phone.

“Are you killing someone?” She sounds cheerful but…

“Would that make you more or less likely to come over?”

“Less,” she says eventually. I like that she stopped to think about it.

“Then I’m hosting a pool party.” I lean against a convenient palm tree and eye the tangle of girls being fished out of the pool. From the size of the guy they crash-landed on, I suspect the football team I invited has shown up.

“Do I have to wear a swimsuit?”

I smile at my phone. “You should always feel free to swim naked in my pool.”

“Be serious.” Water sloshes on her end of the line. Is she in the tub?

More important: is she naked?

“You can do whatever you want, Maple. Wear a swimsuit. Don’t. Yoga leggings work fine, too. It’s a party, not rocket science. I’d just like you here.”

“So your pool isn’t full of bikini-wearing hot girls?”

“Truthfully, no.” I snap a picture of my pool and send it to her. “You’d be the hottest person here anyhow, especially if you showed up naked. You owe me a picture of your pool party for one now.”

That makes her laugh. My phone buzzes a second later and I fumble it. Jesus. There are a whole lot of white bubbles above the soft, sweet curve of…

“Did you just send me a boob shot? I thought you had a no-bathroom-selfies rule.”

She snorts. “I thought you lived for naked boob pictures.”

“I like them,” I say solemnly. “But I’m not sure I can commit to them being my favorite body part. I’d need to see all the parts first so I could make a fair assessment.”

Maple hums a bar of something. It’s a church hymn, which is kind of weird, but she says it’s just autopilot because she did a lot of zoning out in church as a kid (her dad was a minister) and that’s what she associates with tuning out the world. It’s her thinking noise, though, so I hope she’s making me a list of candidates for Max’s Favorite Body Part.

“Come over,” I say.

“Why?”

Because as much fun as playing word games with her is, I want to see her?

“We can play twenty questions in my pool.” I don’t know why I want her here, just that I do. “I’ll send a car.”

CHAPTER NINE
Maple#glamlife #datenightgoals #ideas

THE RIDE TO Santa Cruz isn’t short and it’s tempting to nap on the posh leather seats because I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, but Max’s car is too amazing to waste time on sleeping. Not only is there real French champagne on ice (and not the kind they sell at Target, either), but there’s a box of chocolates and a cashmere throw. I spent the first two blocks pretending I was the queen of England and then another four after that pretending I was a film star.

Now I’m just me, but that works, too. The ocean at night looks painfully, promisingly perfect. When I roll the window down, salty, fresh air fills the car. It smells amazing. If I could, I’d live on a beach. We glide past dramatic seaside cliffs and creamy strips of beach until the dark, white-tipped ocean gives way to a charming jungle of houses and bougainvillea. What’s not to like about Santa Cruz? It’s peaceful and serene until we get close to our destination.

I hear Max’s party before I see it. When the town car turns into a narrow street, the music bursts over us, pounding through the delicious, luxurious silence of the BMW’s expensive leather interior until I swear my butt is vibrating. I have no idea how he got permission to hold a party like this, but I assume money was involved. Lots and lots of money.

Max’s house isn’t quite what I expected. Sure, it’s big and it’s oceanfront, and it’s undeniably expensive—but it’s also pink. With bonus turrets. Frankly, it’s more suited to Cinderella than a hot geek billionaire. It’s also lit up like an airport landing strip, an honest-to-God red carpet stretching from the sidewalk to the front door. Valet parkers wait to whisk cars away to who knows where because Santa Cruz is very much lacking in elbow room and all these people had to get here somehow.

Wow. The people. I try to get out of the car nonchalantly, as if I attend launch events all the time, but I’m seriously underdressed. Or overdressed, depending on how you look at things. Max hadn’t mentioned a dress code—when we said goodbye, he was still making a case for arriving au naturel—so I’d opted for a blue, thigh-length Spell & the Gypsy Collective dress. The gauzy embroidery floats around my thighs in deference to the summer heat. I’m even wearing a pair of thong sandals with pink and white seashells on them because I was going to a beach party, so I assumed there would be sand. The red carpet is unexpected. Plus, it’s Santa Cruz, which is a beach town, so I didn’t expect people to be dressing as if it were Oscar night.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

Two waiflike women, one in pink sequins and the other in white, twine around each other, pouting and posing on Max’s stupid red carpet. I make a mental note to give him shit. Most people go for petunias in a hanging basket or maybe an urn if they’re feeling pretentious, but he’s decided to re-create the Oscars. Photographers snap away, calling the waifs’ names and demanding they “look this way.” I’ve walked a few red carpets for press events for the San Francisco ballet, but this is in another league. It feels ridiculous. As soon as the path is clear, I sprint for the door.

The ground floor of Max’s house is stuffed full of people, although he’s still decidedly lacking in the furniture department, but I recognize the huge L-shaped sofa we picked out together. There’s no Max, though.

I fish my phone out and type: Marco.

A waiter in black tie wanders by, offering champagne. Clearly, I’m out of my league. When my phone buzzes with a set of GPS coordinates and POLO, I’m almost relieved. This is just my goofy, number-loving friend Max who’s frequently more engineer than bad boy.

I plug his numbers into my phone and start hunting for him. Two Marcos later, I step outside and find myself at the top of a staircase that’s perfect for losing a glass slipper on. It glides and swirls its way down to the garden and that magical pool. Someone’s twined white roses and jasmine through the railings and for just a moment I flash back to dancing in Swan Lake, surrounded by dozens of downy, be-tulled swans. That must be why my heart is pumping.

I spot Max striding past the pool—lit up with millions of fairy lights—and frowning down at his phone. Dark hair curls haphazardly over his forehead. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, faded blue jeans and a black tuxedo jacket that’s rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. It’s like he got half dressed—or half undressed—and then stopped. Or forgot. Or—most likely—just didn’t give a shit. He cares about lots of things, but clothes don’t make that list. People watch him anyhow. Some of them reach out as if to touch him, to make him stop and look, but he just keeps heading for the house.

And me.

He pauses at the foot of the stairs and grins up at me. It’s both weird and familiar at the same time. Something shifts inside of me, making me feel like glassware in a box, so close to breaking or falling out. Falling, I decide. I’m definitely falling.

“You didn’t tell me you owned a stage set,” I call down to him. The temptation to break into the port de bras of infamous swans of Swan Lake is strong but this isn’t my audience.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Max twinkles up at me. He’s even cheesier than his pool lights. “Are you coming down or shall I go up?”

“You’re a bad influence.” I have to yell to make myself heard over the music. Nevertheless, we both know my words don’t matter. I’m totally going to do it. Indeed, I toe my sandals off, toss them down to Max and whip my arms up into the familiar position. And then I’m descending, whipping through the familiar fouetté turns, my dress belling out around me. Not Odile’s full thirty-two spins, but just enough to make my heart race, my left leg burn as it bears me around and around until I reach the bottom.

He meets me there, swinging me up and off the final step. I’ve put on some weight since leaving the ballet, but he lifts me easily, flying me through the air, around and around, until I curl an arm around his neck.

“Hey, Sassafras.”

For a moment, I think he’s about to kiss me when he trots out that stupid nickname.

Not a European cheek kiss or even a friendly peck on the mouth, but a full-on kiss with lips and tongues and all my favorite parts. But then he pulls back and flicks my nose before setting me down. Friends don’t kiss.

“I’ll introduce you around,” he says. “There’s tons of people for you to meet.”

I believe him. If his living room’s full, his pool deck is a fire marshal’s nightmare. People are crammed side by side until it’s almost impossible to move, let alone dance. Or breathe. Still, a path always seems to magically open up for Max as he leads me from one knot of revelers to the next.

It’s overwhelming, frankly. He makes introductions, I nod and smile, and somehow there are always new people and faces. The volume rises steadily, the level of champagne consumption is unbelievable, and the pool is a sea of naked beautiful people bobbing up and down. Max, however, just watches it all from his tiki bar, a slightly bored expression on his face as I work my way through my third cocktail. I have no idea how I fit in here.

“How did you get permission for all this?” I mumble-shout my question, which I blame on my cocktail consumption. It’s stupidly easy to get me drunk.

“Permission?” Max winks at me.

I roll my eyes. “They can probably hear your pool party on the moon.”

I swivel on the bar stool and stare at him, waiting for him to answer. Not just to put the pressure on but because his face is absolutely gorgeous. He hasn’t shaved in at least a day, and stubble roughens his jaw. He looks strong, but in a natural way. He spends a lot of time outside, surfing and rock climbing, so his body screams I can do this rather than being a walking billboard for a gym. I slip my phone out of my bag and take a close-up of his jaw and throat.

“Afraid you’ll forget what I look like?”

“Souvenir.” I wink at him. Because, oh man, I sort of want to remember what he looks like right now. His eyes have that warm smile lurking in the back, the one that doesn’t quite reach the grumpy line of his mouth because he’s bored and doing something he doesn’t like but he feels he should. “Are you going to answer my question?”

He snags my drink, takes a sip and makes a face. “(A) Dev and Jack are my neighbors. (B) I invited them. (C) My financial generosity is directly proportional to the volume of my music, and my neighbors bring many worthy charities to my attention.”

Since he’s blasting music at midnight loud enough to make his Cinderella castle shake, this must be a million-dollar party. I try to act as if it’s no big deal to be that casual about money, but I suspect I need more practice.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Oooh—a collection of etchings?”

He winks at me. “I don’t have one of those—should I?”

“Well, a good etching collection can be an excellent investment.” Keeping a straight face is harder than I thought it would be. “Do you even know what an etching is?”

He grins at me. “Let’s go find out. You can quiz me.”

He lifts a bottle of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter doesn’t blink an eye—just reverses direction to reload. There’s probably the champagne-equivalent of a beer truck backed up to Max’s house. Maybe Veuve Clicquot makes house deliveries? Max threads his fingers through mine and I lose my train of thought.

I’ve had a little too much to drink. Not so much that I want to lie down and sleep. Not enough to make the world spin. Just enough that I feel like I’m floating and happy. That nothing really matters other than Max’s fingers mixed up with mine. I was worried about coming here, but everything seems perfect now, thank you, Dr. Cocktail.

Deep down, I know that nothing’s changed. Max is still filthy rich and his dick is still not monogamous. Or even semimonogamous. A player? Yes. Hookup king? You betcha. But I tighten my grip on his hand anyhow and follow him into the shadows beyond the pool. When we get to the edge of a steep staircase, he tugs his hand free and drops to one knee. Strong, warm fingers wrap around my foot and tug.

“You need to lose these.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I say lightly.

“But I say it well.” He pulls off my sandals, tossing them to the side, and then stands up. He’s so close that his body brushes mine and I do my best to pretend that it’s just casual contact and no big deal. That my heartbeat isn’t skipping just a little faster. That my breathing’s as steady as ever. NBD, for sure.

“Come on.” He’s already barefoot as he sets off in the direction of a gorilla-sized man who looks suspiciously like private security and who is blocking a staircase on the far side of the pool. Somewhere beneath us, the ocean waits.

We climb down in the near dark, my hand in his, the other on his shoulder for balance. Broken necks aren’t sexy. I pat his shoulder, savoring the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin linen shirt. Muscles flex as he moves. There are about a hundred billion steps but each one brings us closer to the beach.

My feet sink into damp sand as we step off the staircase. Moonlight illuminates a broad strip of creamy sand studded with small rocks. OMG. Tidal pools. I run over to take a look. It’s too dark to see past the surface but I skim the top. There’s something that looks like an anemone and slippery, darting black shadows that must be fish. Or leeches. Do they have water snakes in Santa Cruz and do they spawn in the shallows?

Max strolls up behind me and Drunk Me yanks her hand out of the water (sprinkling his blue jeans with tiny wet spots), panics a little and pretends to be amazed by the scenery. Which is really pretty freaking awesome. The gnarly-looking rocks bookending the little bay seem like something out of a fantasy book. “They look like dragons.”

Max squints in the direction of the index finger I’ve stabbed at the dragon rocks. “Wrong. Clearly that’s an excellent likeness of General Grievous.”

“The Star Wars character? Are you nuts?”

“Are you blind?” He shoves the champagne bottle into a nearby tidal pool and then strides toward the waterline. When I follow, my toes come in contact with the iciest water I’ve ever felt. Even the ice baths I used to soak my feet in after a day of dancing were warmer than this. I look down. Nope. No icebergs.

“What?” He frowns, his gaze following mine.

“I’m looking for ice cubes.”

He snorts. “It’s California. Anything’s possible.”

We trade jabs about each other’s rock-spotting abilities (he’ll never convince me in a million years that those rocks are George Lucas–worthy). Somehow we end up sitting cross-legged on the sand, just above the tide line. Max pops the champagne open, looking like a suave James Bond billionaire. No, wait. With his hair rumpled by the breeze, shirt open, back against the rock, he might be a pirate. I sort of like that.

His party pounds away up above us, but down here? Down here there’s nothing but us and the ocean and all that dark stretching away.

“Let’s play a game. Truth or dare.” I grab the bottle from him and chug. My palate may be as broken as my man picker because I’m having a hard time telling the difference between Max’s expensive stuff and the three-dollar-a-bottle crap I stockpile for New Year’s. Or maybe I just need more practice?

He repossesses the bottle before I can practice too much. “Tell me the rules.”

“Well, since there’s just the two of us, we’ll take turns. You have to choose between answering any question I ask truthfully and performing a dare of my choice. If you fail, you have to pay a forfeit and drink. Ladies first?”

Naturally, he deliberately misunderstands me and grins. “Truth or dare, Maple?”

“Thank you for being a gentleman.” I blow him a kiss. “Truth.”

I’m way too tipsy for dares.

“What’s the shortest amount of time you’ve known someone before having sex with him or her?”

“Four days.” I don’t even have to think about it. “He was a Czech dancer I met on tour. My company was only in Prague for a week. We pas de deuxed on stage and then we did some private dancing.”

“No drunken one-night stands? No hookups with a stranger or hot, tanned strangers on a beach holiday?”

I drink. Yeah. Not going there. “Your turn, hotshot. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” He stretches his arms out along the rock. I’d be worried about crabs or other sea creepy-crawlies, but he’s completely relaxed.

“Oral sex or penis-in-vagina—you get one for the rest of your life, but the other is forever off-limits. Which do you pledge your undying love to?”

He frowns. “Am I giving or receiving?”

“Receiving.”

“Do I get Sundays off for good behavior?”

I wink at him. “No exceptions. No cheat days. Pick one.”

Now the corners of his mouth turn down. “Let’s try them both right now so I can be sure of my answer, ’kay?”

I extend the bottle. “Are you refusing to answer the question?”

He leans forward and lets me press the mouth of the bottle to his lips. “Sex with a partner always wins. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” There’s a bead of champagne caught on the corner of his mouth.

He winks at me. “Has anyone ever caught you having sex? And how turned on did that make you?”

I’ve had sex before. I’ve had vanilla sex, dirty sex, all kinds of sex. But nearly getting busted? That definitely gets me going.

“Yes.”

“That’s it?” His hands cover mine so I can’t repossess the bottle. “Three letters don’t merit thousand-dollar champagne.”

Jesus help me.

“Are you kidding? Shouldn’t we at least pour it in a glass?”

He winks and catches my wrists, guiding the bottle to my lips. “Have a drink and tell me all about the time you got busted having sex.”

The alcohol is crisp and tart, but now I feel like I’m drinking liquid gold. His thumb brushes a bead of leftover champagne from my lower lip at the same moment I try to lick it away, and my tongue tastes Max instead. Now would be a great time for divine intervention, but instead I yank my head back and start babbling.

“We were in the bed of his truck in a state park. We were too broke to afford a hotel room and I thought doing it under the stars would be more romantic anyhow, so we loaded up the truck and drove a couple hours north of San Francisco.” Now that I’m working on my new-and-improved man picker, I have to wonder that Tim had money for gas but not for the hotel room. “We’d piled the blankets and pillows from my bed in the truck bed, and Tim—my boyfriend—pulled over at this spot where you could see the ocean. We made out with an oceanfront view and all these stars overhead. I kept telling him to hurry because we’d passed a sign miles ago that said the park closed at sunset and so I was pretty sure we weren’t supposed to be there.”

The truck bed had had ridges and weird, mysterious dips. I’d had the faintest shadows of bruises for days and practicing lifts with my dance partner had sucked because his hands inevitably found every sore spot on my body. Max didn’t need to know that, though, so I continued.

“He’d just got my panties off and his penis in when we heard gravel crunching.”

“And?”

“The park had indeed closed hours before and we were busted.”

Max groans. “You’re a terrible storyteller. You’re leaving out all the important bits, like whether the good park ranger saw your boyfriend fucking you and if he took his sweet time walking over to your truck. Maybe he ran the light down your bodies so that you knew that he’d seen you. Work with me here.”

I get the idea. The sound of Max’s voice, hungry, rough, curious, makes me wet. Remembering the hot, shaky thrill of that stranger approaching the truck as I tried frantically to shove Tim off and pretend that we were just doing some perfectly innocent stargazing? That makes me wetter and I suspect Max knows it.

“The park ranger turned out to be a girl.”

“That’s a good story twist.” His knees brush mine and I’m on fire. I feel like I need to touch someone—touch him—and yet we’re on the beach. An only semiprivate beach with a party raging away overhead.

“Truth or dare?” I gasp out. Do I want to do this? Can I do this?

“Dare.”

“What’s the sexiest part of a woman’s body?”

“That’s a question,” he protests. “Not an action item.”

“So picky,” I tease. Although if I’m going to tease… “Let me help you out here. Why don’t you show me? Mouth?” I run my fingertips over my bottom lip. “Boobs? Ass? Somewhere else?”

My hand moves lower.

Yes, I touch myself there, too.

“Do I have to choose?” His voice is rough, as if he’s on fire, too, when his hand covers mine on the slope of my boob.

“Dare.” It’s a challenge, so when he holds the bottle to my mouth, I lick the rim. I don’t look away. I don’t want to stop. He feels… God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way. I don’t remember all of the details of all of the nights I’ve shared in my life but I remember the worst—and the best. This night on the sand? This is a circle-the-date night, a red letter, marquee kind of evening.

He’s whispering things, dirty dares I only half hear but I know what he wants. It’s what I want. Pleasure. A connection.

Kiss my neck for thirty seconds, he says.

And then when it’s my turn to dare him again, I whisper Kiss my nipples for thirty more.

Thirty is my new favorite number because half a minute is all it takes this man to make me feel everything I’ve ever thought and it’s so much better, so much more real than I ever imagined. It can’t just be the dark and the beach. It can’t just be the dirty, secret fantasies that we trade back and forth.

Suck my finger and pretend you’re going down on your guy for thirty seconds, he says.

And I do it. I can tell our thirty seconds are growing longer, and our bodies more reluctant to move apart when one of us calls time.

Dare me, Max.

Drink champagne from me. I dare you.

I can’t tell if I’ve said that out loud, or if it’s even my turn. Someone had emptied the champagne bottle, though, so that last dare was off the table. We’d drunk it all. No—I had. He had? I only really know that I’m sweetly dizzy, the world making a slow-motion twirl around me as if I’m riding a merry-go-round. I should ride something. Someone…

Max makes a rough sound when I straddle his lap and slide my hands up his neck. I don’t know why I haven’t touched his hair before. “Be my horse?”

He blinks at me. I think I’ve finally surprised him. “You’re into pony play?”

“God, no.” That’s me giggling. “I mean, if that’s what works for other people, great, but I don’t think I could do that.”

“Okay.” Does his mouth brush mine? I’m not sure. “Then explain it to me.”

So I do. My voice gets dreamier and dreamier as I talk. I tell him about how the world’s spinning as if we’re on a carousel ride. He shifts beneath me and somehow I’m riding him. I’m tipsy, falling over the edge into sleepy drunk, but I know what I’m doing and, oh God, I want this guy. My not-friend friend. My Max.

“Sex on the beach?”

“Is that too vanilla for you?” I rise up on my knees so I’m looking down at him. “I know you like variety.”

I’m dying for him. On fire. My body’s like melted wax from the champagne and from him and I need him to do something about it. Somehow I’m on top of him, spread-eagle, and his amazing wonder dick is right there so I wiggle to say hello. And because it feels good.

“Jesus.” He pants something, leaning back on the sand. I think it might be my name. “You may be overestimating my need for kink.”

“I love your penis. Do you think I can come on you?”

He curls his fingers around my hips, guiding me lower. “I think you can do whatever you want to do.”

“Good answer. I like getting whatever I want.” I like you. I want you. I brush my lips over his. He feels slightly sandy, tastes slightly salty. Would his dick taste like this? Do I want to find out?

Yes, I think I do.

I rock against him and his amazing, not-naked, huge penis presses against my panties as my dress billows around us. It’s so arousing. His hands shift to cup my butt and I close my eyes as the world swims gently, slowly around us in a haze of lust and champagne.

“Maple?” Max’s voice. Hoarse, a little rough. He’s asking me a question, he’s—

“I’m not there yet.” My eyes drift open as if looking could somehow put out the fire that’s burning me up. “Help me?”

“Yes.” He groans something else, a handful of words, something that doesn’t matter because he curls his fingers in while he talks, his fingertips brushing the edge of my panties. Oh God, he knows what he’s doing. The heat’s spreading through my body like a forest fire and it’s so good, better than I’d imagined until he slips beneath the cotton and I discover a new favorite touch. Maybe practice does make perfect? I open my mouth to ask him, but all that comes out are little needy moans that almost but not quite drown out the slick, wet sounds we’re making together. I think he wants to hear me because then he’s kissing me again and all the moaning and panting I do is into his mouth.

When I come, grinding against his impressive hard-on, it’s still a sweet, sudden surprise. I rest my head against his shoulder. “Wow. They should bottle you.”

I think he’s saying something.

Daring me.

But—

Someone’s attached weights to my eyes and they close.

CHAPTER TEN
Max

JESUS. I HOLD Maple tight because she feels good and I can smell her when I breathe in. There’s the perfume she likes, the vanilla one that reminds me of cookies, and a trace of roses because she “hydrates her face” with a rosewater spray. And then there’s the sweetly salty scent that lets me know louder than any words or porn-star screams just how much Maple enjoyed what she let me do to her. It makes me want to lick her from head to toe.

“Maple?” She shifts against me, her mouth pressing against my chest, and I need to be naked with her. “Dare me to hook up with you?”

The seconds tick by, one after the other. The ocean comes in and goes out. Her breathing settles into a gentle rhythm. I should regret that last dare, but I don’t. This isn’t a game of spin the bottle or even a tease. I know Maple isn’t a hookup, but I’m not ready to let her go yet. So instead, I smooth my hand down her amazing hair. It’s all looped and twisted and tucked into itself like an infinity symbol or some deliciously complicated bit of highway and overpass.

“Maple?”

She breathes out, soft and steady, deep and oblivious against my chest. She’s asleep. I guess that’s a good thing because I shouldn’t be asking her to hook up. It’s just that we’ve both had a few drinks and we’re on a beach—and we’ve touched each other.

I know the sounds she makes when she comes.

I know—

Math.

Shit.

I calculate the number of cocktails she’s drunk since she arrived (four) and the better part of a bottle of champagne. For just a moment I wish she’d been taller, bigger, less tired, had a full stomach. Anything so that we could keep playing our game. I want her so badly.

Instead, I shift her so I’m holding her with my left arm, leaving my right arm and hand free to text. Two texts later, my team is shutting the party down. I forgot that she’d worked this week and now it’s late and she’s tired. Of course she’s going to fall asleep after she comes.

My pop-up parties are notorious for their abrupt endings. One guest described them to all of Instagram as “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” parties and it stuck. I get mine, my guests get theirs, and then everyone goes their separate ways. There’s no hanging around or hanging out, so no one up there will care if I pull the plug and send them home.

Maple mutters in her sleep, shifting, and I stroke her hair, her arm. It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, the way she lets go. First she let me make her come and now she’s letting me hold her while she sleeps. I can’t stop touching her even though it’s not going to end up with me inside of her driving us both mad. Her arms are toned and strong. I noticed them when she waved from the top of my stair earlier tonight. She was fucking gorgeous then, and now—now she’s even more so.

When the noise finally dies way above us, I stand up, shifting her in my arms. She settles in as if she belongs there, and I file the sensation away. I’ll analyze it later. Right now, I need to get her somewhere she can sleep. Plus, the tide’s really coming in now and we’ll be out of beach soon unless we pull a Survivor and camp out on the rocks.

Tomorrow I’ll tease her about having to carry her up the stairs like Sleeping Beauty or one of those movie princesses who always needs rescuing by a prince in disguise or a white knight. Not that I’m either of those things. I’m fairly certain I don’t know how to be. Turns out I can climb the stairs holding her just fine, though, even if I don’t have my knight errant license and no one would ever mistake me for a hero.

Security nods at me when I reach the top. For a moment I wonder what he may have heard or seen, but it doesn’t matter. He’s signed an NDA and I’ve learned that Maple likes being watched. The possibility of getting caught gets her off.

Since I’m not getting off tonight, however, I carry Maple upstairs to my bedroom. She’ll have to spend the night with me because it’s not as if I can send her home in the car like a package. Or a hookup. I feel off-kilter, but I like having her here, so I decide not to examine things too closely.

I gently kick the bedroom door open. A quick scan reveals that my housekeeping team has done its job and everything is in its place. The white cotton sheets are folded neatly back on the enormous bed, and the gray duvet Maple talked me into is folded into a neat rectangle at the foot of the bed. And then there’s the ocean. I open the French doors that lead out onto a small balcony, so that the ocean air can pour through the room. The ocean smells amazing. Like salt and something wilder, freer and less permanent.

When I set Maple down on the bed, she curls into a ball and buries her face in the mattress. Okay. I can figure out a plan. Just because I’ve never had a hookup put the brakes on before we finished the date doesn’t mean I can’t do this. Whatever this is.

Just don’t panic.

Two minutes later I’m still clueless and Maple’s even more soundly asleep. Her position doesn’t look comfortable to me, but maybe dancers are more flexible than us mere mortals? And suddenly, even though this isn’t a date and we haven’t quite had sex, I feel like tonight might just be okay. I want to wake her up and tell her how much fun I had. How much I’d like to do it again and is she busy tomorrow?

Or the day after. I’ll take any day she gives me.

But Maple sleeps on, oblivious. It would probably creep her out if I stripped her down and put her in one of my shirts, so instead I set out a pair of clean sweats and my favorite UCSC T-shirt where she’ll see them when she wakes up. I also put a spare toothbrush on the bathroom counter, along with three towels and a new bar of Irish Spring in its bright green wrapper.

I realize she has sand on her feet when I make a round-trip back from the bathroom and QA my handiwork. Sand I can fix. I lift first one and then the other while I run a warm washcloth over them. Getting sand in the bed sucks and I think she’d like it better this way. It’s not as if I have a foot fetish—I think—but my dick didn’t get that memo. Maple has the most fucked-up feet I’ve ever seen. High arches, calluses, a permanent arch that’s both unnatural and strangely beautiful. For most of us, hard work maybe makes itself seen and felt through ulcers. Or gray hairs. Or a honking big bank account. All of Maple’s hard work, however, is written right there on her bare feet. She’s not afraid to let her passions change her.

Eventually, when her feet are clean and I can’t think of anything else to do for her, I tuck her into my bed and then I lie down next to her. I don’t quite wrap myself around her, but I want to.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maple#morningafter #oops #thiscouldwork

SUNLIGHT POURS INTO the room, tap-dancing on my eyeballs and working its way beneath my skin. I stretch into the warmth because I’m surprisingly cold. Maybe the landlord finally fixed my AC? There’s a second sun pressed up against my leg and over my rib cage. No. Wait. Not a sun but a someone. Last night’s memories filter back slowly, one moment at a time, like water dripped from a tap. The town car. Max’s party. Our private party on the beach. And maybe something more. When he’d touched me it had been a dare and a challenge and part of me had decided to take him up on it. I didn’t care then that he was a player and a rich guy, someone with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. I didn’t care that we’d fuck and move on and that I’d probably regret his passing out of my life even though that was stupid. Maybe. Or maybe we’d meet, in weeks, in months, in years to come and the thought would just flicker through the back of my head: I know what he looks like naked. A quick sliver-shiver of a thought like fish in a stream, here and then gone.

I open my eyes without really intending to and there he is.

Eyes closed, lashes brushing the tender skin beneath his eyes. I have no idea what I thought would happen, but thinking clearly wasn’t part of last night’s plan anyhow. Max breathes deeply, and I let my gaze roam over his face. His lips part slightly, dark stubble roughening the line of his jaw and cheek. Awake, he’s always so focused and intent, but asleep he seems softer and somehow vulnerable. My eyes drift over his face, seizing this chance to commit him to heart. He’s the same Max who invited me over, who took me down to the beach, who licked my neck until I came. The only thing different is that now I don’t have to imagine him naked—or mostly naked. Max likes specifics and I still haven’t seen his penis.

He’s sprawled on his side, one leg over mine, an arm draped over my ribs. My temporary dark-haired Adonis. At some point between the beach and bed, he’s lost his shirt. Broad, capable shoulders crowd out the morning sunlight. His chest is muscled and lightly dusted with dark hair, narrowing to a delicious six-pack that demands my attention.

There are no visible tattoos, no jewelry, just almost-naked Max in a pair of ordinary red plaid boxers. I think I’d like him even better all naked. He’s pretty much the hottest man I’ve ever ogled, let alone shared a bed with.

I don’t think we had sex last night.

Mistake. I run a questing finger over his hip. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of him since I barged into his office. That was weeks ago. It wasn’t romantic or sexy or even remotely hookup-y. But then he started texting and I answered and now here we are. A thick ridge tents the cotton of his boxers and I want… I want…

I look up and his eyes are open. I love his eyes. Up close they’re more gray than not, framed by unfairly thick lashes. I race to find words to say but nothing feels right, so I just draw my finger over his cotton-clad hip. Back and forth. And then again. He made me come last night. He put me in his bed. He wakes up looking like a Greek god while I’m undoubtedly rocking a case of bed head and morning mouth.

“Morning,” he rasps. There’s a question in the word, a question I think I want to answer. Should we have sex? Do you want to hook up with me? Is this a mistake?

My finger traces the line of his hip bone, down, from one small cheek to the next to something so much bigger and harder. I brush the tip of his dick with my finger and he jerks. God, you’re big, I think, wishing I knew what he wanted. Are we friends who drank too much and passed out together? Am I the party guest who just wouldn’t go home? Or—

Are we a little something more?

No. I’m not doing more. I’ve learned that lesson.

“Max?”

My voice sounds hoarse which makes sense. My throat feels as if I tried to eat sand for dinner.

He stares down at me for a long moment. I can feel his eyes moving over the top of my head and then down. I slide my finger along the length of him again. “Should I go?”

I feel rather than see him shake his head. And then he licks the side of my neck. It tickles and it’s a little weird and it feels so freaking amazing because you don’t do that to friends unless maybe you’re both cats. Or possibly dogs. Or—

I pretend the sound that comes out of my mouth is a moan. Something sexy, something husky or rough or anything but the raw, ugly, needy sound I make. I’m going to fuck him.

I leap out of bed, pressing my hand against his chest when he leans up. “Stay here.”

He blinks at me. “Maple?”

“I’ll be right back.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I sprint toward the bathroom. Thank God for billionaire McMansions and en suite bathrooms. I rush in and slam the door. How fast can I do sexy? Or at least satisfy basic hygiene requirements? I map out a strategy while I pee but apparently Max is impatient—or has no boundaries—because he’s knocking on the door before I’ve magically transformed myself into a sexy glamazon.

“Maple?” My name again, more insistent.

I pop the door open, holding a strategic hand over my mouth. “I need a toothbrush.”

He points wordlessly to the precise pyramid on his bathroom counter. Toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash. Behind them is a neat row of miniature beauty products. The man is a Boy Scout.

In unison, we move to the double vanity. He pulls open a drawer and retrieves his toothbrush. I tear into the stack of oral hygiene goodies he’s left for me. And then we stand there next to each other, brushing and rinsing.

It’s like we’ve just fast-forwarded our lives thirty years and now we’re an old married couple. It’s awkward but cute. I can smell mint toothpaste and then he reaches for the mouthwash.

“Five minutes,” I tell him with a smirk. “And then I’m getting the party started without you.”

I saunter out of the bathroom, pulling the dress over my head and tossing it onto the floor. I’m reaching for the clasp on my bra when I hear the bathroom door click shut. Yep. He’s got it figured out. Just in case he needs any additional clues, I ditch my panties, sprawl on his bed and start taking care of business.

Just because he got me off last night doesn’t mean I’m completely willing to trust my happy ending to him—plus guys love the show-and-tell and it gets things off to the right start. The wetter I am, the better tab A fits into slot B, if you know what I mean.

It never takes me long to come when I concentrate. My body’s tightening, warming up like a runner hitting her stride right before she rockets off for a victory lap around the park. My legs tense, fingers dipping deeper, because right there, there, there is today’s magic happy spot.

And of course that’s the moment the door opens. “You were serious about not waiting.”

For a moment, I think about stopping. Just waiting for him to come over here and take over. Or better yet, ordering him. I don’t have any problems putting in requests when someone asks what I want. But this feels good, too. Truth is, I’m so aroused by the way his eyes heat up, following my fingers, that I’m a heartbeat away from coming.

It feels so, so good.

My hand slides down my panties. “Sex is always better when I take care of myself.”

“So you don’t need me at all.” The dirty boy leans against the wall, his gaze trained between my legs.

“You bet I do.” I wink at him. “I’ve decided to take advantage of you just as soon as you join me.”

Touching myself in front of Max doesn’t feel awkward. He tilts his head, watching, and we both know he’s memorizing the way I do it. That he notices exactly how I like it. It’s not just that he’s an engineer. It’s just that he’s Max and he cares about details and he loves to learn shit—and, since he’s supersmart and even more competitive, he therefore needs to be the very best at whatever he’s learning.

So I’m a little surprised when he doesn’t rush to join me. Instead, he reaches into his boxers and fists his dick. His hand mirrors mine, stroking up. Down. I’ve got an obstructed view of his penis and that’s a waste because what I can see is spectacular. He’s long and thick and if I were comparing, which I’m totally not, he’s far more gifted than my boyfriends have been.

“I didn’t expect that.” I gesture toward his crotch.

He looks down. “What? You thought I’d have a carrot-sized dick?”

“Fruit of the Loom. Isn’t there, like, a billionaire’s code that requires you to wear Gucci or Balmain?”

He shucks his boxers. “Better?”

And then, while I’m still staring at him (because now I have a ringside seat and there’s a lot of Max O’Reilly to appreciate), he launches himself onto the bed. His fingers find my ribs, gently tickling as he rolls me on top of him. I’ve never liked being tickled but his fingertips scrape over my skin, dancing, teasing, playing. I snort-laugh and grind against him. He’s not getting away from me now.

His hands cup my butt, lifting me up. I plant my hands on either side of his head, bracing myself so I don’t fall off. Not that there’s any chance of that, because my mouth’s stuck to his and we’re kissing, his tongue in my mouth, mine in his the way he’s going to be inside me real soon. Turns out Max really knows how to kiss.

The rough, hungry pressure of his lips against mine makes me dirty moan.

He’s naked, I’m naked. Could this morning get any more perfect? And could I be any more screwed? Hooking up with Max is the best worst idea I’ve ever had.

He pulls his mouth away from mine, staring up at me with hot, hungry eyes. “Yes? We’re doing this?”

His penis isn’t as polite. It pulses against me, hot, hungry and deliciously eager. Rational decision-making is overrated. I also part my legs as I come to this happy conclusion.

“Hurry up.” I may bounce ever so slightly because the man is taking forever. He makes a rough sound as the tip of him slips inside the first inch of me.

I squeeze because I shouldn’t be the only one suffering here. Plus, I’ve got him where I want him, so letting go would just be a waste of time. He groans something, so I do it again.

“Condom, Maple.” He throws out an arm, yanking open the drawer of the bedside table. While he looks for the condom, I admire my view. His chest is a work of art, all muscles and sun-bronzed skin. He must spend a lot of time outside without a shirt. There’s also a gorgeous line of muscles and the best ever happy trail arrowing down to—well, let’s just say I really hope looks aren’t deceiving.

“Scoot,” he growls, slamming the drawer shut. “Either come up here or let me get this on.”

He flexes beneath me. Choices, choices.

I snatch the condom out of his hand and move back to give myself some room to work. His body is a delicious distraction, and even though I’m a big believer in safe sex, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to take him bare. What the hell is happening to me? I promptly drop the condom on him.

God bless a man who does his crunches because he levers up so he can reach the condom and hand it to me. He doesn’t even seem to notice my unusual gracelessness, but maybe that’s because his hands are skating down my arms and sweeping over my breasts. I’m not an overachiever in that department, but I’ve got enough. His fingers find my nipples and do a stroking thing that makes me arch.

“Do it again.”

Apparently Max is good with taking directions, because he does. Plus, he palms my boobs, cupping and rubbing and generally driving me insane. “How about this?”

His mouth discovers my nipple.

“Yes?”

I’m grinding on his massive, Vlad the Impaler–worthy penis, so that’s all I can manage. I don’t know how some people manage to call out all the stuff they’re enjoying most or recite epic poetry. I’m just trying not to moan, because I feel like I should retain a modicum of dignity.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?” He sounds downright happy for a man who’s doing all the work.

“Can’t reach,” I mumble. Scout’s honor. It’s true.

“Problem solved.” Before I can squeak out a protest, Max turns me around effortlessly. Sure, I have a perfect view of his penis, but this also means that my butt—and other parts—are right there in his face. He pauses, just a beat, as if he’s waiting for me to greenlight him. When his hand strokes over the curve closest to his mouth, I moan again.

Fuck talking. My brain just stops. If the man wants a conversation, he’ll have to hold it with himself. Talking with my mouth full would be rude, right? I’ve always been flexible, so I do a sort of downward dog and take him into my mouth. He lets out a hoarse shout, but I’m a busy woman. Plus, he started this, so I don’t think he should be doing any complaining.

Just to make sure he’s one hundred percent satisfied, I show my appreciation to his penis. Plus, I may have had one or two (dozen) fantasies about him fucking my mouth, and this is my chance. I lick him from the base to the tip, sucking hard. At some point, when his breathing grows rougher and the hands in my hair tug harder, I add the edge of my teeth and my palms. As blow jobs go, it’s slightly rough—and trust me, he definitely appreciates it. Max may be a nice guy most of the time, but he likes that bit of edge with his sex.

Clearly, he finds it motivational, because he doesn’t hold back. His mouth seems to be everywhere at once, licking and kissing a soft, dirty path. The man may be shit on a dance floor but his tongue flies over me and I swear I’m hearing the “Hallelujah Chorus” with each decadent stroke. I manage to keep my end, fisting and sucking, but little noises escape me. Whimpers, goddamned moans, an entire yes-please chorus—it all erupts from my throat in full stereo, porn-worthy volume. The bastard chuckles and then he picks up the pace.

I need him in me. I maintain just enough control to snatch up the condom from where it’s fallen on the bed and tear it. The foil packet goes somewhere—as if I care—and then I’m wrapping a hand around him. One more good, juicy lick to ease the way and then I’m smoothing Mr. Condom down his penis. For a moment, it almost doesn’t fit. He’s truly enormous. I rise to the challenge, though.

I reverse my position. Dancing has made me really flexible. On top, underneath him, spooned up beside him—so many choices. I decide I need to see his face because he’s staring up at me as if I’m the center of his universe and we both deserve a reward. I brush my mouth over his. Being the giver he is, his hands keep right on touching me.

“How?” He grits the question out.

“Do you need a menu?” Honestly, I’m not picky. In works for me. I lick my palm and wrap it around his dick. My fingers don’t meet. He’s big and I’m going to need all the lube I can get.

God. I can’t believe I’m about to pop my hookup cherry. On the other hand, I’ve always been way into monogamy and I’m suddenly certain I haven’t changed my position on that. Who would want to share this amazing penis?

He lifts me up and I sink down. Oh. Forget Bora Bora or the stage spotlights or all those other times I thought I was hot. Heat pebbles my skin, and I can feel the warmth pouring off Max. He feels this, too. I throw out my hands, trying to find some traction or something to hold on to. My nails dig into his shoulders while I bury my face in his throat. This has the added advantage of letting me scream without alerting the entire world to what we’re doing.

He grips my butt, maneuvering me down and then somehow his thumbs are grazing my clit, pushing me open as he moves inside me and the orgasm train is barreling into the station. He does something else with his fingers and his magic penis is slamming into me, and hello.

I scream into his throat. My whole body gives it up, trembling and shaking as I see white and light and a whole galaxy of the sexiest, hottest stars ever. Keeping still is an impossibility. I bump and grind, milking him for all he’s got because if I stop to think for even a second, reality will creep in. None of the guys I’ve slept with in the past have been players like Max and I hate, hate, hate not being the best.

He flips us over, shifting forward, and I think I groan his name. Or “More.” I could just call him that from now on. I wrap my arms and legs around him just in case he’s thinking of going anywhere, and then all I can do is hold on.

Max O’Reilly is fucking me. One big palm cradles my head which has apparently grown nerve endings or something overnight because the rasp of his fingertips against my scalp has me shivering. The other hand cups my butt and holds me still for his next thrust.

Works for me.

I force my eyes to stay open because missing any second of this isn’t an option. Max thrusts deeper and my eyes may roll back in my head. Just for a moment because then I’m watching him again. His face is fierce, all of his attention concentrated on the place where we’re joined together. His hands hold me close as he moves, finding our rhythm until his strokes get harsher and there’s no more gentle.

Which works for me.

God, it works for me.

I lose track of the details after that, but that’s okay. Max is a detail man. He’s got me. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his back. I palm his butt. And I taste every inch of his silky, sun-kissed, salty skin as if he’s my very own mansicle and if I don’t hurry up and lick him good, he’ll melt away. He tastes amazing, so good that I have to lick him over and over because if once is great, a thousand times will be even better.

He kisses me back, his mouth working down my jaw to my throat. I love what he’s doing, as the noises I’m making attest. He’s big down there, making me stretch for him, and I love that, too. He’s thrusting deeper and deeper, and we’re both more than a little out of control, because I don’t know about him, but this feels amazing.

It’s almost a shock when I come, squeezing him hard, my thighs trying to strangle his waist. I lock up, chasing that glorious heartbeat, as the bed, the world, everything ignites in a blaze of heat and all I can do is feel and yell because he needs to be here with me.

“Max, Max…ohmygod… Max.”

And I think he is. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s coming, too, making Max noises that I hear dimly through my happy, postorgasmic bliss.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Max

“YOU HAVE AN amazing dick. It’s a dozen inches of pure magic. Do you think you’re just naturally talented or is it practice? Some kind of hookup magic?” Maple drills her head into my shoulder, trying to wiggle into my side. Apparently sex makes her talkative.

“Twelve inches is an overstatement.” My dick’s happy to make the effort to live up to her expectations—it perks right up.

“Wow.” Her gaze dips downward. I can feel her lips curve up into a smile. “You could have fooled me.”

I’m not sure what she expects me to do. Or maybe it’s what she expects us to do? I’ve never had sex with a friend before. The friend in question snuggles into my chest, recovering from her own orgasms. I know she came at least three times, because she told me so. We could have sex again. I could get up. Or maybe she wants a shower, a good exit line, compliments? This is why I stick to hookups.

Except…

Item: Best. Sex. Ever.

Item: Maple is still talking.

I listen while she babbles on, stroking my hand through her hair, sorting it out because we’ve totally messed it up. When she slows down, I slide my question into a pause.

“What do you want to do now?”

She hums a bouncy measure as she gives my question some thought. This isn’t so bad. We’ve had sex, we both came and no one’s made a mad rush for the door. Maybe this can work.

“There’s one thing that could make this better,” she says.

I’m more than willing to take suggestions. “Just one? Hit me.”

I run my hands down her hair while I wait for her answer. I’ve restored order. Mostly. I’ve never stuck around after my hookups. Yes, I’m the little kid who spots a giant Lego tower and goes all “me smash!” on it and then walks way because the fun part is the crash and the way the Legos spray everywhere. I’m not a fan of picking up the pieces. But I don’t think twice about kicking Maple out of bed or finding an excuse to go. Instead, I tug a long section of her hair toward me. Ginger maybe? It smells as pretty as the rest of her, all sunshine and spicy.

She hums a little, a tune I don’t recognize yet. “Biscuits and gravy would be heaven on earth. Can you cook? Or are you just a pretty penis?”

“Hmm.” I pull her on top of me. “Pretty sure there’s a sad lack of pork products in my kitchen. Ditto on baked goods.”

She makes a face, eyes laughing down at me. “I’ll have to downgrade your star rating, Mr. O’Reilly.”

“That’s bullshit.” To prove my point, I lean up and kiss her. I know exactly how she likes to be kissed now.

I take my time, even though my dick’s ready to go again and I think Maple could be convinced. Our kiss is slow, a sleepy, sweet press of our mouths. We’re just sitting in the Porsche, keys in the ignition, motor idling, rather than tearing up the highway balls-out. I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone like this. Her stomach growls, though, so I break off our kiss. Priorities, right?

“I just lost another star, didn’t I?”

She giggles. “You gonna fill me up, hotshot?”

“Was that the best dirty joke you could come up with?” I reach out an arm, patting around for my phone on the bedside table.

“Is that a challenge?” She rolls her eyes, her body shaking with laughter.

There’s a little hole-in-the-wall mom-and-pop place on the other side of Santa Cruz that caters to the college crowd. The cook there makes the best gravy ever. They have chocolate gravy and biscuits the size of hubcaps.

“I can see I’m going to have to work to stay number one in your fantasy list.” I send my fingers flying over the screen. The restaurant doesn’t deliver, but the car service I use sometimes is happy to pick it up and bring it here.

I turn the phone around so she can see. “Twenty-seven minutes. Want to see what I can do in twenty-five?”

We’re in the shower.

I’m on my knees, doing some not-so-Sunday worshipping.

Maple moans my name, while her fingers tear at my hair. I volunteered my head when she complained about being off balance. My face is between her thighs, her right leg over my left shoulder, and let’s just say we’re not playing Twister or yoga for adults.

I lick up her slick, sweet slit. We established five minutes ago that she really likes this, and sure enough, she starts making those whimpering noises I fucking love so much.

Or maybe it’s English. Can’t tell, don’t care, because she’s coming on my face and she’s definitely thanking me. Moments later, I stand up, kill the water and lift her out of the shower.

Best twenty-two minutes ever.

After we consume our cumulative weight in biscuits and gravy, we wander out to the kitchen because Maple has repeatedly mentioned wanting to murder a cup of coffee. That answers my earlier question about whether she was a matcha-drinking freak. She’s not. Instead, she’s a full-on caffeine monster and that’s something I actually stock in my kitchen.

Much to my regret, she’s wearing clothes again. I pointed out that this was both a shame (no one should cover up a body as hot as hers) and a waste of time (I’ll just have to strip her after we’re done refueling), but she refuses to give in. Instead, she steals my favorite UC Santa Cruz T-shirt and slips on what she calls her “emergency panties.” Apparently smart girls keep a spare pair of panties in their purses just in case the night’s date turns out to have a Conan the Barbarian side and rips the first pair off with his teeth. Or in case, you know, there’s an impromptu sleepover and she wants to not do the walk of shame pantyless the next morning.

We take our coffee outside, but when she goes to perch on a lounge chair overlooking the ocean, I have a better idea. “Sit here.”

I pat my lap. I know what she’s thinking, but she’s safe. I’m wearing a pair of ancient navy blue sweatpants that dip dangerously low on my hips, and so the suggestion’s not as obscene as it sounds.

She sets her coffee mug down and straddles my legs, leaning back, arms arched over her head in a perfect, round circle as she stretches. Or something. Fuck if I know what she’s doing but her thighs grip mine and I can’t stop myself from running a hand up the toned, taut lines of her stomach.

“So?” She arches further until her ocean view must be completely upside down. “Are we really going to do this?”

I’ve never had anything but temporary hookups, so I’m not sure what this is. “Give me more words.”

“Have sex.”

“News flash.” I pull her upright and hand her the mug. “You’ve already had your wicked way with me.”

She buries her face in her cup. “I meant, are we going to do it more than once?”

I lean in and nip her ear. “Once again? Already checked it off the list. I’m hurt you don’t remember.”

She stares back at me. “Do you want to do it again?”

“Do you?”

She mock-sighs. “I do have hundreds of guys pinging me for a hookup.”

I want to go all caveman on those guys.

“You didn’t delete the app?”

That can’t be true.

She’s not looking for a hookup.

Is she?

“I don’t want to have to hide in the house,” she says. “I want to get out, to live a little. Maybe Madd was a bad choice. Maybe I can do better. But if I’m being honest, just the idea of dating makes me want to scream. I’m tired of putting in all the work. I just want sex. And a friend. Are you taking applications for friendship?”

“You want to hook up with me? Are you fucking with me?”

She shrugs. “No. Well, yes. I totally want to fuck you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Jesus, Maple. No. Do you think I’d lie to you?”

“No. I don’t. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

At her words my brain gets a little dizzy, as if there’s not enough oxygen in the room. Which is impossible. Maple’s breathing just fine. Maybe I’m having a heart attack?

“Don’t have a panic attack.” Maple leans in, pressing her fingertips against my mouth. Not sure how that’s supposed to encourage me to breathe, but it works.

“I’m not proposing to you,” she continues. “I’m just saying that—if you have no plans for a hookup with a random, sexy stranger—maybe you’d like to make plans with me.”

Hell, yes. Play it cool, I remind myself.

“What makes you think this could work?”

“Item one, hot sex.” She winks at me as she uses my favorite phrase. And honestly, having sex with her again is a no-brainer. She’s freaking gorgeous, her smiles and constant motion pulling me in. The way she hums her own soundtrack as she dances through life, the way she picks herself up when life hands her a shit sandwich, the way she goes balls-out when she decides she wants something, it all makes me want more. Naked more.

“Item two, I looked your profile up on Kinkster. We like the same things.”

She slides that in there, as if it’s no big deal. You like country ballads? Me, too! Tacos on the beach, margaritas with salt on the rim, and sex in public? You bet. Right there with you.

“Item three, it’s your fault my phone’s blowing up and since there’s no way I’ll come by a date honestly for the foreseeable future, you owe me.”

“I want to fuck you again,” I agree. “And you know I don’t do boyfriend/girlfriend gigs. I don’t know how.”

“So we hook up exclusively. The best of both worlds. Awesome. We’re agreed. I’m glad we had this conversation.” She swings off my lap. “I need to head back to the city now.”

A few minutes and a whole lot of kisses later, she’s fully dressed and headed out the door. I sort of want to pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. Let my caveman act out because he’s feeling…possessive.

I’m sure that’s why I follow her out the door to the waiting car.

Because I can’t help it.

Because I sort of miss her already.

“Call me,” I say.

She winks as she hops into the car. “Maybe.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Max

I FIND MYSELF having a hard time focusing. The week after I make Maple come on my beach and in my shower is a long one. I jog from meeting to meeting. I stand to make a phenomenal amount of money this year, as do the members of my team. My engineering team plays the what-if game every day. What if the stock goes to forty? What if it goes to eighty? What if we hit triple digits? My what-ifs are different.

What if Maple and I hooked up again?

What if once wasn’t enough?

What if once is all I get?

Maple is conspicuously silent despite the multiple orgasms I gave her. She doesn’t text. Or call. Or barge into my life, my office or my bed.

As if having sex had been my idea.

Naked Maple was amazing. My brain replays over and over the moment she yanked her dress over her head. She tossed it aside like she didn’t give a fuck. That was hot. Her body? Also hot. The way she rode me and made sure she got her happy ending? Hottest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.

I don’t know how often Maple likes to have sex, so when Monday passes without a call or text, I’m not particularly alarmed. A twenty-four hour no-text window after sex isn’t that unusual. Okay, so maybe I’m not as calm as I pretend I am. And I look at my phone more often than a normal, sane person should. I blame the sex. You ladies are right. We guys should call when we say we’re going to. This is the first time it’s happened to me and let me tell you: ghosting sucks.

By Friday, I’ve written an app that automatically checks my Maple messages for me and intones nada, boss after each unsuccessful poll. We’ve officially gone 123 hours without contact. I’m touring a penthouse condo in a new San Francisco high-rise when I finally cave to this inexplicable need I have to see Maple again. I’ve been thinking about buying a place to crash at when I don’t feel like driving back to Santa Cruz. Part of me wonders if Maple would like it. I walk through a living room—big enough to park a small plane in—that is accessorized with sweeping views of the San Francisco business district. There are more city views from the bedroom, while the dining room offers a peek at the Bay Bridge. I suspect that if I go out on the terrace, I’ll be able to finish my sightseeing with Alcatraz Island or something equally postcard-worthy.

The bathroom is the only private place. When I flick on the lights, I discover it’s all gray stone and maple wood. Chic, upscale, contemporary. Check, check and check. It’s also more than a little boring. In fact, the only thing colorful in the entire condo is the powder room where the designer went nuts. One entire wall is covered with these little gold triangle tiles and there’s a gold faucet. The hot and cold water taps are gold loops. I can just imagine Midas taking a shit here.

I’m still not sure what to say to Maple, so I text her a picture of the bathroom. It’s not the sexiest thing (I’m not stupid enough to include my naked dick or any other body part), but I’m genuinely curious to hear what she’s got to say. I shoot her a quick text.

Too much?

At first, all I get is radio silence. Then typing bubbles. More bubbles. When her text finally hits my phone, it’s entirely unsatisfactory.

Why?

What does that even mean? I send her a close-up of the gold tiles. It’s like King Midas was set loose in a decorating showroom. I’m half-scared she’ll love it, half-worried she’ll think my own taste is suspect. Whatever. It’s the stupidest text ever, so of course I have to push it.

Thinking of buying a place in San Francisco. You think we need one bedroom or two for the kids?

This time her response comes much faster: What if we have triplets? Do they have to share? Are you going to play favorites? One bedroom—three teenage girls. Do the math.

She makes a good point. I wander out of the bathroom and text: We should take parenting classes. I’m free tomorrow.

Like the guy I am, thinking about babies makes me think about making babies. Except for Maple, I haven’t hooked up with anyone since she busted into my office.

I feel like I’m wearing a goddamned chastity belt.

I check out the bedroom while I consider my next steps. Like the rest of the condo, the bedroom’s tastefully decorated in modern minimalist chic—whatever that is. As far as I can tell, it means gray. The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is awesome, though, so I snap a picture of that and hit Send.

Max: See that window? Me too. I have some thoughts.

Maple: ?

Max: You. Naked. Legs spread, tits on the glass, me taking you from behind. Hands over your head, my fingers laced through yours. How many people see you come besides me?

This is what the listing agent should have included in the property description: luxury penthouse condo with great views and six rooms to have sex in. Do it outside on the terrace, up against the windows where the world can watch or move inside for some soundproofed fun. Bonus room for use as wine cellar or sex dungeon. No one cares about the two bedroom, three bathroom parts—it’s all about how you’re going to live in the space. Square footage? Does it matter?

Maple must be reading my mind, because she doesn’t make me wait.

Maple: Forget class. You busy tonight?

Max: Might buy the furniture too. You like this table?

Maple: Answer mine first.

Max: Greedy girl. Tell me where you want me and when. Can start in any room, but definitely recommending the bedroom.

The link Maple texts me leads me to the home page for the San Francisco Opera. Apparently, four-million-dollar penthouses aren’t her thing—she’d rather spend Friday night surrounded by Doric columns and designer evening gowns. She’s bound to get bored, so it’s a good thing she has me.

Max: You want a mausoleum for Christmas? A life-size replica of the Greek Parthenon for your front lawn?

Her response is some kind of emoji. I can’t tell if the yellow happy face with the pink tongue and the manga eyeballs is happy, sad or about to vomit. I make a note to ask my engineering team on Monday—one of them will know.

Dress code is black-tie, she texts.

She’s so narrow-minded. Naked is better.

She fires back right away. Charity event. Clothes required. Come with me?

In my experience, charities are interested in the size of your checkbook. Give enough and showing up naked is on the table. Also? She’s left the door wide-open to jokes with that last question. I imagine her cradling her phone, that impish smile lighting up her pretty face. I don’t think that question was an accident. On the other hand, she’s also just asked me out on a date.

I try and fail to remember the last time I went on a second date.

Max: I’m a giver, you’ve got that right, but I prefer to do my giving one-on-one. I’m a special donor. Tell me where to come.

Too much? I couldn’t resist. We spend a few more minutes hammering out the logistics for our date night. Maple wants to meet up in front of the opera house, while I’d like to pick her up and am willing to go as far as to meet her in bed. For the moment, we compromise on door-to-door service.

The Realtor sticks her head in the door. She’s a young redhead with legs for miles and a sleek gray suit that matches the bedroom decor. She’s already offered to program her number into my phone so I can call her anytime if I have questions about the property. When I pointed out that all her contact info was on the listing, she countered with an offer of special services. A month ago, I would have suggested we discuss the property details over drinks, but now I just text my financial team to handle everything.

“Are you interested?” she asks.

In her? No.

I take a moment to let that sink in.

I turn my gaze back to my phone. Yes or no?

Maple: I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.

Max: Live a little. Pick one.

Maple: Then yes.

Have I mentioned that yes is my favorite word? I nod at the Realtor. “We’ll take it.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Max

BEING A BILLIONAIRE has its perks.

Yes, yes, I started as a code geek and a software engineer, but I didn’t get where I am today by being pretty or by not pushing. You do it this way? I’ll find a better, faster, cheaper way to do it and then I’ll sell my way. Knowing when to dig in and when to let go is critical. Case in point? I started both Kinkster and Billionaire Bachelors in my college dorm room. The dot-com world works from anywhere—some of our most famous success stories were birthed in garages and spare bedrooms. Where there’s electricity, hardware and a whole lot of will, there’s a path to better software engineering and millions or billions of dollars. We can make shit happen from a manger in Bethlehem—we don’t need Herod’s palace.

What does a software engineer do? Well, on the days I’m wearing my halo and am a good boy, I figure out how to make a computer fix a particular problem you’ve got and I do that by translating your commands into bits and bytes. The brake lights on your car and the ice maker in your fridge, the streetlights that come on when the sun sets, proactive parking meters that give you shit when you’ve overstayed, and shoes that talk to your smartphone—that’s the superhero code, out there saving the world and making life easier.

Some days, though, the devil’s sitting on my shoulder and I like to mess with things. The felonies teenage boys can get up to? Trespassing, vandalism, petty theft, joyriding and some old-fashioned underage drinking? There’s a computer version of that, too. Some hackers like to use their powers for evil and exploit whatever vulnerabilities they find in a system, running amok in other people’s systems. The best part of being older and smarter, however, is realizing that now people will pay me to do this stuff. White-hat security hackers figure out how to breach a company’s software defenses and identify their weaknesses.

Does Maple have a weakness? A small one. She’s nice.

She watches carefully and figures out what other people like—and then she serves it up.

You want to argue that’s a good thing?

It can be. She’s the neighbor you want, the one who will water your plants and feed your demon puppy when you decide to make a last-minute trip out of town and all the reputable dog sitters are booked or you’re broke. She likes making people happy and she’s good at it.

Why does this matter?

I’m so happy you asked. Because I want a second shot—and then a third and possibly a fourth—with Maple, so I need her to trust me. To let me come around. Come in her. On her.

Bottom line? I plan to be the best hookup she’s never had so that she’ll keep calling me.

A few hours after making an offer on the San Francisco penthouse, I arrive at the address she texted me. I’ve opted for a car service tonight and I’m ready to make a good second-date impression. I’m wearing black-tie and I look good. No, I’m not that arrogant. Every guy looks good in a tux. If we were smarter as a species, we’d opt for dress blacks instead of jeans and T-shirts.

I hop out of the car because I need to get on top of this date. It already feels like the grown-up version of high school prom. Which I skipped because not only did I graduate two years early but I was a stretched-out, skinny kid and it wasn’t a good look. A six-two, 120-pound teenage boy doesn’t exactly rock the high school dating lists.

When I get to the front door, however, I realize I don’t have the access code. I work around it by punching the button for the intercom. Maple answers and we’re back in business.

“Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

“Why?”

“I can come up,” I offer.

There’s a reason most hookups happen somewhere public. You know what it is—your place, whether it’s a full-blown mansion or a tiny studio you share with three cats and a potted plant, is yours and who likes sharing? And even if you’re trusting a random stranger to bring the orgasms, do you really want to trust him with your stuff?

I didn’t think so.

For hookups, I generally prefer a nice hotel room. Having sex in a hotel is also scientifically proven to be better than at home. Don’t believe me? I read a study once that claimed our bodies put out more endorphins and dopamine when we are having ourselves an adventure. Orgasms and hotel points—it’s like the ultimate two-for-one. Maple tempts me to try something different, however. I’d like to see where she lives and hold her in her own bed. I’d like to think that then she’ll remember me when she goes to sleep or does whatever it is she does when she’s home alone.

“I’m coming down.” Maple disconnects and I wait.

There’s a homeless guy camped out in the tiny, sloping slice of driveway in front of her house. San Francisco has a huge problem with homeless residents. Shit happens, life happens, PTSD happens, drugs happen—and sometimes it’s all of the above, but it’s a problem. No one should be sleeping outside on the sidewalk unless it’s truly a choice and most of us would pick a mattress, four walls and a ceiling. I hand him a twenty, which is like slapping a Band-Aid over an amputated limb, but it’s also a start. We strike up a brief conversation while I wait, during which I learn that Lieutenant Bob served in the US military (he won’t say which branch), he’s got a brother in Toledo (we both agree that’s nuts), and he keeps an eye out for Maple when she’s coming home late or taking out the trash. He’s a good man.

Maple is standing on the steps behind me when I turn back around, a smile lighting up her face. Her hair’s scooped up on top of her head in sleek, smooth loops, and her eyes are smoky dark and mysterious. She’s clearly dug deep into her makeup drawer and she looks fabulous.

My gaze automatically drops down to appreciate the rest of her and that’s when my mouth pops open and gets stuck. A lemon yellow sparkly dress hugs her rack and hips, stopping a few inches south of paradise. The skirt is made out of this see-through gauzy stuff that floats around her long bare legs as she dances down the stairs. And because I must have been a very, very good boy (in a previous life, obviously), she’s wearing heels, a pair of three-inch strappy shoes that I’d like to see wrapped around my waist next.

I meet her at the bottom, settling my hands on her waist and twirling her in a slo-mo circle. Her skirt flies out around us. “You look fantastic.”

Let’s be honest. She looks all the things.

“Hey.” She curls an arm around my neck and lets me whirl her around. “I look like a hot dog with mustard.”

She hums a few bars of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Maple’s always playing a soundtrack.

“Did I mention I love hot dogs and that mustard tops my all-time favorite condiments list?” I drop a kiss on the end of her nose. “I brought you something.”

“You already donated 946 roses to the cause.” Maple turns a little pink as she says this and looks uncertain. It’s the cutest thing ever.

“It was 937, but this is more fun.”

I want to kiss her for real when I hand her the bright blue box. So badly.

Instead, I watch her pop open the box. She looks surprised—and pleased. I went with the gold charm bracelet so that I have an excuse to keep giving her little souvenirs. The first charm is a tiny, diamond-studded car. I slip it on her wrist.

Lieutenant Bob shouts after us. “Bring back dessert!”

Maple flashes him a wide grin. “Two of everything!”

Frankly, I think Lieutenant Bob deserves to eat everything twice.

When we reach the curb, I have a brief debate with myself. Do I slip in next to her? Perch on the opposite seat? Or just cut to the chase and pull her into my lap? Out of respect for her pretty dress, I slide in next to her. During the ride to the San Francisco Opera, I show her pictures of my new penthouse. It’s fun but it’s also awkward. That’s why I stick to hookups. Relationships with a clearly defined expiration date are so much easier. I thought about giving her a key charm or even a real key, but that would be weird.

“So hit me with the plan for tonight?”

“It’s a charity performance,” she says. “Members of the San Francisco Opera are going to reprise Puccini’s Madame Butterfly.”

I wave my phone at her. “You want to give me the highlights, or should I figure it out for myself?”

She makes a face at me. “Butterfly is a fifteen-year-old geisha who is ‘married’ off to a visiting American naval officer. He promises to return for her when the robins nest, even though he really sees her as a hookup—he’s got big time marriage plans involving a real marriage to the right kind of woman, an American woman. Needless to say it all ends badly, particularly for Butterfly, but the music’s amazing, the fundraising cause is important, and it’s an opportunity for me to meet a few people.”

Yes, it’s a free performance where at the end of the night, after watching a tragedy unfold onstage where no one gets a happy ending, you’re expected to write a check that’s hundreds of times more than purchasing actual tickets would cost. It’s a good thing I’m loaded.

I wink at her. “So you want me for more than my dick.”

She winks right back. “I’m in it for your pretty face.”

I like this girl.

What? You find that hard to believe? You think I’m just planning the best way to get her out of that dress and bouncing on my lap wearing just her heels? I’m an excellent multitasker, so sure. But I do like her. She’s funny, she’s tenacious and she returns any shit I give her with interest.

Her gaze flicks toward the front seat. There’s a panel separating us from the driver, but it’s closed. Plus, he gets paid to pretend that the backseat of my car is Vegas—and what happens here, stays here. Maple doesn’t have to worry that she’ll wake up tomorrow to find herself splashed all over the gossip sites.

Her hand wanders over my thigh. Then she leans in and squeezes my dick through my dress pants. “I’m thinking of this as a two-for-one special.”

“Are you?” My voice comes out as a growl.

“Mmm-hmm.” She’s humming something else now while she makes free with me. “Or maybe a three-for-one special. I’m hanging with an athleisure wear company that’s looking for an influencer, plus I get to give back to the arts in San Francisco.”

“That’s two,” I point out. “You want a seat on the board for a ballet nonprofit and you can meet the right people to make that happen.”

She pats my thigh. “You’re number three. I get to hang out with you.”

The opera house is lit up like a Christmas tree, except we’re the presents. When our car pulls up in front of the steps that sweep up from the street to the main entrance, someone opens the door and I get out first. I know the drill. My job is to help Maple get out without flashing her panties to the waiting photographers and then make sure her dress is still covering her ass before she hits the red carpet. Flashbulbs explode everywhere. The knee pop, the ankle cross, the cute-couple-glued-together-at-the-hip—we pose our way up the carpet.

Okay. Let’s be honest. I totally hate this part, but it matters to Maple. This is the other kind of exposure she enjoys, the less sexy, more commercial kind. Plus, when a photographer asks us to kiss, I’m happy to take one for the team and swoop Maple backward over my arm. When I’m asked to comment on the status of my relationship with Maple, I just wink and say that I’m a very lucky man.

Once we finish running the gauntlet, we hit the open bar, and then Maple’s talking people up, so I lean against the wall and observe. I learn four new things about her.

Item: She loves those bright red maraschino cherries the bartender floats in our drinks.

Item: She’s into something she calls house porn. This apparently involves lusting after online pictures of expensive houses rather than guys. Or girls. Or both.

Item: The stuff she puts in her hair smells like coconuts. Coconuts manage to be a fruit, a nut and a seed—there’s probably a bad joke in there but Maple failed to warn me that on a scale of one to ten, tonight’s boredom factor would rate a hundred.

Item: Okay. Maybe ninety because apparently I like making Maple happy—and she likes feeling me up when no one is looking.

Eventually we’re ushered into our seats, which are box seats. Naturally. Neither nature nor the opera is a meritocracy, and only the best people make it to the mezzanine and the box seats. You have to be either very, very rich or a super donor to sit in one of these spindly, gold-gilded seats.

“I think we got upgraded,” she whispers, running a finger over the red velvet that covers the edge of the box.

“Or Christmas came early,” I say with mock seriousness as I nod to the occupants of the box to our left. There’s a senator sitting there, along with two mayors, a representative and three foreign dignitaries. If this was political bingo, I’d be yelling, Bingo!

But let’s be honest. We know what’s going to happen: I’m going to be making a very large donation to the opera.

Maple

“You sit like you’re on a throne.” Max’s amusement tickles my ear. I think I had too much champagne before the opera because my stomach is warm and full of happy tingles that spread through my body like ripples in a fountain when you toss a quarter in for luck.

“You can pay me homage later.” I know how I sit, but I still look down anyhow, as if something might have changed. Thanks to years of ballet training, my spine is straight, my legs together, bent to the side, ankles crossed. It’s how the British royal family sits and it guarantees I don’t flash my panties at anyone in the theater. But as soon as I think that, my brain tumbles down the rabbit hole. I’m aware that there are hundreds of people here, most of whom are at least pretending to watch the performance onstage. I squeeze my thighs together, pretending to myself that I’m not imagining a different scenario, one where I ease my legs apart. One where strangers are staring at me, their eyes tracing down my body, over the shadowed space between my legs. I’m wet just thinking about it.

Max tugs on the charms that slide against my bare wrist. “Earth to Maple.”

“Sorry.” I flash him an apologetic smile. “I’m paying attention.”

It’s true, even if I’m not paying attention to what I should. The lights go down and the gold velvet curtain that’s hidden the performers rises. Show time. I’d forgotten how performing made me feel, the hot, warm nerves, the delicious tension that I release into the dance. It made me feel alive, and I miss it. I read a book once where the main character had her first ever movie audition and came from the heat of the lights and all those gazes on her. There’s probably some disturbing Freudian explanation, but all I could think was I know that feeling.

At some point during the first act, Max nudges my shoulder with his, holding out another flute of champagne. He’s like the alcohol magician, producing it from nowhere. Usually, I limit myself to two glasses, but I’m tired of rules tonight. I’d rather have the ticklish prick of the bubbles in my nose and the warmth of hundred-dollar-a-glass champagne sliding down my throat. And even while I know I’m lucky—I could be Lieutenant Bob or a million other people who don’t have even a fraction of this moment—I’m missing something.

Max says something. It’s under his breath and the tenor is letting the whole theater know in no uncertain terms that the woman he’s serenading onstage is his everything. At best, my Italian is rusty. Other than food words, my conversation is limited to cursing and place names, so I should be concentrating on the singers. I should lose myself in the music. But I’m too aware of the man slouched in the seat beside me. Max has no boundaries. His body bends and flows and takes up all his space and some of mine. Our arms touch. Our legs brush.

Honestly, I’d crawl in his lap if it wouldn’t be some horrible breach of theater etiquette. Max’s fingers tap and his leg fidgets. Not in time to the music, but as if he’s hearing something uniquely his in his head. Or maybe he’s bored? I did drag the man to the opera after all. I partially blame him, though. The man is just so appealing in a tux. Or half a tux. He’s undone the first few buttons of his dress shirt and the bow tie he has yet to wear is half-stuffed into the pocket of the jacket draped across the back of his chair. Instead of wanting to do him back up, however, I want to finish the job and strip him down right here. In public.

I snort before I can stop myself. We’d never be invited back, no matter how big of a check Max wrote. Sitting next to me, he’s somehow teasing and frothy, as expensive as the champagne that’s a perfect complement to the evening and I’m lucky. So very lucky. Stupid tears prick my eyelids. I won’t be sad. I shouldn’t be. I have so much.

“Maple?”

I hear him whisper my name as his big, warm palm covers my forearm and strokes. His voice, pitched low because we do not, ever, yell in theaters, is both rough and hungry. When I slide a glance at him, he’s staring at me and not the stage. Instead of looking away, I watch him back. He’s right. This is so much better. The more he stares at me, the warmer I feel, as if something’s filling inside of me with each breath I take.

“I’m okay.” I motion vaguely toward the stage. “We should watch that.”

He nods and pulls a face. He knows I’m lying. We really do have the best seats in the house. It’s the kind of box that seems like it should belong to royalty. A shoulder-high wall separates us from the next box and we have six gilded, red velvet chairs all to ourselves. Despite the tiers of seats above and below us, it feels as if we’re alone.

I do my best to lose myself in the music, which is glorious. I know Puccini’s story ends tragically, the American naval officer betraying his geisha bride and irrevocably breaking her heart, but right now there is nothing but beauty and pleasure. The geisha bride and her new American husband sing about how they’ll be reunited when the robins nest and they’re just so happy that you have to smile. I sway in time to the music, bending toward the performers like an open flower in the sunshine.

Max trails his fingers down my neck. I love his hands. Like the rest of him, Max’s hands are sure and confident, his hands callused and roughened by hours on a surfboard. If I close my eyes, I imagine I smell the sun and salt, the ocean and the wax he rubs on his board for speed.

He leans in more, his mouth brushing the sensitive spot behind my ear. “You smell amazing.”

I whisper the words before I think. “Make me forget?”

Max doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t ask why or what or how. He simply leans in more, his weight pressing against me, his mouth kissing my ear. I don’t have the theater any more, but I have this. With a rough sound no one can hear but me because poor little Butterfly’s husband is making more promises he has no intention of keeping, Max slides his hand over my knee.

The box to our right is empty.

The box to our left is rapt, their attention focused on the stage.

Max’s hand skims further up my leg. I don’t even know what I want. I’m afraid to demand specific things, to tell him this or that or more or even right now. When I look at Max, his eyes are dark, the lines of his mouth hungry and intent. He has a plan or a fantasy, and either is good enough for me. This is how I want to feel—alive and eager, my body anticipating the next move in our dance. What would he do? What could we do in a darkened theater? Max has an excellent imagination.

“May I?” he whispers.

“Hurry up.”

Warm fingers wrap around mine and he takes my hand, pressing it against the front of his dress pants. He’s hard, his dick arching against the fabric. I measure his length with his palm, squeezing gently. “You like me.”

“Yes,” he growls.

Yes.

This is a bad idea, the best worst idea ever. We’re in a public theater for a highly publicized charity performance. There are photographers, guests, a thousand reasons I shouldn’t do this—and two of the best reasons. Max. Me.

I meet those brown eyes that seem to see me in a way no one else ever has. He pays attention as if there’s no detail too small or too silly about me. Everything matters. Madd never looked at me like this, as if I were interesting. As if he wanted to talk with me, touch me, be with me. As if just sitting here were enough. I know we’re just friends with benefits, a casual hookup, but it feels like it’s enough. As if I’m enough.

I move my hand, wrapping my fingers around his wrist, and pull his hand higher on my thigh. He lets me, his mouth easing into a smile that warms his eyes and turns up the corners of his lips.

“Touch me here.”

I whisper the words, not because I’m ashamed but because the tenor onstage is crooning passionate words to his soprano, their voices filling up the immense space of the theater, and yet somehow even as they reach the back of the stalls, singing, soaring, they’re quiet too. I move to their music, my body finding their rhythm as Max strokes the curve of my upper thigh with his thumb.

“Like this?” he asks. “Or higher?”

“Make me come.”

His mouth brushes my jaw in a soft kiss. “Then watch the show.”

My heart soars, leaping about my ribcage as if I’m about to take flight, to leap across the stage. This is a new piece for me, a dance I’ve never rehearsed, but the trick is to trust your partner when he lifts you. Max won’t let me fall—or fail.

His hand moves higher, fingertips grazing the edge of my panties. When he slips beneath the lace, the ache between my legs grows worse.

“You like this.” Max’s voice is a low, whiskey growl in my ear. “Do you like the way I touch you? Or that all our neighbors have to do is stand up and they’ll see you riding my hand in the theater? Or that no one knows, not really, what we’re doing and that it’s our dirty little secret?”

There’s nothing to say because it’s all true and maybe that makes me greedy, but it feels too good when Max touches me for it to be wrong. His arm presses against mine, his body shielding me from the audience on our left. I unbutton his pants, easing the zipper down. I take a brief second to be grateful for cotton boxers that open in the front and then I’m curling my fingers around him and stroking his bare flesh.

He eases my thighs apart, spreading me open, shoving my dress to my waist. Velvet brushes my bare skin like a thousand tiny, hungry tongues. I think I moan. I need more. I’m a swing pumping up toward the sky but there’s still so much further to go.

He pushes a finger inside me and heat spirals through me, my body tightening around him. He makes me fly and I don’t want to stop. I want everything he’ll give me—and Max is infinitely generous. He explores me leisurely, slowly, surely. His fingertips glide up and down my slick folds, finding spots that make me see white or whimper or clutch at his dick as if it’s the joystick for this wild, mad ride.

I forget to wonder who might see us. Later, I’ll tell myself that it’s okay if someone saw. I’ll tell myself I love the thrill of being watched. But right now, I can only think about Max and how he makes me feel as he fingers me in the theater exactly right. I clutch his hand between my thighs, squeezing, riding him because we’re both coming more than a little undone and it feels so good. Little sounds escape me and there’s the unmistakable sound and scent of wetness. I’m not sure our dirty little secret’s such a secret anymore because someone’s head turns in the box next to ours but then I’m whispering words again. I’m coming. Right now. You too.

I know this is just a single moment, and I know that Max is as off-limits for me as Butterfly’s naval officer is for her. Max will never be a forever man, but when he comes, his dick shoving against my palm as I squeeze, I feel happy.

Max

After the performance, we mingle in the lobby, where the caterers have set up a dessert and champagne bar. While I distract the event organizers from our opera box shenanigans with a generous donation and newfound passion for the opera, Maple loads up her clutch with a selection of finger pastries for Lieutenant Bob. Apparently, she’s come prepared and stashed empty plastic baggies in there.

Bob’s properly appreciative when we deliver the goods, and then I walk Maple to her door. She’s humming something I don’t recognize.

I hum a bar with her. “Do you always have a playlist?”

“I like music, Max. Do you have something against Romeo and Juliet?”

“Isn’t that the one where the guy loses his virginity and then promptly kills himself in a crypt because the dumbass can’t tell that his girl isn’t dead? Because that one makes me wonder just how bad our hero was in bed. I think you should pick something happier.”

Maple laughs. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“My all-time favorite movie in high school was the one where Bo Derek does some naked horseback riding. I was too busy staring to pay attention, but if that scene had a soundtrack, that’s the one I want.”

Maple’s still laughing when I kiss her.

FYI? I outkiss poor stupid, dead, cockblocked Romeo. Our mouths come to rest on each other gently and then we’re kissing. It’s sweet and slow, like one of those dreams where you’re running but getting nowhere, the air a thick, sweet tether—but without the stress. We’re getting somewhere, but neither of us is in any rush. I breathe in, she breathes out, and our kiss grows rougher as tongues and teeth come into play. I cup her head, holding her still so I can take her mouth, and she grinds up against me, doing some taking of her own, and fuck Romeo—we’re going to have our very own happy ending right here, right now.

I tear my mouth free. I think I might be panting. “Can I come up?”

There’s only one way this ends, right?

“I—”

“Maple?” Someone clears his throat. Loudly. Or maybe that’s just Karma laughing her ass off at me.

Maple jerks back like she’s been stung by a bee, except it’s dark o’clock and bees prefer to shack up in their nice, cozy hives at night. It’s a simple phototactic response. They gravitate toward the light.

Maple’s brow furrows as she peers at the shadowy throat-clearer. “Madd?”

Of course she can identify him by basic biological responses, the cockblocker.

“I think we should talk,” he says as he comes forward.

Talking is highly overrated, unless it’s the kind of yes please give me more conversation Maple and I shared in our opera box tonight.

But Maple is staring at Madd and Madd’s extending a plastic-wrapped, supermarket bouquet of pink flowers. I size up my competition: he’s three inches shorter and wearing stupid chino pants and a green-and-white-checked shirt. He’s pretty, though, with blond hair and ink covering his forearms and throat. That must have hurt and I’m glad. He deserves to suffer.

I stare at him, willing him to leave. Or to drop dead. I’m really not fussy. “What do you want?”

Madd doesn’t take his eyes off Maple, which is a smart move. He’s showing her that she’s the focus of his world, which makes him a smart dick. “A second chance.”

I swear I hear miniature violins playing a har-de-har-har chorus as he speaks. Is she really going to fall for this? When she and I could go upstairs and take our kissing to its logical conclusion?

In short: yes.

She pats me on the arm. “Thanks again.”

And…that’s it?

“Madd and I should talk—” she continues.

“Who’s he?” Madd cuts her off.

I smirk. “Her date.”

“My boyfriend,” she says at the same time.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maple#plottwist #shakespearewouldbeproud #choices

LAST NIGHT WAS—well, I’m not exactly sure what to say about last night other than that it pretty much turned out exactly like Romeo and Juliet. There was gorgeous music, some fairly memorable speeches, orgasms for all, and then it all went to hell and no one ended up happy.

After Max reluctantly left, I dragged the box of Madd’s leftover stuff down the stairs. Dealing with him feels like the dream where you suddenly realize it’s the end of the college term and you haven’t been to class once—but now you need to pass the class. I’m lost and running to keep up, but then I wake up and realize that it was just a dream.

We’re not going to get back together.

We’ll never be a couple.

I’m not going to score an A—and I don’t care. I don’t need to be who he wants me to be anymore. I wake up—alone—the morning after my Madd showdown and wait to feel regret. It’s like poking at the tooth that was sore for days or weeks and now there’s no pain and it feels a bit like a miracle. Madd’s flowers are in a vase on my bedside table. Which is also my kitchen table and my coffee table but…details. Perhaps I should have tossed the flowers in the dumpster, but I’m a sucker for hot pink stargazer lilies. Their gorgeous scent fills my studio. Someone’s even snipped off the orange stamens that stain your fingers and clothes so that there’s nothing to mar the pretty.

Madd himself? Well let’s just say that I suspect his harem was about as happy as I was with his unwillingness to pick a partner. He’s come back because I made him feel good and who doesn’t like that? Plus, now that his new girl’s kicked him to the curb, I’m useful again. Whatever. He may have traveled for business or been unhappy with his life or decided that I wasn’t Ms. Perfect, but that didn’t excuse his choice to cheat or to post our private video. This time, I want someone to choose me.

And speaking of choices?

Max has been a busy, busy boy. His latest text reads like the top ten from Kinkster, and let’s just say he knows how to make his case. There’s a reason (or nine) why he’s the king of hookups.

Hey girlfriend. Choose the one place you’d really like to have sex:

1. Redwood Park. Big-ass Redwood trees, Jurassic Park-worthy ferns, and all the suits in the Transamerica Pyramid watching from their fancy building.

2. Greenhouse in the lobby of an office building.

3. Golden Gate Park. They’ve got a park, a conservatory and a beach.

4. Coit Tower. Come on—the name begs for it.

5. Muir Woods. Pick a tree. Any tree.

6. Quickie in the Japanese Tea Garden.

7. Baker Beach.

8. Sexy times walk in the Marin Headlands.

9. The Sutro Baths. No idea, but anything that rhymes with Kama Sutra has to be good.

I stare at my screen for way too long, imagining him writing this. I can see his face, intent on the screen, the little crinkle he gets between his eyebrows when he’s working through a problem. Is he in his office even though it’s Saturday? In his enormous bed in his even bigger, emptier Santa Cruz beach mansion? I’ve seen him naked now, so it’s far too easy to dress him in a pair of faded blue jeans, feet bare, T-shirt gone so that I can mentally ogle his chest and remember what it felt like to anchor myself on his biceps.

Is he serious? I don’t even know what some of those places are, but already I feel like we share a little secret. That I’ll never see or hear those names again without thinking about having sex there. With Max. God, he drives me a little crazy.

Before I can remember the dozens—and dozens—of reasons why public sex is a bad idea, I’m committed.

Tell me about Golden Gate Park. Show me a secret part.

He texts back a map pin. Meet me at 3.

Living in San Francisco, you learn quickly that so many things are less romantic or glamorous than you believed. Fog is cold and damp. You have to step over passed-out alcoholics and the homeless in order to exit the train station, and there are so many of them that it gets harder and harder to remember that they’re people, not obstacles. You see people doing things in the street—personal, private things—and sex is the least of it.

I know that meeting Max in a public place for sex isn’t romantic. It won’t be comfortable.

But I do think it will be exciting—and excitement is something that’s been missing from my life for a long time. I’ve spent years dancing to other people’s scripts, and while I couldn’t see myself making a habit of hooking up in a public park, I want to do it. Maybe just this once or maybe twice or however many times we feel like it. I don’t know how it will end, but it feels right. It feels like I’m finally embracing some part of myself that’s been hiding in the wings, waiting for her cue to come center stage.

I roll onto my back, letting the phone slip beneath my covers. I can feel the broad smile stretching my lips, but there’s no one here to see me grinning like a loon.

Light slips in through the windows, along with street sounds. San Francisco’s awake even if I’m not. Sirens blare over the muted roar of cars; Bob’s sorting cans in the alley between my house and the next. There’s music from downstairs because my neighbor likes to salsa while she housecleans. Later there will be the rumble of delivery trucks and the barking call of the food vendors who trundle their carts up and down 16th Street offering churros, corn on the cob and lime-and-chili-flavored slices of watermelon.

Not ready to move yet, I trace my ribs with my fingertips, stroking up over my breasts and then down. Max O’Reilly is funny and he goes for what he wants. Not in a greedy, I-have-to-have-it-all way. It’s more like he simply plans the shit out of his life and therefore gets more done than others.

Case in point? He has not one but two PhDs. Who needs more than one? Who has the time? He did his graduate work at the Berkeley campus of the University of California, where someone told him he could only enroll in one program because no one could possibly complete the dual coursework, let alone write two dissertations. Max’s reaction was pretty much watch me. He lived on Red Bull. Lola says he never slept more than two hours in a row, so he didn’t bother renting an apartment—he just moved from lab to library and back. Now he has PhDs in computer science and philosophy.

Three o’clock seems far away. To kill time, I force myself to get up. Max loves my “bendiness.” I suspect he’s had the usual fantasies about dating a gymnast but has decided that a ballet dancer works, too. He’s right. As he’s seen for himself, I can indeed put my leg behind my head.

I work through my usual morning barre routine on the tiny scrap of balcony in front of my studio. Since my apartment sits on a bit of a hill, I have a view of the opposite hillside and acres of pastel-colored houses and roofs. The BART train snakes through it all—and since I overslept this morning, the fog has mostly burned off already.

As I launch into a series of pliés and tendus, Lieutenant Bob waves up at me, off to do whatever it is he does when he’s not sleeping in my driveway. Driveways are small and steep in this part of San Francisco. We curse the rare days when it rains because the water rolls down the eight feet or so of asphalt to decorate the garage floor. Bob doesn’t seem to mind the slant, though, and since none of us has a car, everyone in the house has decided not to mind Bob.

He and Max seemed to hit it off. There’s lots of lip service about the homeless in San Francisco, but few people go hands on. It’s too easy sometimes to just think of Lieutenant Bob as part of the landscape rather than as a person. Not that I’m shooting for saintliness or anything remotely like it.

But Max took the time to chat with Bob, and I like that. Sure, Max is still the elusive, sometimes cranky, often filthy billionaire who likely has a higher IQ than all of NASA combined. He prefers watching, but he also likes to fix things and I suspect that he’s slowly coming around to the idea that he and I are not a one-time thing. Not that we’re a real couple, but I almost thought, given enough time and dirty texting, that we could be friends.

I bring up the last picture I took last night. In it, Max is leaning against the edge of our box, his hands in his pant pockets. He looks like a Silicon Valley James Bond in his expensive tux, rich, powerful, but still rough around the edges because he doesn’t play by other people’s rules. I’d been trying to play it cool, but it had been tough. Billionaires aren’t part of my daily life, and just scoring the invitation to the charity performance had been huge. How I ended up, even temporarily, with a guy like Max is one of life’s fabulous mysteries. I’m not sure he even realizes just how much of a unicorn he is. He knows he’s good at his job and he has a pretty good idea of what he can do with that magic penis of his, but people look up to him for other reasons, too.

I want to reach right through the picture and lick him. He makes me laugh, he makes me come, he makes me feel as if when he looks at me, he sees me. I’m struck by that the most. I’ve spent all of my adult life dancing on stage, so I’m used to people watching me, but they saw only the character I was dancing. Between the costumes and the makeup, the sets and the lights, there was no way they saw me.

I think Max does.

Or at least as much as I’ve been willing to show him.

My finger hovers over the picture. I should post it to Instagram. My followers like frequent peeks at my personal life, and I follow the general rule of thumb of posting three parts promo to seven parts content. I show them what I eat, what I wear and how a ballerina works out. I let them follow me backstage, onstage—pretty much everywhere. That’s life in the influencer fishbowl and I have no reason to think Max isn’t aware of what I do. It’s no secret.

And yet I sort of don’t want to share him with my world. Max is mine. I scroll through the photo album on my phone. I don’t have many pictures of him, but Max isn’t the kind of guy to strike a pose. His poise on the red carpet last night surprised me.

He gave me a present—for no reason—and while I’ve never been a jewelry girl, I love my new bracelet. I feel my heart pick up its pace a little remembering the brush of his fingers against my wrist, his thumb tracing the pale blue veins beneath the fragile skin as he worked to do up the clasp. The car charm is to remember the opera, he’d said.

As if I could forget.

I’m humming a made-up tune patched together from my favorite ballets when I head into the steamy bathroom for a shower. It’s silly, but I take a picture. Of me in my towel.

And I send it.

To Max.

I’m not completely naked because I’ve learned that lesson and I really don’t know Max. Even if I am having fun getting to know him. I text.

See you at 3

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Max

I SPOT MAPLE before she sees me. She’s focused on her phone, following the map pin I texted her. Golden Gate Park covers more than a thousand acres. In addition to a network of roads and trails, there’s a carousel, an aquarium, a museum and multiple flower gardens—all teeming with San Franciscans determined to enjoy a Saturday outdoors. She’d never find me without a specific point to meet.

The July weather is a sticky, humid weight against my skin, but Maple makes everything better. Her yellow sundress with the white polka dots is like a walking, bouncing ray of sunshine, although she’s caved to the practicalities of a park meetup and chosen practical white canvas sneakers. An enormous straw tote bag bangs against her hip as she walks and she’s pulled her hair back in a high ponytail that swishes from one shoulder to the next.

She has the exotic walk of a dancer, legs turned out ever so slightly. I almost forget to breathe watching her. She’s strong, the skin exposed by her dress sun-kissed and lean. Dancing burns a ton of calories, plus the girls are encouraged to keep themselves skinny because their partners have to hoist them overhead. That’s one thing Maple said she didn’t miss about the ballet world, the constant focus on how much a dancer weighs. I don’t get it because she looks amazing and I think everyone should eat, but she just said that I’d never had to leap in circles while holding another dancer over my head and that I’d feel differently about those five pounds if I did.

She looks up from her phone and spots me, her face breaking into a smile. She looks so happy that I pull out my phone so I can relive the moment later. And when she swats my phone away, I pull her into me for a slow kiss. We have hours. I don’t have to rush.

“Have you done this before?” I ask when we come up for air. Her pretty mouth is pink and swollen, her lips parted and damp. I’ve left my mark on her.

And then I realize that I’ve been so busy staring at the visible signs of our kiss that I’ve entirely missed her answer. I lean down and brush a kiss over her cheekbone. She has a freckle there, half-hidden by her hair. “Tell me again?”

She pinches my ass. “I’m a park virgin.”

I know she hasn’t had as much sex as I have, but even if it makes me a caveman, I like the idea of being her first. And best. I table that thought for later. Right now I have a fantasy to deliver.

“Would you rather have a bed?” She shouldn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. Or, rather, she should do as much as she wants. It’s like the eating thing. She’s never going hungry again on my watch.

She pinches my ass again. “You promised me a fantasy.” Apparently she’s determined to drive me crazy, because she leans up on tiptoe, her mouth brushing my neck. “I’m not wearing any panties. I figured that would make things easier.”

Well, fuck. I grab her hand and pull her across the grass and toward a clump of Monterey pines on the far side of a duck-filled pond. There’s tons of cover here, including a faux Greek ruin, a genuine folly like the kind you find in a Jane Austen novel. Cover seems important because while lots of people have sex in Golden Gate Park on a regular basis, I don’t think Maple truly wants to get caught. The possibility might be exciting, but getting busted by a cop and then dealing with a ticket or worse? Not so fun. Ask me how I know.

Or don’t.

That’s okay. I don’t want to think about anyone other than Maple today. When I unfold my brand-new picnic blanket, Maple’s watching me, her cheeks pink, her smile growing. I can almost see the happy, dirty, playful thoughts tumbling through her head. She’s so gorgeous, I think, and wonder why we’re out here, about to have an afternoon quickie instead of taking our time in my bed or hers. I could strip her down if we were alone. I could make her scream. I could break through that ever-so-slight reserve that whispers to me that she’s still on guard and that she still doesn’t trust me, not one hundred percent.

Her smile gets broader when she pushes me onto my back. It’s a game, obviously, because I’m a big guy and she can’t force me, but I take her love tap and flop down obediently.

“Taking charge, are we?” I give her a mock-stern look and open my arms wide. “So come and take me.”

She drops down onto me gracefully. I wonder if she was ever awkward when it comes to moving and knowing how to propel her body from one point to another. Is it something they teach in ballet schools or was she born that way?

Laughing, she leans down, planting her hands on either side of my head. We did it like this at my house, my brain reminds me. I should make this different. Make it better.

“You’re the expert,” she whispers. “Now show me what you like to do outside.”

We kiss for a long while, my hand sliding up underneath her dress. She wasn’t lying—she’s not wearing panties. I’m content not to rush at first, stroking the soft curves and then delving deeper. She’s just starting to make those happy moans I love so much when there’s a suspicious rustling in the bushes. Maple jumps to her feet, her hands abandoning the buttons of my jeans. A black Lab bursts through the shrubs. A guy calls in the not-so-distant distance and the dog abandons us.

When she laughs, I stand up, lifting her into my arms so that her bare legs are wrapped around my waist. We kiss like that, swaying together to some music she can hear and that she’s making me feel. I’m not really into dancing, but this is good.

Except then the homeless guy wanders through. He’s not quite all on planet Earth—based on his one-sided conversation with invisible alien overlords—but he notices enough to give me a thumbs-up.

Maple buries her face in my throat, shaking with silent laughter. “I can’t. We’re going to end up on America’s Funniest Home Sex Videos.”

It’s funny and awkward and strangely hot. I’ve never laughed with any of my hookups before. Or with a lover. Maple is dying as she points out a very suspicious pile of trash in the bushes. I don’t think our hookup spot is as exclusive as I’d thought.

But the day’s fucking gorgeous and the sun’s warm. It would be a shame to waste it. I can smell roses somewhere, and the ocean. There are palm trees not too far away, and some tall, pink and white spikey plants that I’ll google later because they’ll have a name. The dog reappears.

“Plan B,” I tell her, dropping us down onto the picnic blanket.

As my fingers fly over my phone, she leans back, one arm braced around my neck, the other arched over her head as if she was trying to hold a balloon. Sunlight dances over her face.

“You could take over the world with your hardware.” Her voice sounds dreamy and sun-drenched. There’s an unmistakable note of happy laughter beneath the words.

After I’ve made a strategic donation and pulled some strings, I dash with her across the park and into a back entrance of the conservatory. The conservatory has glass windows and hothouse heating for all the flowers it nurtures. Plus, it’s a popular spot so as I make love to Maple, there’s always a murmur of voices and the erotic threat of discovery. She likes it.

A lot.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maple#f #beachgoddess #sunsetlover

“SUNSETS ARE DAMNED inconvenient. Always on a schedule.” Max has only just rolled out of bed, which he blames on me jumping him. I blame his bizarre sleep schedule on too much work and too much fun. Two weeks after our park tryst, we’ve managed to have sex in a Porsche, christened every room in the swank penthouse he just purchased, and made an acrobatic attempt at sex in the penthouse’s elevator (Max should have picked a taller building because we ran out of time).

“It’s your fault we’re late.” I resist the urge—just—to smack his butt as he tugs me down the steps to the beach below his house. Honestly, his butt’s a thing of beauty in faded blue jeans but I’ve already left scratches on said ass because the man is insatiable and said insatiability makes me crazy and one thing leads to another and…

Naked things.

Lots and lots of naked things, which now puts us at risk of missing the famous Santa Cruz sunset. I’m not sure whose idea it was to watch it armed with champagne, but Max isn’t giving up easily. He’s stubborn.

“I’m not the one who took fourteen minutes to come.” Nope. He’s not willing to let it go. He’d chased down my third orgasm with the same delicious tenacity when I’d claimed I was too tired to come anymore without permanent injury to my vagina. He may also have promised to kiss everything better later if it turned out I was right and certain parts of me were sore.

“Once again, I blame you.” True story.

He swings around and has me up against the railing before I can squeak. Not that I’m complaining. Max has a gorgeous body, and his front is every bit as drool-worthy as his back. I hook a bare leg around the back of his thigh and pull him closer still because maybe I’ll have found my second wind by the time we get back to his place. Undoubtedly, I’ll be ready to jump him again. The man is more addictive than online shopping.

The gleam in his eyes is all the warning I get before the cold champagne bottle brushes against my boobs. My nipples pebble. I shove it away, but then he leans down and kisses me, which is a problem because once he starts, I never want him to stop. He presses his mouth to my lips, tasting me, and I breathe him in. Our lips slide over each other, nipping, pulling, making room for ourselves because this feeling between us never stays small.

I pull, he tugs, and I forget all about standing on a staircase and the ocean at our feet. There’s just Max and me. I want to eat him up and make him part of me. I want to freeze this moment in time so I can hold on to it and bring it out and relive it in the years to come. A seagull screeches overhead and the moment winks out of my grasp like soap bubbles from a magic wand.

“Come on.” He tugs me down the steps. “We’re almost there.”

I’d follow you straight to the gates of hell, I think.

Which is stupid because that isn’t what Max wants from me.

So instead I tag along on his heels to the beach below his house. I cradle our champagne in one arm and hold on to him with the other, our palms touching, our fingers entwined. It’s the perfect recipe for romance except that we aren’t alone.

In theory, the beach is private, but this is California. Both water and sand are public access up to the high-tide line, so this isn’t the first time we’ve discovered random strangers on the sand or riding the waves. My gaze flickers to Max. I think I want him to be disappointed, too, but I also suspect that he’s making this romantic gesture for me because he thinks it’s what I need. He’d have been happy to stay in bed having hot, dirty sex over and over again.

“Someone stole our idea.” I pass the champagne bottle to Max. He has all those delicious muscles—he can carry it.

“What gave it away?”

I expect him to make a dirty joke about the remnants of someone else’s romantic picnic spread out on our beach. In addition to a sandy, rumpled plaid blanket, there’s an empty wine bottle spiked in the sand and abandoned shoes. When I look closer, I spot a familiar bikini top. I gave it to Lola when I was sent a box of swimwear to promote on Instagram. A girl can only wear so many.

I look around but neither Lola nor Dev are anywhere in sight on the beach. The two of them are cute, almost permanently joined at the hip like Japanese beetles or bunnies, so they must be here somewhere.

Laughter floats across the water—bingo. They’ve paddled way out, presumably on Dev’s surfboard, and now they’re wrapped around each other, doing who knows what. Okay. I suspect I know exactly what. The board rocks wildly, followed by more laughter.

“God. Tell me they’re not—”

Max assesses the situation. “Not.”

Thank God.

I walked in on Lola and Dev once. Part of it was my fault. I was used to doing the knock-and-enter when I stopped by Lola’s. It had never been a problem before, but on that particular occasion I’d seen more of Dev than I should have. And let me tell you: the man had a mighty fine ass and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I’d pretended an immediate and highly specific case of amnesia and vowed to wait for a hearty “come in” after that. I’m not sure what they expected when they decided to have sex on the beach.

Not that Max and I have pure intentions ourselves. Since the night of his pop-up party, when we dared each other into hooking up, I’ve had fond memories of this beach. I usually come down whenever I spend the night—or the afternoon or the morning—at Max’s place. The ocean is amazing, even if the temperature never seems to get much above freezing. Max says I exaggerate and that the average temperature is a refreshing fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit.

Something flares to life on the surfboard and, no, that’s not a euphemism. It looks like Dev has somehow transported a sparkler out there, the kind of cheap but fun firework that you can buy year-round in the groceries in the Mission District. I wonder why he’d be doing something that seems doomed to failure—water and fire not mixing well—but the shrieking and rocking distract me.

I definitely don’t want to know what they’re doing.

Since I deserve a consolation prize, I grab the bottle from Max and plop down on Lola’s blanket. We’ve missed the best part of the sunset anyhow and the sun is dropping rapidly now beneath the horizon, pink and yellow streaking the sky in broad, colorful bands. I lean back against Max, using his legs as a backrest while I try to sort through my feelings.

His hand plays with my hair, finding all the stress points in my scalp. Or maybe they’re chakras? Whatever, it feels good. The man is talented. But with the pleasure comes the usual doubt. He makes me happy, but do I do the same for him? Am I doing enough or am I just taking, taking, taking—and eventually he’ll have had enough and leave?

Lola and Dev reach the shore before I achieve any sort of epiphany. They wear matching black wetsuits, although Dev has unzipped his and tied it around his waist. I try not to stare too hard but the man is seriously built.

“You need to model your wetsuit for me,” I whisper, leaning harder into Max’s touch. I’ll do something nice for him when we get back to his place. A blow job or some sexy naked dancing. Something memorable. Max’s low grunt of amusement floats down to me.

Because…

Dev is grinning like a madman as he leaps off the board, swinging Lola around in an ungraceful little circle. She’s shrieking and Dev’s victory pumping her fist, turning it so we can see what he was really up to out there. It’s so obvious that I’m almost blinded.

Lola has a diamond. A big, canary yellow diamond surrounded by the cutest baby diamonds on a gold band. They’re engaged.

I bolt off the blanket because engagements call for hugs and champagne, and I have both to offer. Lola and I might do some happy dancing as we hug it out, too. Not that I’d want my man to pop the question on a surfboard—that seems super risky. What if he dropped the ring? Or a fish bumped the board? Or a seagull crapped on them? These things happen all the time.

Max and Dev exchange good-natured jibes and backslapping hugs. I know Max isn’t one hundred percent happy with the way his friends are settling down around him, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.

“Your turn.” Lola points her ring finger at me as if she’s gained a magic wand rather than a ridiculously expensive piece of jewelry. I’ll bet Max is making sure Dev has it insured. “I know you said you weren’t ready but—”

I’m still not. “I’m not interested.”

“You don’t get to be not interested when the right man shows up. You could take Max.” She waggles her eyebrows in his direction.

“Please,” I scoff. “He’s the hookup king. The only ring he’s going to put on it is a cock ring.”

“Why not?” Lola frowns. “You guys are the only ones left except for maybe Jack’s business partner.”

It’s like being the last kid picked for dodgeball.

“You think he wants to get married?”

“Have you asked him?”

“We’re opposites,” I protest. “It would take a year just to sign the prenup!”

Plus, I’m totally not interested in marriage.

Lola looks mulish. “I think you guys would be great together.”

“Right. Let’s imagine how this would go. I drop to one knee and I say, ‘Max, will you marry me?’” I hit the sand on my knees to make my point—dramatic embellishments always help sell the story. “And then he reminds me that he’s all about the hookup. Why on earth would I want to go there?”

Lola bites her lip.

Oh boy.

I turn my head, and sure enough, Max is standing on the sand behind me. Is this where I say I didn’t really mean it? Do you think his feelings were hurt?

No.

Me, neither.

Jack steps off the stairs and onto the beach. “What did I miss?”

“Lola’s trying to sell me to the highest bidder,” Max says drily. “But she set the opening bid too high.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maple#rockyroad #guiltypleasures

IN THE WEEKS that followed Lola and Dev’s engagement, I expect something to change, but nothing does. Max and I spend most of the nights together. We may have started out as a hookup, but now? Now I don’t have a clue, although it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Max has never had a relationship in his life.

Item: He wrote a hookup app so an algorithm picked out his perfect match.

Item: He let a million billion strangers use it.

Item: And then when he was filthy rich because everyone wanted to throw cash at their dating problems, he had women (and men) throwing themselves at him because filthy rich plus mad bedroom skills makes Max a very, very popular boy.

It’s hard not to resent that, even if he claims he doesn’t even notice it happening anymore. When he attends industry events, business meetings or even the Whole Foods grocery because he needs beer, bread or toilet paper, women come up to him. They give him their numbers or offer to send pictures, all while making dirty suggestions in the produce aisle. He dismisses it as the side effect of the billion dollars. In Max’s world, money is the ultimate aphrodisiac and if he was broke, he’d be able to pick out tomatoes unmolested.

I’m not sure he’s right, but a controlled, scientific A/B study isn’t possible. Max is super careful with the billion dollars. This is a guy, after all, who plans everything, up to and including an orderly, aisle-by-aisle assault on the grocery store. There’s no way he’d lose a fortune…and that is why women hunt him down in public like he’s the last lion or bear or unicorn. For all his bad boy, dirty sex outside, the Max inside is safe. More important, he keeps the small handful of people he cares about safe.

I, on the other hand, barely have a nodding acquaintance with safe, as my dating history bears witness. My high school boyfriend loved dirt bikes and race cars. He sped through life, and giving him my virginity was simply another speed bump he flew over with reckless disregard. We had sex on the hood of his car, and I was pretty sure he was already thinking about his next race and his next track bunny before he pulled out.

My second boyfriend was a fellow dancer I met as an apprentice at the New York City Ballet. He up and left when he got offered a company position in Moscow. I maxed out my credit card to pay him a surprise visit, but the surprise was on me as I discovered him in bed with not one but two dancers. My dreams of monogamy and happily-ever-after dashed, I raced back to New York.

And then there was Madd.

Madd who I’d been ready to propose to and who’d also decided that I wasn’t enough.

My man picker clearly needed a reboot, so it was a wonder that I’d hooked up with Max. Or maybe that was why we were together—because he’d made it perfectly clear from the very beginning that he never, ever did long-term relationships. He hooked up. He moved on. I was the one tempted to linger.

Max and I? We aren’t a real couple.

Someday soon, he’ll stop texting or I will, and then we’ll be done, too.

I don’t know who he is, not really, not any more than he knows who I am. I know the superficial things, like the drink he’s most likely to order (or not) from a bar menu. I know the names of his favorite beaches and that if there was a surf competition, he wouldn’t be in it but he would be part of the security patrol zipping up and down the waves on Jet Skis and keeping things safe for everyone. I know he buys Fruit of the Loom cotton boxers and white Champion tube socks in a twelve-pack because that’s what he’s always worn and if it isn’t broken, he doesn’t fix it.

I know exactly how he likes his sex—and that I love it the same way, too.

But I don’t know the big things.

Or what goes on inside his head.

What scares him.

Or what he loves.

It isn’t just that we come from different worlds, or that his bank balance has far, far more zeroes than mine does. He lives his life shields up, shutting everyone and every intimate emotion out, and I understand that—even as I want to get inside him while keeping myself private. I could have feelings for him. Like greedy, greedy Icarus, not content to fly, I have to soar higher and higher, closer and closer to the one thing I’ve been told repeatedly is off-limits.

But—even though I know our breakup is coming more inevitably than Monday morning after Sunday—I am still glad when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. Are you free tonight?

Yes, I am.

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