He smells incredible. Not like the cheap cologne Landon wore, but like bergamot, crisp starch, and something purely masculine—like expensive scotch and ozone.
“Let’s get you food first. No sex required,” he purrs. He points to a thick silk cord hanging from the bedpost. “See that? If I, or anyone else, gets out of line, you pull that. Security will be here in three seconds, and I’ll be banned for life.”
I relax slightly, eyeing the cord. “I don’t want you banned. You saved me. What’s good to eat?”
“The cover charge for men is two hundred dollars, so the kitchen actually tries.”
“Two hundred?” I gasp.
“Women are free.” He slips off his loafers and hands me a menu that’s bound in soft leather. “The beds are themed. This one is ‘The Romance Novel.’ I’m Griffin, by the way.”
“I’m Selena. Named after the singer.” I open the menu. A Caesar salad is thirty dollars. “Boy, sin is expensive.”
“Get whatever you want. I’m paying.”
“I can pay,” I lie. “I have a honeymoon fund.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Griffin raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Honeymoon fund? Where is the groom?”
I sigh, defeating slumping my shoulders. I give him the highlight reel: the bee farm, the silver dress, the video in the bathroom stall.
“Ouch,” Griffin winces, genuine sympathy in his dark eyes. “You know... looking good and living well is the best revenge. But failing that, a very expensive pizza on a stranger's tab is a close second.”
“Tempting,” I whisper, a genuine smile tugging at my lips.
He signals a waiter and orders us drinks—another Chardonnay for me, a scotch for him—and a truffle flatbread. He tells me he’s forty-eight, a corporate attorney who actually drew up the incorporation papers for this club. He sits with the relaxed posture of a man who owns every room he walks into. He is majestic, stern, and devastatingly gorgeous.
“Grif?” I test out a nickname.
He pauses, glass halfway to his lips. “Griffin.”
“Griffin,” I correct myself. “It sounds... official. Serious.”
He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
Did I just call this silver-haired god "serious" while sitting on a bed in a sex club?
3
GRIFFIN
I don’t think she’s aware that she just insulted me—calling me "serious" like it's a diagnosis—but I also don’t care. She’s lovely.
Selena is a fresh, twenty-five-year-old midwestern transplant who this city is going to devour whole if she isn't careful.
“Right. Call me Griffin,” I say, playing off the insult with a smirk. “So, other than almost getting assaulted within seventy-two hours of arrival, what are you doing in New York?”
Making small talk keeps my mind from fixating on the bottom lip she will not stop biting.
She is absolutely beautiful. It's been a while since I've seen a woman as stunning as Selena. My best friend Beckett’s wife comes to mind with her raven hair and penetrating blue eyes, but this woman is pure sunshine and cornfields. Long golden blonde hair, evergreen irises, a spray of freckles across her nose, and tits with their own zip code. She has a snatched little waist and long legs that seem to go on forever. She’s all natural—solid, farm-fed genetics in action.
She deserves a good man. Apparently, she's on the run from a bad one, and the last person in the world she needs to meet is me. I am simply the worst. There is no man I can think of who is more of a calculated predator than I am. I should tell her right now to take her pizza to go.
The pizza arrives on a silver platter, placed between us on the duvet. We are both nestled on a garish pink bed with oursock-clad feet intertwining nervously. It’s surprisingly intimate. It’s adorable.
“Do you want a piece?” She offers me a slice, the melted cheese stretching. “I can’t possibly eat all of this.” Her giggle tickles something in my chest I thought had atrophied years ago.
Though she looks like a country sex kitten in a moderately priced suit, she makes smart conversation.
