Page 5

Up close, he’s ridiculously good-looking. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and dark brown eyes that pin me in place with a lazy, knowing intensity. It’s the kind of face that makes smart women do stupid things.

I step right into his space, close enough to catch the warm, expensive trace of his cologne. His gaze drifts slowly down my body, then back up. By the time it meets mine again, a full-body shiver has already raced up my spine.

“Single?” I ask.

“Very.” His voice is low and rough, edged with the kind of confidence that borders on arrogance.

I lift my chin. “Good. It’s your lucky night. We’re leaving.”

He lets out a short, surprised laugh, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out if I’m for real. Then he holds out his hand—large, warm, with rough calluses that don’t quite match the expensive suit. The second my palm slides into his, his fingers close around mine.

“We’re going to your place,” I tell him, letting him lead me toward the door.

“Are we now?” Amusement laces his deep voice.

Outside, he clicks his key fob. The lights flash on a silver Aston Martin parked at the curb. The moment we’re inside the car, he reaches over and slides his hand high up my thigh, gripping with easy confidence.

I don’t push him away.

Regular Grace would have. Regular Grace would have needed ten perfectly planned dates, a background check, and a signed consent form. But tonight, Regular Grace is nowhere to be found.

The engine growls to life. He pulls away fast and smooth, accelerating into the night. I glance over at him—one hand loose on the wheel, radiating the kind of unshakable confidence that makes the whole car feel smaller.

“So… you got a name?” he asks.

He has no idea who I am. Perfect.

“No,” I say.

“Fair enough. I’m Drew.”

“I didn’t ask,” I reply.

I lean back against the leather seat as the city lights streak past, heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. His hand is high on my thigh, thumb brushing against my skin.

This is insane.

I’m about to have hot, no-names, no-expectations sex with a ridiculously gorgeous stranger. As the car guns through an orange light, one thought claws through my skull: Please don’t let me be a starfish.

2

GRACE

Iwake up pinned beneath Drew’s heavy arm, his scent everywhere—on my skin, in my hair, soaked into the sheets twisted around our very naked bodies. Every muscle aches. My thighs are burning. My core is sore, swollen, and still faintly throbbing like it’s filing a formal complaint.

Oh god.

The memories slam into me all at once.

Me on top, riding him like I’d completely lost my mind—hips going wild, pinning his wrists down every time he tried to take control. I came so hard I actually saw stars, and I’m pretty sure I made some very undignified noises while he was groaning underneath me, barely hanging on.

Then we did it against the window, my breasts squished against the cold glass with the whole city below. I kept begging him to go harder, like I had zero shame left. After that came the wall…and then the floor. I just couldn’t seem to get enough.

But the worst—the most mortifying—memory is me crawling up his chest, straddling his face, and sitting on his mouth. Full weight. I rode his tongue like it was my personal property until I came quite violently. He actually tapped out on my thigh, desperate for air.

When I finally lifted off, he was gasping, flushed, eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he’d rasped. “You trying to kill me?”