“This could be the one, Bris.”

I glance from the clean modern lines of the beautifully decorated Tribeca apartment to Charisma Simmons, my friend since high school. Her mother, Bridget, one of New York’s most elite realtors, has shown me several properties this week, and none of them made me feel like this one does. There’s something special here. Even though Grip and I will only be leasing it for the semester, it has its own permanence, like it has only ever been someone’s home. There’s a warmth that wraps around me; it feels personal. It could be that this one comes fully furnished while the others were cold, stark, empty boxes—albeit expensive empty boxes. You have to mortgage your soul to live in New York. I shouldn’t be surprised; I grew up here, and LA isn’t much better. We had an apartment on the Upper East Side, where I lived during the school year, close to the private school I attended. When I wasn’t there, I was at our estate a few hours outside the city. My parents and Rhyson were rarely at either since they were usually on the road, and those places never felt like home—but this, this was someone’s home. I can feel it.

“It is beautiful.” My gaze drifts over the sprawling space, the exposed rafters, the red brick wall fitted with wide windows overlooking the city, and the slatted staircase leading to the upper floor. “Your mom said the owner wants to meet us, right? How close are they?”

“Oh! Let me check.”

Charisma, or Charm as we chopped her down to growing up, pulls her phone from the latest Birkin bag. She looks every inch the New Yorker, shaded in black and gray, swathed in leather, accessorized and name-branded from head to toe. The knife-sharp points of her precisely bobbed hair slice into her skinny shoulders. The Gucci eyeglasses framed by her perfectly arched brows say more about how smart she likes to look than they do about her nearsightedness. I know her secret. In the cutthroat publishing industry, a woman as delicate and lovely as Charm does whatever necessary to be taken seriously by the intelligentsia, including wearing glasses she doesn’t actually need.

My wardrobe has adapted to New York, some, too. There’s always an edge I don and doff depending on the coast. Today I’ve paired my black tulle-ruffled mini skirt with a tight black leather jacket and ankle boots. If we’re spending the fall here, I need to shore up my sweater-weather game.

“My mom’s fifteen minutes out. She got stuck uptown,” Charm says, slipping her phone back into her bag and flashing the impish grin that landed us in the principal’s office more than once. “But that gives us a few minutes to catch up before she arrives. How is it that you’ve been here all week and we haven’t even had dinner?”

“Your author released a book.” I run a finger over the mantle topping the glass-encased fireplace, noting its dustless-ness. “And it was a huge week for several of my clients. Me being here instead of LA, managing the time difference, trying to see properties . . .”

I shrug carelessly, used to our dynamic by now. Charm and I have kept in touch some, but we have demanding careers we’ve been completely dedicated to since graduating. It’s paid off. Both of us hold pole position in our respective industries, but there’s been little time for long-distance friendships, and missing each other has become a habit over the years. The two girls who grew up together and knew each other’s secrets are now women who have a lot to learn about who the other has become.

“Well we have a few minutes now.” Charm pats the cushion of the slate-colored suede sectional. “Come talk to mama.”

I sit beside her and smile involuntarily. My affection for Charm has stubbornly hung around since we searched for ways to make our modest school uniforms sexier.

“Tell me about this man of yours, the one you’re dropping everything to follow.” Charm purses her lips and wiggles her brows with salacious speculation. “I must admit, I was surprised to see you with a black guy.”

Charm’s eyes stretch and she gasps, covering her mouth with one perfectly manicured hand.

“Oh, God. Did that sound bad? You know I’m a progressive.”

“Of course you are, Charm.” I pat her hand while holding on to my humor and patience. “Grade A liberal.”

“I just meant . . . well, you never dated black guys in college.”

My shrug is easy, my laugh less so. This feels weird.

“I never really thought about it. It didn’t matter—it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She puckers her perfectly plucked brows. “I sound like those people assuring you that they really do have black friends.”

I don’t answer, just lift both brows. Sometimes when you’re quiet, people hear themselves.

“I really do have lots of black friends.” Her tinkling laugh pokes fun at herself.

“I’m sure you do.” I grin and decide to let her off the hook for now.

“I’ve seen pictures, of course. He’s . . . wow.” Charm licks her lips, anticipation all over her face. This is more her speed—talking about how hot a man is rather than the sticky issues of race.

“You have to tell me everything,” she says, practically flushing. “Don’t hold back. Remember the Dick Diaries?”

How could I forget our regular debriefs after sexual encounters and misadventures?

“I’m not talking about this with you, Charm,” I say with neutral determination. “It’s not appropriate.”

“Oh, Bris, come on.” Charm levels a knowing look at me because in a past life, she did know all my dirt. “Remember we had a threesome with that guy from Penn? The one with the bumpy dick? I know how you sound when you come. I’m pretty sure telling me if your boyfriend is well hung doesn’t cross any lines we didn’t cross a long time ago.”

I groan because I try to forget that night with Crooked Dick.

“Please don’t mention that when Grip gets here.”

I haven’t seen him in two weeks, and he’s coming straight from the airport. He did a few shows in Europe and recorded with some Danish producer Rhyson has been raving about. Needless to say, after not seeing him for thirteen days, under Charm’s watchful eyes, I’ll have to restrain myself from dry-humping him.

“Also,” I tell Charm, “I faked that orgasm, so don’t presume you know how I sound when I come.”

“You faked that?” Charm looks aghast then impressed. “Damn, you’re good.”

“Lots of practice.” I glance at my phone one more time to make sure I haven’t missed a text from Grip. “I’m serious, no talk of threesomes in front of Grip. His plane landed thirty minutes ago. I sent him the address and he should be here any minute.”

“He doesn’t know you did threes?”

“He doesn’t like that I did. Believe me, I do not want to hear about his either. We’re both pretty possessive, but I know he’s had his share.” I give her a flinty look. “Speaking of sharing, I don’t anymore, not him, so don’t even think about it.”

“Okay, okay.” Charm throws up her hands in defense. “I get it.”

“What do you get?” Charm often thinks she “gets” things about which she’s actually clueless, and I’m guessing my relationship with Grip qualifies as one of them.

“You’re exploring your options.” Charm’s smile is as dirty as a smudge on pristine paper. “Trying something different.”

“He’s not some exotic experiment.” I wince at the picture I think she’s forming in her head.

“You’re not . . .” Charm’s eyes narrow, speculate, and then widen. “You don’t think he’s, like, the one, do you?”

Before I can assure her he most definitely is the one, she goes on.

“I assumed you’d land with someone like Parker.” She pours scandal and conjecture into her glance and shakes vigorously. “I mean, before he went to prison, of course, but anyone with that much money can always be redeemed.”

“Parker?” Revulsion is on spin cycle in my stomach. “Parker is a miscreant who cares only about himself. He’s cruel and perverted.”

I sit up straighter and tell her what used to be the unpardonable sin in her book.

“And he fucks like a boy. I practically had to hold his hand when we had sex.” I look at her meaningfully. “I mean that quite literally. I got myself off more often than not.”

“Through the years, my standards have lowered by necessity. I could live with DIY if I had all his millions.” Charm laughs at the disgust I know is evident on my face. “I’m just saying, men like Parker, that’s who we marry. We know what it is. We’re UES, Bris.”

“I may have grown up on the Upper East Side, but you know it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Actually, it was every bit that it was cracked up to be for me.” Charm laughs in that way that always made me want to join in. She is outrageous, and what Grip would call “siditty,” but underneath all the posturing, she’s a good friend.

“But that was never enough for me,” I remind her quietly with a sad smile for the holiday breaks I spent at her house when my family was on the road. Our eyes exchange those memories before she goes on.

“And he’s enough?” she asks. “Grip is enough?”

“Oh, he’s more than enough.” I chuckle, a rich, satisfied sound even to my own ears.

“Is that your subtle way of telling me he has a big dick?” Her eyes light up with humor and curiosity.

“Believe me, there’s nothing subtle about it.” We share the kind of secret grin I only have with Charm and Jimmi, my two wildest friends.

“Now that I understand.” Charm’s glance turns contrite. “I didn’t mean to sound . . . like I sounded before, but you must admit, he’s a bit of a departure from the guys we’ve dated, the guys you’ve dated in the past.”

“I know that, but you have these labels for us. Everyone does. I’m Upper East Side, Hamptons, debutante, Ivy league. I’m Angela Gray’s daughter.” I lift my brows in expectation. “And he’s a rapper from Compton, right?”

“Well, that’s oversimplified, but from the outside looking in, yeah.”

“But what you don’t know is that he’s an incredible son. Seeing him take care of his mother showed me how he’ll take care of me.”

I press my hand to my heart, touching the place where the truth about him glows like a filament.

“He’s a loyal friend, and he has a conscience even when it’s not convenient,” I say. “You don’t know that when we make love, he whispers poetry. He makes me feel treasured. He’d die for me, and without thinking twice, I would die for him, too.”

My words dangle in the air, defying gravity, and Charm is looking at me like she’s never seen me before, like I’m a stranger. Compared to the self-absorbed, vapid girl she knew years ago, I probably am. I’m a new creature, and Grip has undoubtedly had a hand in refashioning me. I’m a little embarrassed when I replay my words. Charm and I haven’t really talked like this in a long time, and I just poured my heart down her throat like a vodka tonic.

“I get why you’re tempted to define him with easy labels, but he . . . well, Grip defies defining.” I shrug and offer a self-conscious laugh. “You’ll get it when you meet him.”

“Then I’m about to get it.” Charm’s eyes lock onto something over my shoulder and light up like a kid sniffing cotton candy. “Hello there. Grip, I presume?”

I glance over my shoulder to the apartment entrance. Grip stands there, a huge suitcase on wheels trailing him.

How long has he been there? Did he hear me gushing about him like a lovesick teenager?

Lines of fatigue bracket the decadent spread of his lips, like he hasn’t had much sleep. A thin layer of stubble hugs the jut of his jaw, like he hasn’t had a shave, and his dark eyes rove over my breasts, my legs, and my face, like he hasn’t had me in thirteen days. From ten feet away, he’s eating me alive, and the memory of our last morning together crowds out the present. The phantom strokes of his hands over me, how he licked greedily at my body’s secrets—it all rushes back. If Charm weren’t here, I’d already be wrapped around him like a koala in heat.

“Guess I’m in the right place.” He spares Charm a quick glance and a polite smile before looking back to me, his eyes going gentler and hotter. “Hey babe.”

The hell if I care what Charm thinks. I’m up and across the few feet separating us. My arms slink up behind his neck and I press into him, so solid, so here after two weeks of absence. He drops the handle of the suitcase to lock his hands low on my hips, barely a decent distance from my ass, and lowers his head to kiss me. It should be quick. I’m aware of Charm watching us and of her mother and the owner of this lovely apartment mere minutes away, but as soon as I taste him, there’s no stopping. He persuades my lips open, his groan vibrating on my tongue and sliding into my chest. He creeps one hand up and into my hair, bunching it in his fist. My hands venture under the leather jacket he’s wearing and I dig my fingers through the soft cotton of his shirt into the dense muscles of his back.

He slows the kiss when we’re temporarily sated, but sexual energy still powers the connection between us. He pulls back, glancing over my shoulder at Charm, and quirks love-bitten lips into a rueful grin.

“Sorry, we haven’t seen each other in a while.” He pulls me into his side, one arm draped over my shoulder. “You must be Charm. Nice to meet you.”

Charm’s cheeks are positively pink, and I’d know that flush anywhere. In college, the girl didn’t have a spank bank so much as a vibrator vault. I know how many batteries she used to go through.

“Charm, you don’t get to think about this tonight when you’re alone.” My voice is light, but I narrow my eyes so she knows I’m dead serious. Grip will not feature in her fantasies—I forbid it.

“Ahem.” Charm practically floats to her feet and glides over, hand extended. If she curtsies, I’m kneeing her in the vagina. “I’ve heard so much about you, and none of it did you justice.”

Grip’s mouth tightens against what I suspect is laughter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“Have you heard that I really want to do a book deal with you?” Charm shifts from slut muffin to shrewd businesswoman-editor-person with whiplash swiftness. “I suspect come December your Grammy nom will be announced. May as well start on New York Times bestseller, too.”

“Charm, we’re here to look at the apartment,” I remind her. “Not ink a deal.”

Who can think about business at a time like this, when I’m snuggled into my boyfriend’s hard body and surrounded by his addictive scent?

“Knock, knock.” A living, breathing prediction of Charm in twenty years pokes her head into the apartment entrance. “Anybody home?”

“Mother.” Charm teeters on her Manolos, making her way over to Bridget Simmons, offering air kisses that come close to actually landing on her cheeks. “You look amazing.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Bridget practically purrs. “I’ve been doing Pure Barre.”

“It shows,” Charm says admiringly. “Where’s Mrs. O’Malley?”

“Not far behind me, I’m sure.” She smiles over at Grip and me. “Hullo, darlings. You must be Grip. Nice to meet you. Bristol, come, come.”

Her hands bid me, flashing diamonds and drawing me into her Chanel-scented bosom.

“Hello, Mrs. Simmons.” I do the perfunctory air kisses we were trained to perfectly execute in finishing school. “Thank you for helping me this week. This property is gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it just?” Bridget takes in the spacious living room and the glimpses of the city skyline it affords. “The owner wants to leave it furnished, if that’s not a problem.”

“Grip arrived just before you did, so we haven’t had a chance to look around yet.” I reclaim my spot beside him, tucking into his side, a wave of want and need slamming into me like a blow. The tension of his body tells me he’s suffering from the same deprivation I am.

“Mrs. O’Malley got stuck in some traffic, but should be here soon.” Bridget stops abruptly when her phone rings. “Oh, this is her now. Let me take it.”

She steps out into the hall and starts a rapid-fire one-sided conversation.

“I’ll be right back, too.” Charm holds up her phone. “I should check in with the office. I hadn’t planned to be gone this long.”

As soon as she steps into the hall, Grip drags me by the wrist into the small powder room just off the entrance. I don’t get the chance to ask him what he’s doing before he shows me, lifting me onto the sink and slotting his lean hips between my thighs. One hand shoves into my hair and the other wraps around the side of my neck. His tongue goes deep sea diving down my throat, and who cares about breathing? Endless days and interminable nights missing him make me desperate, make my hands shake when I touch him. I scoot forward to feel him through my wet panties, my tulle skirt rasping over my thighs as he pushes it up. I roll my hips into him, seeking friction in my neediest place.

“I heard the things you said about me,” he mutters against my jaw.

“Oh, God.” I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed not because he didn’t know I felt those things, but because I got caught gushing.

“Did you mean them?” His whisper over my lips makes them throb.

Forget embarrassment—he’s hard between my legs, and I realize my declaration turned him on. I’ve been too long without him to be reticent.

“Every fucking word.” I reach between us to rub him through his jeans.

His breath rushes out against the skin of my neck, where his head is buried.

“Baby, I missed you.” He sucks my earlobe and runs his tongue along my neck. “God, so much.”

He drops to his knees, his wide palms on the sensitive skin inside my thighs, spreading me open. He tugs my panties aside and presses his nose to me, inhaling sharply.

“Grip, stop.” I halfheartedly try to bring my legs back together. “We can’t.”

“I woke up like eighteen hours ago in Paris and couldn’t remember how your pussy smelled.” Lava-level heat darkens his eyes. “That’s been driving me crazy.”

Holy shit. We may not make it out of this bathroom alive.

Before I can even voice that fear, he’s tugging my panties down my legs and lapping at me like he’s parched and I’m the last glass of water for miles. He’s French kissing my pussy, tunneling his tongue into my depths. I want to be discreet, want to do the decent thing and drag him up and back out into the living room so we can pretend to be upstanding, well-adjusted human beings, but I can’t because, love-starved animal that I am, my fingers are digging into his scalp and pressing his head deeper into the starving center of my body. If he bites my clit . . .

“Ahhh. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Griiiiiiip.” In the midst of what borders on an out-of-body experience, I slam my palm into the wall for support. “Oh, please don’t stop. Yes! Dammit, yes.”

His mouth, right at the nexus of my pleasure, dips my inhibitions into boiling water, and they dissolve. Discretion takes a flying leap off Orgasm Falls, and I’m coming loudly and with unladylike enthusiasm when there’s a startled gasp from the other side of the heavy wooden door and then an awkward cough.

Grip freezes and reaches up to cover my mouth with his hand. His eyes are laughing and his lips are shiny. “Why are you so loud?”

I jerk away from his hand and narrow my eyes still teary from my cataclysmic orgasm.

“You bit my clit,” I hiss. “What did you expect?”

“Um, Bristol?” Charm taps the door, her voice sounding awkward. “We’re, uhhhh . . . out here when you’re ready to come—I mean, um, come out . . . here.”

“We’ll be right out,” I reply with false brightness before lowering my voice to a whisper. “You think they heard me?”

“Seriously?” He stands, a smug grin on his face. “They heard you in the Bronx, Bris.”

This isn’t happening. If I pretend long enough that they did not just hear me screaming my brains out mid-orgasm, maybe it will become reality, replacing this disaster where I’m still shuddering from coming hard as fuck on a stranger’s porcelain sink.

“We should get out there.” Grip grabs the knob.

“Wait.” I clutch his arm and hiss. I can’t stop hissing because they’ve heard enough and anything above a hiss would only tell them more. “You’ve got . . . you need to . . .”

I pantomime rinsing my face off, furious when he tilts his head in confusion.

“You are not going out there wearing . . . me . . . all over your face,” I whisper fiercely. “I’ll go first. You . . .”

I motion between the faucet and his amused expression. I reach for my panties, but he holds them over his head, out of my reach, and then shoves them into a pocket of the jeans resting low on his hips.

“I hate you,” I growl.

“Yeah, it sounded like it.”

He has the audacity to smirk, and it’s so damn sexy I’m tempted to hop back up on that sink. Instead I draw a deep breath, reaching for the breeding my parents paid so much for, and open the door. I want to sink through the buffed-to-high-shine hardwood floors when I see a third person has joined Charm and Bridget. Apparently, Mrs. O’Malley arrived while Grip and I were indisposed. Bridget looks uncomfortable and slightly shocked. Charm looks amused and slightly jealous. Mrs. O’Malley looks . . . Jewish.

She’s the most Jewish looking O’Malley I’ve ever seen. That’s my first thought, and before I can pull a Charm and remind myself to be politically correct, she shakes my hand and introduces herself as Esther.

Nailed it.

The powder room door opens behind us and Grip steps out, turning his smile up to full wattage. Charm practically swoons.

“You must be Mrs. O’Malley,” he says, reaching for Esther’s hand. “I’m Marlon. You have a beautiful home.”

“It really is,” I agree. If he can recover smoothly and be all normal, so can I. “We were just admiring the powder room.”

Abort mission.

Why did I remind them about the powder room? But I can’t stop. My mouth runs ahead of my good sense.

“And noticing the, um . . .” What was I noticing other than Grip’s head between my legs? “The wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper?” Mrs. O’Malley’s thick, dark brows pull center. “There’s no wallpaper in there.”

“Exactly,” I rush to say. “I told Grip, I said, Grip . . . um, Marlon, I’m so glad they didn’t use wallpaper in here.”

“She did. That’s what she said.” Grip nods with great gravity. “What color would you call that paint, though, honey?”

The polite smile freezes on my face, and my eyes jerk to find his. He’s laughing at me. His mouth is a flat line, but those eyes are a-live with laughing at me.

“Oh . . . gosh, well, it’s such a . . . such a . . . rich color,” I stammer. I’m not a stammer-er, but it’s not every day I have an all-out orgasm within earshot of a little old Jewish lady with an Irish last name. “I’d call it . . . well . . .”

“White?” Mrs. O’Malley offers helpfully.

Damn. White. I didn’t exactly take note of the walls when were in there.

“But it’s such a rich white,” I say, forcing my lips to stay curved.

“Well, this is Tribeca,” Grip deadpans. “There’s bound to be a lot of rich whites.”

An uncertain silence blossoms among us, one of those spaces where you’re not sure if it’s safe to laugh or if things just got really awkward. And then the most unexpected thing happens.

Mrs. O’Malley laughs—gut-busting, bend-at-the-waist, wiping-tears laughs. It’s a hearty sound, full of life. Chuckling, she links her arm through my boyfriend’s and starts walking off to show him the place. I’m still standing there getting my shit together as their voices mingle down the hall, and then a goofy grin finally finds its way to my face.

I knew I liked this place. Anyone who laughs like that knows how to make a home.

Charm and I pull up the rear, with Bridget, Grip, and Esther ahead of us.

“Bristol,” Charm whispers. “You were right.”

“About what?” I ask cautiously.

“That time we had that threesome with Bumpy Dick”—a skanky smirk slides onto Charm’s lips—“you definitely didn’t sound like that.”