This is not going how I thought it would at all. I was expecting a bit of country boy charm, some hospitality, and maybe some pat interview answers. I figured I’d have to work to get deeper, tease out Keith’s personality for the articles. I was prepared to dig, to have to wiggle my way into his trust so he’d relax and be real with me.

What I didn’t expect was his huge body, clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt that seems to be molded to his bulk, looking so damn sexy when he opened the door. I guess I should have. I ogled his ass for an entire week to get that scoop.

For some reason, the bare head and feet made him seem casual, comfortable until he’d realized who I am. He definitely lit up then, anger flashing in his eyes, and I got a hint of the cold fire in his core.

It’s that cold fire that seems to draw me in. I don’t feel like I’m in control, but instead, we’re jockeying, wrestling for who gets to take charge.

He’s clearly doing these interviews begrudgingly, which makes his deal all the more unusual. I don’t think for one second that he wants to know a damn thing about me, some annoying reporter digging into his private life when he wants desperately to keep it private.

And so we’re in this little silent war, my body saying one thing while my professionalism says another. After all, why would he want to ask me questions?

I realize the answer. He told me as plain as day. It’s a control move. His way of showing that even in a situation beyond his control, he’s in power here. So we keep wrestling, doing our little dance and seeing who gets to be on top.

But really, is that so bad? To let him demonstrate some semblance of being the boss here, if it gets me what I want . . . him to answer my questions. Right, that’s why I’m thinking of sweaty bodies pinning each other to the floor, or a bed, or . . .

Fuck it. It’s not like I have anything to hide with my boring life, so he can fire away with his questions.

Decision made, I meet his dark eyes to see fire flashing there. So much anger . . . at me or at the situation, maybe both? Or is what I’m seeing as anger just passion?

I straighten my back, keeping the stare contest going. “Tell you what, Keith. I’ll agree to your deal . . . If you answer honestly and fully any question I ask and help me write an interesting, exciting story about you. You do that, and I’ll return the favor. Complete and full honesty to any question.”

He studies me, and I can feel him visually taking my measure as an opponent before he gets up, towering over me as he offers a hand. I shake it, noticing that his large hand engulfs mine. “Deal. Fair warning, Elise. You just made a deal with the devil for your soul.”

I grin at his dramatics, but there’s a little swarm of bees in my belly concerned that maybe there’s more truth to what he’s saying than I’m expecting. I expected Keith Perkins to be a little bit of a bumpkin, a good ol’ country boy who might be a little hostile but still stunned by the chic city girl with smooth verbal skills. Instead, he’s controlled, and he’s obviously a damn sight smarter than I’ve given him credit for . . . and that makes him all the more attractive. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.

We settle back more comfortably in our seats, and I pick up my phone, starting the voice recorder before setting it on the table in front of me as he sits back down with the grace of a tiger in his lair. He doesn’t react to my recorder, but I explain anyway, covering my ass. “I hope you don’t mind. Recording the sessions is just part of the deal, to make sure I’m correct with any quotes.” I give him a slight death glare, remembering how his label wanted a retraction and correction as if I’d been incorrect about my reporting.

He doesn’t say anything but gives me a look of tortured pain. I figure since he’s not arguing, I might as well run with it and charge ahead. “So first, let’s get the basics out of the way . . . the Wikipedia version of who Keith Perkins is. Tell me about yourself.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes, and I know it’s exactly the kind of question he’s had to answer a million times before. But I need it direct from the source for the articles, and it helps break the ice a little, gets him talking on comfortable ground.

Finally, he starts. “My name’s Keith Tiberius Perkins. I’m a musician, a singer-songwriter. I’m thirty years old, born and raised in Idaho in a tiny town nobody’s ever heard of, including some of the people who lived there. As soon as I graduated high school, I left home for Boise to play in local dive bars and clubs. I even had to use a fake ID to get in because I was underage. As far as my mom was concerned, I might as well have run off to New York City or even hell, judging by her reaction. But I learned, worked hard, and after a few years, moved to Nashville to play in hole-in-the-wall dives there with every other dreamer. Got discovered one night, signed a contract with my label, and now here I am, years later, hit songs and awards later, doing interviews I hate.”

I grin. He’d been doing so well until the end there. I do wonder, though—why leave Nashville? They’d worship him around there. What brought him to this area of the country, not exactly New York but still, not quite the center of country music?

“Sounds like you’re living the dream, huh?”

Keith smirks, then remembers where he is and grows serious again. “Yeah, I worked hard for a lot of years on my music. Still do. That’s all I want to do . . . write songs, sing them for people, and go home. Alone.”

“Damn, dude, like a dog with a bone. Let it go. I get it. I’m in your man cave that’s the size of a McMansion, but I’m really not trying to be a bitch here.”

He shoots forward in his chair, giving me a fierce look, and I realize I said that out loud, not in my head. “Excuse me?”

Shit.

Backpedaling, I try to smooth over the accidental out-loud monologue. “Sorry for saying that out loud, but not for thinking it.”

I smirk at him, virtually daring him to puff all up in anger again.

Instead, he sits back in the couch, pointing a finger at me and dropping his voice to a sexy commanding growl. “My turn. Tell me about yourself, Elise Warner.”

I smile, liking this game. If a bullet point list of all things me is what you want, I’ll give it to you, asshole. You’re not in control of things yet.

“I’m Elise Warner, twenty-six, grew up here in East Robinsville, and went to school at State where I got my journalism degree. Did some small-time reporting for the local paper before getting hired by The Daily Spot, where I write celebrity tabloid crap but get to keep my investigative skills fresh. And this interview series is a big deal for me, so don’t fuck it up. Please.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh. I don’t think he was expecting me to be so honest or so confrontational with him. By his smile, I think he likes it, too. He quickly asks the same follow-up question I did. “So, living the dream? Is this what little Elise wanted to do when she grew up?”

I shake my head, letting the ‘little’ comment slide. I’m all grown up, buddy, and you damn well know it. “No, not really. I like investigative reporting, but I wish I could do something more . . .”

Unexpectedly, I stumble for words, searching for something big enough to explain my heart while Keith looks on, interested. “Go on.”

“Just, I want something more impactful,” I admit. “Fight for the little guy, expose the bad guys, that kind of thing. But that’s a hard gig to come by, so I’m working my way up. If I was in your story, I guess I’m still in the dive bars in Boise but working on that big move to better things, chasing the dream.”

He hums, seemingly thinking about what I’ve said. I want to keep the ball rolling, to capitalize on the bit of sympathy I seem to be getting from him, so I decide to address the elephant in the room, the main reason I’m here.

“So, your professional life is golden, all you could’ve dreamed of. What about your personal life, Keith? What’s happening on the dating front? Who are you buying maxis for? Who’s the milk for, Keith?” I ask with a conspiratorial tone.

He growls, literally growls at me like an animal. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, and on some primitive level, I’m scared and know I should run for cover from the apex predator with his sights on me. But on a deeper, instinctive level, my blood just started singing through my body, pulsing at a focal point behind my clit.

Holy shit. Maybe it’s a little caveman-ish, but it’s fucking sexy as hell too. Unconsciously, I squeeze my crossed legs tighter, needing some pressure for relief. But he notices. I expect him to start yelling, but instead he just smirks and leans forward again.

His voice is quiet, gravel as he answers, seemingly puzzled by me. “You’re forward, aren’t you? No finesse or foreplay. Just jumping into the question you know is most likely to set me off. No, I’m not dating anyone, nor am I looking to. Maybe the supplies were just so I can be a gracious host. Need a tampon, Elise?”

I can’t help but defend myself a bit. He’s somehow getting to me despite my best attempts to get under his skin. The score is definitely in his favor right now. Needing to get back in the battle for control, I fume. “No, fuck you very much. It’s the reason this all started, that speculation, so why not address it from the start? Besides, foreplay is for people who don’t know what they want, who need to warm up to the idea. I get the feeling that neither of us is like that. I know what I want . . . your secrets. And you know what you want . . . to not tell me. I’m not going to trick them out of you. Just bold honesty.”

He tilts his head, searching my face for something. “Okay. But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”

I raise an eyebrow in question. “What’s that?”

Keith smiles, but it’s a predatory full baring of his teeth, more threatening and conquering than humorous. “Foreplay isn’t for people who need a warm-up. Foreplay can be the best part if it’s done right.”

He pauses, and I know I’m breathing faster than I should be, considering I’m just sitting on a couch talking, but damn, can he talk. Every word is measured for effect, and I feel more bare than if I’d even answered a question.

The answer is written all over my face, my body. “And are you good at foreplay?”

Keith nods, his smile changing slightly, becoming as seductive as it is confrontational. “Bold honesty, huh? Very. Okay, Elise . . . tell me about your dating life.”

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

I want to be bratty back, call him on his bossiness, but I realize that would be counter to my mission here, so I give in and willingly share. “No, I’m not dating either. I work too damn much, and my last boyfriend was an ass. I’m not hung up on him or anything. It’s been months ago and was casual at best, more like fuck buddies than a real relationship. But I’m just . . . no, not dating.”

He grins, a real one this time. “Point proven. Fuck buddies don’t need foreplay. Just get in, get off, and get out. You’re just not used to getting more. So much more that it becomes a necessity, an integral piece of the bigger action, not something to be rushed through or skipped.” Every word he says is seduction, meant to make me squirm for him and I’m fighting the urge, forcing myself to be still.

I bite my lip, considering his words, my body screaming that it wants more, too. “Well, you may be right. But tell me, Keith. For someone who’s not dating anyone, you sure do have some insight into the inner workings of the human mind and body. How’d you get so . . . smart?”

I stumble at the last second because I almost said sexy, and I’ll be damned if I’m giving him that kind of ammunition, but he seems to know that ‘smart’ wasn’t my first word choice judging by his cocked eyebrow. “I said I’m not dating. Never said I was a saint.”

Before I can ask a follow-up question, the doorbell rings and Keith rises from his seat to go answer it. I can’t help but watch him as he moves with graceful power toward the hallway, returning a moment later leading a guy wearing black pants and a white chef jacket toward what I can only assume is the kitchen. I follow, drawn by both professional and personal curiosity.

As the cook tells Keith about the menu and warming times, I hang in the doorway, taking in Keith’s no-muss appearance. His jeans have ridden down low on his lean hips, showing the waistband of his underwear as he reaches up and his shirt hem raises with his arms.

Wondering if he’s a boxer brief kind of guy, I let my eyes dip down to his crotch and see a nice bulge that makes me picture him dropping those pants and taking his cock out for me. As my eyes drift back up, I see that his arms are crossed over his chest, showing off biceps that strain against the white cotton of his shirt and make his shirt ride up to expose a tiny sliver of his stomach. I have to admit to myself that want to run my hands over his abs, feel and caress each ridge.

When the cook takes his leave, Keith turns to meet my eyes. “Hungry?”

There’s an undertone to his voice, an awareness of the fact that I was just checking him out. But I see a gleam in his eyes. He’s checking me out too, which just increases my desire. Before I can tell myself not to say it, I answer him honestly. “Starving.”

There’s a rumble in his chest, but he seems to remember his game plan before I remember mine, still lost in some fantasy of him bending me over the kitchen counter and licking his dessert out of my soaking wet pussy. He opens a cabinet door, grabbing plates, then glasses and silverware. “Follow me.”

After serving up healthy portions onto the plates and a quick warming in the microwave, we sit at the table in the kitchen nook. There’s tension between us now, but it’s not awkward. If anything, it feels good, flavored with the little intimate touches like using a microwave. It’s like Keith’s saying I know you find me sexy. I don’t need to bend over backward to impress you more than I do naturally.

It’s natural and heady, like I’m a stick of dynamite and he’s waving a lit match around, and I’m dangerously close to begging him to light me up because everything in me says that he damn sure could.

I try to get my head back in the game, reminding myself that no matter how fucking sexy Keith may be or how horny I am, that’s not happening. I’m a reporter, and my name isn’t Francesca, goddammit!

I need to be professional, get him to answer some fresh questions, dig a little deeper into who he is. Discovering his secrets, writing a great article series . . . that’s the goal here. Not getting my pussy licked before getting a creamy ending to my fantasies.

Keith seems to read all of my dirty, naughty thoughts, but he chooses to let me simmer in my need and goes over to the fridge. “Wine?”

I nod, curious that he didn’t offer me a beer. “Just a half glass. Still on the clock, you know.”

I wish I hadn’t said it the moment it leaves my mouth. It’s a reminder that regardless of any flirting we might have been doing, and how fucking hot Keith makes me, being here is my job. My job to tell all the things he’d rather keep private.

It’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped on our whole interaction, and I can see it in the sudden increased tension across Keith’s jawline.

Dinner and the rest of our evening proceed with conversational questions and answers, but not nearly as personal and telling as our earlier talk. There’s none of the burning taunting now, just a polite aloofness.

It feels colder, robotic even as he answers in what amounts to one word, sometimes one-syllable answers. And though I could write a whole book about how hot Keith is in person, how commanding his presence is, I’m not sure that’s exactly where this all-access story needs to go.

That fact feels like . . . my secret.