I have never felt so many emotions at once in my entire life. I am confused. Totally embarrassed, of course. But also, really freaking mad. What the hell was all that? I mean, honestly—what was all that?

The whole cab ride home, and as I walk up to my apartment, I keep checking my phone even as I’m fuming. Weston. I can’t stop thinking about him, and not just in an angry way. Sure, he took me to that freaky club just to rattle me, and it worked. That was a pretty mean thing to do. But the whole night—even before the alley—I couldn’t help but feel this utter attraction to him. Maybe because he’s so damn hot.

How stupid am I? Weston Bridges is probably the most eligible bachelor in New York—maybe in the whole country. He’s rich, young, smart, and hotter than any movie star in the world. He’s also known as a world-class playboy. I once read that he and some supermodel flew from New York to Paris one day just to have dessert. They ate, and an hour later got back on his private jet and came back to New York. I wonder if it’s true.

“Hey,” I mutter to Brody, once I’ve unlocked our door.

“Hey,” he says, brightening when he sees me. He’s watching TV and has a big glass of water on the coffee table—the same glass from earlier but refilled—along with a bottle of aspirin. He must have already gone from buzzed to hungover to sober. How long have I been gone?

I look at my watch and see that it’s after midnight. “What are you still doing up?”

“Just wanted to make sure you got home,” he says. That’s just like Brody. I don’t have any siblings and he’s the closet person I have to that. This guy loves looking after me. It’s sweet. “So, tell me. How’d it go?”

“Let me get changed, then I’ll tell you,” I say. I have to get out of these clothes, these stupid ridiculous clothes.

I leave the tank on and change into some shorts, then go scrub my face of all makeup. I feel lighter and looser already.

I go back into the living room and Brody says, “You should have just gone out like that. You look even better without makeup.”

“Oh, please,” I say, plopping on the couch next to him.

“What happened? Where did this possible boss guy take you in his douchey limo?”

I ignore the dig and say, “It’s actually a really crazy story.”

Now that I’m sitting here on our couch, preparing to retell the night’s story, I start to shiver. It was all just so—strange and different. Intimidating and even sexy. I hardly know where to begin.

“You’re shaking,” he says. “What happened?”

I take a deep breath. “It was just…

“Just what? Start with telling me where he took you.”

“Ever heard of a place called Plaisir?”

He shakes his head no. “What is it? Some swank restaurant?”

I stutter on a laugh. “Swank, yes. Restaurant…maybe they serve food. I don’t know.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “It’s a private BDSM club.”

“What the actual fuck?” Brody says, his face igniting in to flames. “Are you kidding me? What did you do?”

“I had a drink,” I say.

“This guy is way out of line,” Brody says, his jaw clenching.

“The magazine that I interviewed for, Blush? He wants to take it in an edgier, sexier direction.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“And wanted me to be in a place that would make me uncomfortable and see how I could handle it. Because I could be writing about that place, or a place like it. Or just about BDSM in general. Did you know that it stands for—”

“Mia, I know what it stands for.” He shakes his head, his eyes down on scuffed wood floors. “This guy…what a piece of shit. He thinks just because he has money and power that he can drag you to a place like that?” Brody looks at me and asks, “Did he try anything on you? Because if he did I’ll call the cops right this second.”

“Brody, no,” I say. That is something I can’t even talk about with Brody. What Weston and I did in that alley is for me and me alone. “Slow down. Of course he didn’t try anything on me. He was a perfect gentleman.” A stretch of the truth, maybe. I remember his hardness pressed against me as his finger filled me. I get shivers again just picturing it.

“You’re shivering again, Mia,” he says. “How can you be shivering when it’s at least eighty degrees in this apartment?”

“I’m fine.”

“I am not above kicking this guy’s ass,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not, but a small giggle escapes my lips. “I mean, sure, he’s probably way stronger than I am. He likely has a personal trainer and all. And if I do get a good shot in he’ll sue the hell out of me, taking me for the tens of dollars in my account. Word will get out that pretty boy Weston Bridges’ perfect face has been scarred by a mailroom hooligan. The world will hate me, my chance of a career will be over, and I will have less than a penny to my name. But it will be worth it just to make you feel safe.”

“I feel safe, Brody,” I say. “I promise. And promise me that you will not be storming up to the sixty-fifth floor of the Prerogative building tomorrow for an old-fashioned fist fight.”

He slumps, but he also calms down. “If you’re sure you’re okay.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But yeah, it was pretty crazy. I was like, is this normal, a big boss guy like him taking me out as a test for the job?”

“No, it’s not normal, and he’s a creep for trying.”

I murmur agreement even as thoughts of Weston kissing me against the brick wall flutter through my mind. How will I sleep tonight when I can still feel his finger inside me? I’m still wet from it all. The truth is, that kiss—and everything else that happened out there—was the hottest, sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. I know that’s not saying a lot, considering my lack of experience, but still. It was hot.

I’m sure I’ll never see Weston Bridges again in my life, but I’ll admit only to myself that I’m pretty bummed about that. I’d sleep on the streets for a week for one more kiss from him. That’s how epic it was.

“I’m going to make you some soup,” Brody says, giving my leg a pat before standing up. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“No, I do,” he says. “I know it’s hot in here, even with the windows opened and fan blowing, but this is my mother’s secret recipe, guaranteed to turn any frown upside down.”

He goes to our sparsely stacked pantry and takes out a red and white can of soup. I laugh.

“Great chef, your mom,” I say.

We end up staying up a bit longer, watching the late shows together and getting in some good laughs. I feel better, but the whole time all I can think of is Weston—Weston and the job I really wanted. But both are gone now, and I guess I just have to move on. Tomorrow I begin the hunt for work yet again.