Mateo succeeds in surprising me again the second he has me right where he wants me—in the front seat of the same black BMW I’d parked next to when I visited his office and he’s speeding up I-90. He lets me know that we’re not going to another restaurant or lounge but to his house.

His house.

The pleasure palace, as Lucy has so eloquently called it in the past.

Toying with the hem of my lace dress, I shift back in my seat and filter in a cleansing breath. “Are you … sure that’s such a good idea?”

He focuses his face toward mine and a sexy ghost of a smile twitches at his lips. “It is when I have things I want to say that have no business being said in public.” My mouth goes dry because he’s already said and done plenty in public—enough to ignite me—and I can’t imagine what new kink will leave his lips now that there won’t be anyone around to hear him.

Studying me intently, he asks, “Did you let someone know where you’re going?” At the panicked noise that escapes from the back of my throat, he adds, “I only say that because it might make you more comfortable.”

“I … I can text Lucy.”

He grunts, and I momentarily push my nerves aside to tighten my eyes into thin slits. “Don’t look at me that way, Jamila,” he says roughly.

“She’s my best friend.” I wrench my phone out of my bag and scroll through my text history until I find my last conversation with Lucy. “You don’t have to like her, but—”

“Good,” he says firmly. “Because I don’t.”

Casting him a glare that could melt the side of his outrageously handsome face, I work my fingers over the letters on my screen. Up until tonight, I haven’t breathed a word about Bailon to Lucy. She’s been too busy rekindling her relationship with Jace, and besides, I know what she’ll say if she finds out I’ve seen him twice. If she knew the reason I came home so early last night was because King Swing-A-Ling had crashed my date to tell me his accountant is an asshat. While I’m not worried about her reaction, and it sure as hell won’t alter my plans for the evening, I end up closing out of the chat feed to send a message to my sister instead.

The sensation of Bailon’s amber gaze burns into the side of my face the entire time I type, and the process takes longer than necessary thanks to his effect on me. “What?” I demand, dropping my phone in my lap.

“You didn’t text Lucy.”

“And?”

“You’re nervous about telling your drunken friend you’re out with the dirty lawyer,” he drawls, and I roll my eyes up toward the ceiling of his car.

“Not at all. I just don’t feel like having to explain how coming out with you came to be.” My phone vibrates, signaling a reply from Bella, and I hold it up for him to see. “I messaged my sister instead.”

Ripping his attention from the road for a moment, he glances over Bella’s text then throws his head back in laughter. My brow knits together, and I pull the phone back to my side of the car. Heat warms my face as I read over her reply.

9:16 PM: If you go missing, I’ll tell the cops to look for the bulge. Have fun, Twin B, and use condoms because you don’t know where the fuck that dick’s been.

“Bella,” I hiss, squeezing my eyes closed.

Bailon just wiggles his brows as he takes the exit to Winchester. “I like her.”

* * *

Mateo's home is just as impressive as Lucy said it was a couple of months ago. It's large—no, scratch that, it’s a mansion—and situated on a massive lot that’s secluded enough to give him plenty of privacy from the handful of houses I noticed on the way down his street.

“You live here,” I say as he punches his code into the access panel at the gate.

“Should I live somewhere else?”

“Don't be an ass.” But I smile and dart my gaze to the colonial as he drives us closer. With its pearl-white exterior, gable roof and dormer windows, and the brick pathway leading up to a front door framed by two white pillars, his house looks like something out of a fairytale—not straight out of the pages of Porn Weekly. “This thing looks like it ate my apartment twenty times.”

“I have to have somewhere to cause my scandals,” he says in a low voice, shifting the BMW into park close to the front door. Since I’m not sure if he’s joking, I simply nod. When he comes around to open my door for me, I hesitantly take his hand. His fingertips skim my palm, shooting a pulse of electricity through my arm. I try to pull away, but he moves his head to either side. “They’re just hands, Jamila. Let me touch you.”

I don’t have a damn clue how I should feel about the version of Bailon I’m with tonight. First, gifts. Then, doors. And now—now he wants to hold my hand. It’s an innocent request, one that wouldn’t bother me if it were from any other man, but he’s not just anyone. The man beside me, the one linking our fingers together and filling the pit of my stomach with knots and butterflies, has the power to undo me.

Just have fun, I tell myself. Just have a good time.

We climb the three steps to the front door, and he releases my hand, giving me a moment to catch my breath. Still, every second or so, he peeks my way, his dark eyes flaming my body.

A nervous laugh tumbles from my lips. “You’re sure no naked bodies will greet us once you open that thing, right?” Lucy’s furious description of the night Jace first brought her to this house plays through my thoughts like a broken record. Mateo’s sultry receptionist had answered the door wearing nothing but her birthday suit and metal wrist cuffs, and my best friend has told me numerous times that it’s scarred her for life. Opening the door, he stands upright, clutching his keys in one hand and gesturing for me to come inside with the other.

“You never know,” he says as I step over the threshold. His hand finds mine again, and the static returns, crackling beneath my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, I witness the animalistic look he roams over my body and my nipples tighten under his gaze. “You never fucking know, Jamila.”

Grasping the fingers of my free hand around the strap of my purse, I follow behind him as we walk through his house, my focus wandering over the lush furnishings and decor. Whoever styled the place deserves an award. It’s fresh and inviting, a palette of watery hues—white with shades of blue and gray woven in. When I pause in the living room behind the white leather sofa that’s situated around the focal point of the room, the brick floor to ceiling fireplace, he presses my hand to his mouth.

I startle and pivot on my heels, nearly colliding into his hard body. “Not what you expected?” His breath is soft and warm against my palm, and he chuckles when my fingers spasm at the sensation.

“No,” I reply huskily, grateful that he finally releases me. I drag my hand across my stomach, but it doesn’t stop the tingles from bursting through my fingers and wrist. “I expected to come in and see manacles hanging from the ceiling and strobe lights everywhere.”

For a long pause, he just stares at me, and it’s a damn battle to keep from looking away. Everything about this man is intense, but if I show him that I’m nervous—if I let him know that he’s been right all along and that he scares the hell out of me—he will devour me. “The manacles and strobe lights are downstairs,” he laughs, walking away.

Though I’m already aware of what’s in the lower portion of this house, probably right below where I’m standing, my heart rate kicks up a few notches.

Pacing away from the couch, I take a moment to move my fingers along the petal of one of the white roses on the console table before I join him in the state-of-the-art-kitchen. He’s at a commercial grade, stainless steel refrigerator, stacking containers and telling me that he hopes I like steak, so he doesn’t see the way I do a double take at the doorway on the side of the room.

From Lucy’s vivid details, I know it’s the way to his sex cave, and that curiosity that made me ask her so many questions in the first place gnaws at me. The sound of the refrigerator door slamming shut launches my heart in my throat. My eyes lock with his, and he smirks.

“Yes, that’s what you think it is.”

“I figured it was.” I scoot onto one of the swivel bar stools behind the island and scratch my right thumbnail with my left, watching him closely as he organizes the containers on the other side of the counter. I wait until his back is to me and he’s washing his hands to whisper, “And if I asked to see it?”

The muscles in his back tighten beneath his pale blue button-up shirt. “What happened to it not being your thing?” he demands, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

“It's not my thing. Doesn’t mean I can’t wonder what you do in your spare time.”

He releases a noise that digs beneath my skin. Before I have a chance to react, he strides across the kitchen and spins my stool around until we’re face-to-face. “I told you last night that you’re what I want to do in my spare time for the time being.” For the time being. I should hate him for adding that to his comment, but my only response is a dry throat because he wedges his body between my knees and reaches around to drum an uneven beat on the small of my back. “Let’s negotiate.”

“You want to negotiate with me?” I ask with a tilt of my head. “How very lawyerly of you.”

“That’s what I do.” My legs move further apart as his body inches closer to mine. “You help me cook dinner. We eat. Then I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“I'm a terrible cook.” He dips his mouth to mine, and a violent tremor rips through me when he tugs at my lower lip with his teeth. I reach up, digging my fingertips into broad shoulders that go taut beneath my touch. “A goddamn horrible cook,” I say in a voice that borders a moan and a sigh.

“You do this thing when you lie,” he murmurs, plumping my ass with both hands. He presses his lips to the tip of my nose then backs away from me, making a face to demonstrate. “You scrunch your nose, beautiful.”

Sliding off my barstool, I hold on to the counter for support as I walk around to the other side of the island. I wash my hands then join him at the gas range. “Maybe you shouldn’t look so hard then,” I say, meaning for it to be under my breath, but the corners of his mouth quirk.

“Stop making it so fucking impossible not to stare.”

Body meet butterflies.

Over the next hour, I learn that Mateo Bailon is incredibly at home in his kitchen. I feel like I contribute nothing when he puts me in charge of drinking wine, handing him ingredients and searching cupboards for cookware. The meal is simple—steak, roasted red potatoes, and asparagus—but I promise him it’s perfect. And romantic, but I sure as shit don’t say that to him because I have a feeling the R-word is just as poisonous to him as the L-word.

Once he’s finished cooking, we agree to eat at the island instead of the formal dining room on the other side of the living room, and he chooses to sit right beside me. My fingers shake as I cut into my steak because I can feel him. I can feel his muscular thigh pressed against mine, I can feel his gaze scorching the side of my face, and I can smell the scent of his cologne. It’s tantalizing, more distracting than the food he’s prepared, but I pretend to be more interested in chewing than breathing him in.

“What do you think?” he asks.

That you smell good. That you feel good. That everything about you draws me in like a fucking moth to a flame. “You’re good.” I wash down a bite of medium rare steak with a gulp of wine. “Very good.”

“Only good?”

Dropping my fork to my plate, I twist around and lean back so that I can have a good look at the cocky grin taking over his features. “Oh, god,” I drawl dramatically, fanning my face. “You're the best, Bailon. The greatest.”

He winks at me. “That's what I like to hear, Flowerbomb.”

Relaxing thanks to his teasing, I return my attention to my meal as we ease into a conversation that he somehow focuses solely on me. He asks me about my friendship with Lucy—specifically how we met. Between nibbles of steak and asparagus, I explain that she moved to Worcester when we were in elementary school and that we became inseparable the moment we discovered we had the same Hanson backpack.

“What the fuck is a Hanson?”

Pressing my lips flat, I cut my gaze sideways. “You’re an entertainment attorney, and you don’t know who Hanson is? They did “MMMBop.” You can’t tell me you’ve never heard that song.” He lifts his broad shoulders. Wiping my napkin over my mouth, I down another sip of wine before I sing a few bars. I stop once realization dawns on his bronze features, and he gives me a look of sheer dissatisfaction.

“A little after my time, thank God.”

“And the Stones are a little bit before your time, but you love ‘Paint It, Black,’” I retort. I start to turn away from him, but he reaches out to stop me, tucking a dark curl behind my ear.

“You're a smart ass, Jamila.”

“If you say so,” I say, and he fires back a response that sears me from head to toe.

“I’ve got plenty to say about your ass.”

The moment we’re done eating, he pours me another glass of wine, then slides off his chair. He darts his gaze to the entrance downstairs then back to my face. “You still want to go?”

Curiosity is an awful, terrible thing, and I hate the way my head moves up and down. “Just a peek.” Because I need to see it with my own eyes. Just once.

He’s silent as I follow behind him down the steps, but I can’t seem to find words either. This part of his house—it’s a completely different world from the muted blues and grays on the main level. It’s everything Lucy told me it would be and more, and I can’t deny the flicker of an emotion I refuse to name building in my ribcage as I walk around a room decorated like something out of an X-rated period drama.

I’ve heard about this room, heard about how my best friend stared in shock as she witnessed Bailon getting a blowjob from two women at once, and my brows yank together as I race my fingers over a set of handcuffs dangling from the arm of a chair.

“This is you,” I finally whisper. I hear his footsteps growing closer. Although I anticipate his nearness, I still close my eyes and arch my body against his when he presses himself behind me. He’s hard. Oh fuck, he’s hard, and my center tightens in response. “This is what you need to…”

But I lose the words. He spins me around to face him and moves his head from side-to-side. “I like to fuck. That’s what I need. Whether it’s here—” He motions around the room, and I glance at the cushioned walls and hanging red light fixtures and, finally, at the features hovering over mine. “—or in my bedroom, the sex is what I need.”

Without love, I add silently. What had happened to Bailon? What had driven him to want and need … distractions? When I murmur that question aloud, a storm passes over his features. It’s the same look he’d given me in the restaurant the night we talked about secrets. “Why do you need it?” I repeat.

But he ignores me. He stalks across the room, pulling the door open for me as he nods to the hallway. “Come on, let me show you the rest.”

A muscle tics in his jaw while he finishes the kink tour, and I barely have time to get a good look at the spinning sex table that made headlines everywhere before he ushers me back upstairs. Considering his mood has taken a turn for the worse, I almost expect him to offer to take me home as soon as my boots touch the dark gray wood floor of his kitchen. Instead, his hands grasp either side of my waist. He wrenches me to him, knocking the air from my lungs.

“Your cheeks are flushed,” he points out. He lifts a hand and strokes his thumb over one side of my face and then the other. “Do you know how sexy it is when your skin is this hot?”

“No.” I swallow hard and flick my tongue over my lips. “Tell me.”

The tension that was between us only moments before seems to evaporate, and one side of his mouth curves in a sensual half-smile as he backs me toward the center island. “Right now, I’m trying to decide whether to take you for the first time in my bedroom or—” He slides our dishes toward the other side of the granite, and I cringe because I expect them to hit the floor and break into hundreds of pieces. Both plates stop moving inches from the edge, and I exhale in relief. “—right here.”

Although my dating history is vibrant, I’ve never done anything sexual in a kitchen. I’m breathless when he hoists me up on the counter, and I bite my lip until I taste copper to keep from crying out when he bends over and kisses a sliver of bare skin between the top of my boot and the hem of my dress.

“I guess here’s better because I’m impatient,” he murmurs against my skin, his fingers guiding my dress a little higher.

“I can—” But a shrill ringtone interrupts me. It’s not mine—I powered my phone off right after Bella’s text in the car—so I arch my brows at him. He lets out an irritated curse, then touches his lips to my other leg. Drawing his phone from his back pocket, he ignores the call.

“It can wait.”

It can’t. A few seconds after he sends the call to voicemail, his phone rings again. He’s agitated when he pushes away from me and the island, and I feel nosy paying such close attention to him as he jerks the phone to his ear. “What?” he growls into the receiver. He’s quiet for a moment, a deep scowl creasing his brow. At last, his shoulders slump and he sighs.

“What do you want, Marisol?”