At eight sharp the following evening, I’m standing at the top of the narrow metal staircase that winds down to the entrance of The Black Heart. I made a conscious decision this morning not to wear a skirt. Instead, I’m wearing skinny black jeans with rips in the knees and a pair of platform brogues. Under my thick winter coat, I’m wearing a vintage T-shirt under a vintage black tux. I look like I haven’t tried too hard, something which has taken a lot of effort to cultivate. People judge you—a lot—for what you wear at Koln & Mathers, and turning up in something neutral is a big no-no.

I’m annoyed at myself for feeling edgy, irritated there’s a tautness in my stomach. You’re just picking up your phone, I remind myself for at least the tenth time today, and I tread cautiously down the precarious steps. There’s a door and then a heavy black curtain. Inside looks a lot better than the photos—low ceilinged and cozy with a weird combination of 80s rock memorabilia and dark kitsch that somehow hangs together. A giant orange neon crucifix looms over the bar, and eerie Spanish religious icons sit in glass cases. The place is half full—a mix of rockers and the kind of cool, arty kids that Dominique hangs out with.

He’s sitting at the edge of the bar with his back to me. A frayed denim shirt is pulled tight across his shoulders, straining against his muscles. He’s got a laptop open, and as I come up behind him, I see that he’s looking at vintage cars. There’s a coffee cup to his right, a folded magazine and, if I’m not mistaken, my phone. The bartender catches my eye, and I step toward Adler quickly, wanting to announce myself before he draws attention to my presence.

“Hey.” My voice sounds confident, assured.

He turns around, and my heart jumps into my mouth. He is ridiculously good looking. His lips part in a warm smile, lights dancing in eyes that appear dark in the dim lighting. He’s wearing those oversize hipster glasses that I hate, but he removes them and slips them into the pocket of his shirt. “Hey, Reagan.”

I slide onto the bar stool beside him. “Thanks for meeting me and bringing the phone, Brown-Sweater Guy.”

He looks at me with fun in his eyes. “Perhaps it wasn’t the smoothest way of describing myself, but nothing else I came up with was appropriate for your work email.”

I swallow hard, a number of alternatives running through my mind. Stupidly hot guy. Complete stranger who offered to whip me. I was intending to mock him a little, tip the balance back in my favor, but all I’ve done is get myself flustered again.

“Here’s your phone.” He hands it to me. Reflexively, I check that the password is still working. It is. But the display lock shows the manufacturer’s generic image of a forest in fall. Of course, it does. I erased all my data on Saturday.

“I didn’t hack into it.”

“I know you didn’t,” I say quickly, but his expression is gently mocking. “I can’t stay, but can I buy you a drink to say thank you?”

He lifts a hand in a careless gesture. “Thank you for the offer, Reagan, but I never drink alone.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, a habit I thought I’d cured myself of in my teens. “A coffee then?”

“Did you think about the riding crop when you got home on Saturday?” His tone is even, smooth as molasses, and it makes his words even more startling.

Saturday night when I lay in bed and masturbated while I thought about him? “No, I didn’t. I told you I’m not interested in kink.”

“Your lips might have told me that.”

There’s a sudden warmth between my thighs which I’m trying hard to ignore. “I should go now. Thanks again for bringing me the phone.”

“Where’s the fire?”

“I-I’ve got things to do.”

“A boyfriend waiting for you at home?”

“No,” I say, and I’m annoyed once again that his direct questions have a way of coercing me into telling him the truth.

“It wasn’t easy to find you, you know. You owe me a few moments of your company at least.”

I hesitate. I am eager to know how he located me. “Okay. One drink.”

“Great.” His grin is boyish and too appealing for his own good.

He stands up and collects his things. “Let’s sit over there.” Without waiting for me to follow, he strides over to a corner table and slides onto a worn, leather bench. Heads turn in his direction—girls with hungry eyes. I notice a reserved sign on the table as I sit down at a right angle to him. I’m not a fan of sitting opposite guys on first dates. Way too intense. Not that this is a first date.

He hands me the menu, which turns out to be a very sophisticated cocktail list. Monica would be impressed. It’s darker here, but I read by candlelight.

“There’s a lot of choice here.”

“That’s why I love this place. It looks like a dive bar, but Jack has a passion for ingredients and mixing.” He leans close and points to some of his favorites, and I pick up the scent that I remember from the Sexpo. It’s a weird combination of familiar and exotic. Kind of intoxicating. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I assumed he liked it because it looks like a sex den, but I rein myself in. A very pretty server with a blond undercut and a lot of piercings comes over to take our order, and I pick a Hot Buttered Rum and he has a Wormwood Old Fashioned.

“Okay, tell me, how did you end up with my phone?”

“You must’ve left it someplace.”

I think back to the night again. Did I leave it in the restroom? No, I had it after that. How about when I was freaking out over seeing Jeremy? I was in full-on panic mode, my thoughts all over the place. Maybe I took my phone out of my pocket to send a message, and someone distracted me. Could I have put it down on the edge of the bar when I was buying a drink?

“I can’t remember doing it, but I guess.”

“Are you flaky?”

“Not usually. How did it come into your hands?”

He gives me a sly smile, pleased with himself. “Someone showed it around the organizers and performers at the end of the night, asking if any of us recognized the girls on the lock screen. I picked you out right away.”

I change my background image often, and I vaguely recall the photo—it’s a selfie of Monica and I, grinning into the camera during my leaving drinks in Springfield. The lighting was dim, and I’m surprised he recognized me from it.

“I looked for you, but the place was almost empty. You must’ve left already, and then your phone died.”

“The battery sucks,” I confirm.

“I took it with me because I thought if I left it at the venue, it might disappear.”

I nod. “And then?”

“I had to set off for Maine early the next day, visiting family, but I got a charger on the way, and when I arrived, I took a photo of your lock screen with my phone, put the photo into Google and image searched you. It took a little while, but I eventually got a match with a college soccer team photo.”

I can’t resist a grin, knowing the one he’s referring to. We’d just won a regional championship, and I had a similar grin plastered to my face.

“And then it wasn’t too hard to place you at Koln & Mathers. Very impressive, by the way.” The drinks arrive, allowing me to disguise my shock at how much information about me is available online, just derived from my face. Suddenly I feel as exposed as if I was naked.

The cocktail is sensational—rich and wintry and delicious. We clink glasses.

“To the power of Google,” he says.

“I’m grateful for your efforts.”

“But a little freaked out that I might already know so much about you?”

I shrug. “Everything’s online for anyone to find these days.”

“If they know where to look.”

“Are you a tech-head?”

He gives a short laugh. “Not at all. I like to know how to use technology to make my life easier, but I’m not obsessive about it. I only learned how to do image searches recently, actually. Otherwise I would’ve had to do things the old-fashioned way.”

“How do you mean?”

“I would’ve tracked your friend down, the burlesque performer.”

“Which would’ve been a lot less effort since she has her email address on her flyer.”

He reaches into his pocket for something and holds it out on his palm. It’s the flyer for Dominique’s show, more worn than last time I saw it.

“Yes, she does,” he says. “But finding you this way has been a lot more interesting.”

I take another sip of my drink. Each mouthful traces a warm path down to my stomach, and I can literally feel all those taut little muscles unfurling.

“So now you know everything about me. How about you even up the balance?” I say.

“What do you want to know?”

Everything. I suddenly want to know everything about him. “Are you a vintage car dealer?”

He flashes two rows of perfect white teeth. “I give you a free shot, and you want to know what I do for a living? Really?”

I clench my jaw. He has a way of making me feel naïve, and I don’t appreciate it.

“It’s a passion of mine. I fix them up mostly, and sometimes I sell them, or rent them out to movie sets. I only ride around in my Cadillac, though. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

“It’s right around the corner.” As my lips purse, he pulls out his phone. “I’m kidding. Here’s a photo.” The screen fills with an image of a long powder-blue and white car on a sidewalk with a lot of palm trees in the background. It’s obviously vintage, but it looks pristine. The top’s down and Adler’s sitting inside in a pair of aviators, faded jeans, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, displaying tattooed biceps. His legs are wide apart, and one hand rests on the steering wheel while the other is draped on the empty seat. His smile is open, inviting, and I find myself yearning to know who’s behind the camera.

“Nice,” I say. “I love cars like this.”

“You wouldn’t believe what she was like when I found her. A poor, broken heap of rust. But with a little love and direction, she’s come a long way.”

I swallow hard. There’s something intimate about his words. And he’s only talking about a car. “California?” I ask to distract myself.

“Santa Monica. She was due to be in a movie set, so I had her delivered to Sacramento, then I drove her the rest of the way down the coast. One of the best rides of my life.”

I see the passion in his face, hear the wistfulness in his voice, and I’m there. The sky’s a perfect blue, the sun’s beating down, and the wind’s in my hair. Ocean on the right and desert on the left. For a fleeting moment, I wish I was that girl, whoever she is. “Sounds amazing.”

“What were you really doing at the Sexpo?”

I jolt back to the present.

“I told you—I was helping Dominique out for the night. She needed someone to flyer for her.”

“Nothing better to do on a Saturday night? I find that hard to believe.” His eyes have changed now; they’re darker, harder. More like I remember from Saturday.

“I guess I like to prioritize helping my friends out. What were you doing there?”

“Same. Helping a friend with their performance.”

“Were you tying that girl up in knots?”

“It’s my question now.” He’s edged closer, barely perceptibly, but now his face is inches from mine. His skin is flawless, lightly tanned. He doesn’t have the winter pallor of everyone else in this town. His nearness is exciting and unnerving at the same time, and before I can stop myself, I lean back a fraction.

“Are we trading questions?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. What’s your question?”

“Why were you so strung out when we met?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Answer the question.”

“I don’t know why I’m agreeing to any of this.” Deliberating, I take a long sip of my drink. “I just ran into one of the bosses from my company, and I was afraid he’d freak out that I’d seen him.”

“Did he?”

“I think I’m in the clear.”

He nods. “I’m sure Koln & Mathers would be very reluctant to let you go.”

I throw him a sardonic half-smile to cover my embarrassment. “Don’t be so sure. I’m a first-year exec. They’re practically looking for excuses to get rid of us.”

“It’s cutthroat?”

“Very.”

“That doesn’t suit you.”

A filament of annoyance lights up in my brain. “You don’t know what suits me.”

“I know you’re creative and ambitious. And that you chose advertising because you didn’t want to be a starving artist. But now you’re worried that you’re selling out.”

“Nothing but conjecture.”

“Really?” He looks annoyingly sexy when he cocks his eyebrow like that.

As my mouth opens and closes again, he passes me the drinks menu.

“I should go,” I say, but part of me doesn’t want to at all. I’m kind of enjoying sitting with this captivating stranger, engaging in a verbal sparring match.

“It’s your turn to ask the question, and you’re about to leave?” He’s watching me like a big cat watches some small prey, weighing up whether it’s worth the effort of hunting it down. “Ask me anything. Anything at all. But choose your drink first.”

I’ve gotten a taste for the hot rum, and I want the same again, but I pretend to read the menu while I’m thinking about my next question. “What’s your deal?”

His eyes narrow. “My deal?”

“So you’re into S-and-M. But you’re such a normal guy. I mean, you look like a hipster. Like you ought to be riding your fixie to a farmer’s market while drinking artisan coffee out of a biodegradable cup. Not whipping someone mercilessly while dressed in a gimp suit.”

“Hipster?” he echoes with a laugh. “No one’s ever called me that before. I guess I just have my own style. I don’t try to fit in with particular groups.” His tone has become serious again, his gaze unwavering. “I’m into domination, yes. But maybe you’ve already forgotten what I told you on Saturday.”

My throat tightens. I haven’t. His hand reaches behind me and closes around my hair—not pulling, just holding. As I watch him like an animal poised for flight, he tilts his jaw toward me, his eyes narrow, and suddenly his lips are meeting mine. God, they’re soft. His beard scratches a little, excitingly, and I pick up the scent of whisky and tobacco. When he kisses me hard, my mouth opens to him instinctively, and at the first touch of his tongue against mine, my pussy begins to throb. This shouldn’t feel so good.

Too soon, he pulls away, leaving me feeling like he’s just sucked all the air out of my body, and then he regards me, as if surveying his handiwork.

“I prefer the simple things,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. He lifts his glass, sips his drink, and leans back on the banquette. All I can do is stare at him, lips parted, wishing the ache between my thighs would let up. Wishing he’d kiss me like that again.

“My question,” he says. “What was your moment?”

I mentally shake myself out. “What moment?”

“The moment when something deep inside you shifted, and the path of your entire future sexual desires and yearnings was set.”

“There was no moment. I told you I’m not into S-and-M or kink. Any of that. I had a normal life. Nothing freaky happened to me. I grew up, I started liking boys, having boyfriends. That was it.”

“Reagan, I know that’s not true.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“But I do. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You said my eyes were innocent. Therefore, they reveal nothing.”

“I didn’t say innocent. I said vulnerable. That’s something different entirely. But the fact you remembered it as innocent speaks volumes.”

“What are you, a psychologist?”

“Maybe. I know a little about human nature anyway.” He sips his Old Fashioned, observes me casually. “I didn’t expect an answer from you. It’s likely something you’re totally unaware of. But think about it. Reach back into your past and see if you can figure out what created such a powerful desire in you to submit.”

“Why would I do that?” My tone is bordering on belligerent, but he’s struck close to home, and my cheeks heat in tandem with my pussy.

“Because you have a need in you, and it’s important you understand it. If you don’t, you’ll never be fulfilled. Take your time. It might be the opposite of what you expect it to be.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So, what’s your moment?”

“I need to know you a little better before I share that with you.” He finishes his drink and sets the empty glass on the table. He’s unbelievable. My annoyance flaring up again, I call for the check and begin to put my coat on.

“I have a tab here,” he says. “And here’s my number.” He slides a business-card-sized slip of paper across the table, but it contains only his first name and number. “When you’re ready to meet again, call me. Better than emailing. Nothing I have to say to you is safe for work.” He draws close again, and as riled up as I feel, I’m powerless to do anything other than anticipate his kiss. But he doesn’t kiss me on the mouth. His lips land on my cheek, the stubble tickling.

“It’s been a pleasure, Reagan.”

I hesitate over his number, but eventually slide it into my purse. And because I have no idea what else to say, I say a bland “bye” and walk out of the bar, leaving him sitting on the bench.

Back on street level, I start walking in the direction of the metro. It’s bone-chillingly cold, but for once I’m grateful for it. It takes the heat out of my mood. No one in my entire life has made me feel as angry and irritated and turned on at the same time as this man.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” I mutter to myself like a crazy person. I can’t stand the type of people who make a judgment about you, based on nothing at all, then can’t wait to share it with you. It’s one of my pet hates. I reach the entrance to the metro and cling to the handrail, accustomed to the slippery mush at the top of the stairs.

“Reagan!” comes a deep, sexy voice from behind me. Adler’s striding toward me in an expensive-looking navy wool coat. He looks commanding, purposeful, and against my will, my body responds again. The world slows down as he comes up to me, puts his hands on my waist, and crushes his lips against mine. They’re so warm, his tongue so velvety and agile as it slides into my mouth. It’s a passionate, passionate kiss that leaves me dizzy.

“I shouldn’t have left without kissing you,” he says, keeping his face close to mine. And then he turns and carries right on, striding along the sidewalk. People are staring at me, girls in their twenties with naked envy plastered across their faces.

I watch him go, my lips still tingling, my thoughts confused. Every girl wants to be kissed like that— like the famous black-and-white photo of the couple kissing on a Parisian street that I used to have stuck up on my bedroom wall. The couple are walking along a busy street, and the guy is so caught up with his feelings for the woman that he wraps his arm around her shoulders and draws her into a passionate kiss. Like nothing else in the world exists. It’s delicious, and so romantic. I used to daydream about it while practicing my kissing technique on the back of my hand.

I smile to myself as I stumble down the stairs, the odorous warmth of the metro rushing up to meet me. That was hot, Lockhart, admit it. Adler might be cocky as all hell, and an S&M freak, but he kissed me like he meant it. There was something real about it. In his words, in the tone of his voice, in the heat in his eyes. I glimpsed something different from the man he was in the bar.