Well, Brit thought numbly. She’d done it.

The weekend after her best friend had given her Jon’s number, she’d implemented the Hunter Cross secure the second date with a first kiss move and succeeded.

Jon had asked her on a second date. He’d kissed her.

And that had been after a rather exceptional first date. The restaurant had been trendy yet comfortable, expensive yet approachable. There’d been no awkward silences, no pointless small talk. He’d made her laugh. She’d made him laugh. They enjoyed the same taste in wine and agreed that eggplant was sort of just a weird food.

Jon had seemed into her. And she definitely should have been into him. He was . . . perfect. A gentleman who was successful, funny, smart, and good-looking?

A Manhattan rarity.

And yet even as she’d given him an enigmatic smile after the kiss, even as she walked away knowing he was watching her with a hungry gaze, she felt . . .

Nothing.

The kiss had been proficient but given her zero feels. The date had been pleasant, but she couldn’t muster enthusiasm for the second.

Not until she got into the elevator of her apartment building did she let herself acknowledge why.

Slumping back against the elevator wall, eyes squeezed shut, she faced the truth.

She didn’t want to move forward with Jon because she wanted someone else.

She wanted Hunter.

Not as a friend. Not even as a friend with benefits.

Brit wanted Hunter in the all-consuming, falling-for-him kind of way. She wanted to come home to him every day, to hold his hand, to kiss him whenever she wanted. To sleep with him, yes, but also to wake up beside him.

She was such an idiot to think she was the exception to the sex complicates things rule. It had complicated things, all right. Not only did her body want him, her heart wanted him. Badly.

Problem: He didn’t want her back.

If he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t have insisted she call Jon.

Fool that she was, she’d put off calling the Wall Street broker in hopes that her best friend would come to his senses. She waited for Hunter to tell her not to go out with Jon. To go out with him instead.

He hadn’t.

By Thursday, she’d forced herself to accept that her tangled-up feelings were hers alone and called Jon. He, at least, had seemed eager to spend time with her because he’d asked her out for Saturday.

Brit had no idea if Hunter knew about the date or not. He hadn’t inquired. She hadn’t told him. And she told him everything, usually.

She swallowed a lump in her throat at the realization that her worst fears were coming to light: She and Hunter were changing. It was subtle, maybe temporary. But she felt . . . lost.

Dejected, Brit opened her apartment door, hoping a glass of wine and a bubble bath would lift her spirits.

She turned on the light and screamed at the sight of a man sitting on her couch.

“Damn it, Hunter!” she said, bending to pick up the purse that she’d dropped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m on your authorized for guest key list, remember?”

“Yeah, for emergencies,” she said irritably, shoving lip gloss and tampons back into her purse. She straightened, set the purse on the counter, and glared at him.

He was sitting on her couch, not lounging so much as . . . waiting. His posture was anything but relaxed, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his legs.

He glared right back, and she shook her head. “Why am I getting that look? You’re the one who broke into my apartment—”

“Broke in?” he said with a harsh laugh. “I’m your best friend.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been acting like it,” she said, going to the cupboard for a cup and slamming it with more force than necessary.

“Meaning what?” He pushed off the couch and came into the kitchen.

She whirled around. “Meaning that after you got in my pants, you all but handed me off to another man and then ignored me all week.”

“I was busy,” he snapped. “You’re the one who was freaking out over people at the office knowing about our time together. I thought I was doing what you wanted.”

“Which was what, exactly—leaving every text unanswered, barely acknowledging me unless in a meeting?”

“Well, what the hell did you want me to do?”

“Be normal,” she said. “Act like my friend.”

“I am your friend. It’s why I’m here.”

“Uninvited, sitting in the dark?” she asked skeptically.

“I didn’t realize I needed an invitation.” His voice was cold. “How was your date?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know I went on a date?”

“Penelope mentioned it. You didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. You weren’t exactly around.” She went to the fridge for the water pitcher, poured herself a glass, though she set it aside without taking a drink.

“How was it?” he asked quietly. “The date.”

“Fine.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “Great, actually.”

He nodded once. “Where’d he take you?”

“Gramercy Tavern.”

Hunter blinked in surprise, and she knew why. The place was iconic New York. Difficult to get into and not cheap. A date there took some effort.

Yeah, that’s right, Hunter. Some people think I’m worth the effort.

She realized the absurdity of the thought. Just a couple of weeks ago, she’d been the one claiming she wasn’t datable, and Hunter had been assuring her she was.

But now he had an almost defiant look on his face, seeming anything but happy for her.

He crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the counter as he glared down at her. “You use the move? The one to leave him wondering if there’ll be a second date?”

“No.”

Relief flashed on his face, though it disappeared with her next words.

She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice as though sharing secrets. “I used the other move you taught me.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek as though his teeth were grinding together. “Which?”

“The one that ensures there’s definitely a second date.”

Hunter went very still. “You kissed him?”

Brit shrugged and picked up her water glass. “Or he kissed me. We kissed each other, I guess.”

Hunter said nothing as she took a sip of her water.

The silence stretched on and on until finally he broke it, his voice low and forbidding. “How was it?”

She looked at him over the glass. “How was what?”

“The kiss, Brit.” This time his voice was a near growl.

“Oh.” She set her glass down again and gave him a bright smile. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

She started to turn away, but his fingers gripped her arm, pulling her back around.

Brit jerked her arm away and then shoved both hands against his shoulder. “Stop, Hunter!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop messing with me. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me to go on a date and then make me feel bad about it. You don’t get to order me to call a guy and then get mad when I do. You don’t get to tell me you don’t want to kiss me anymore and then act pissed when I kiss someone else—”

Her words were cut off by his lips as he hauled her against him, his mouth crashing over hers.

His fingers tangled into her hair, frantically at first, then more gently as his hands cupped her face, slowing the kiss, coaxing her into responding.

She tried to remain stubborn, she really did. But he felt so good, tasted so right . . .

Her lips softened under his, responding slowly, then more urgently. He deepened the kiss even further, then pulled back on a gasp, setting his forehead to hers and looking down at her as though trying to catch his breath, trying to regain control.

“I never said that.”

“Said what?” she whispered.

“That I didn’t want to kiss you anymore. It’s all I’ve been thinking of for a week.” He trailed hot, quick kisses over her cheeks, brushing his mouth over hers again.

“Then why’d you ignore me?”

He gave a rueful laugh against her neck. “So that I didn’t do this. So that I didn’t ruin any chance you’d have with Jon by touching you.”

“I wanted you to touch me,” she said softly. “Then and now.”

Hunter stilled, his hands tightening. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he murmured, running his tongue down her neck. “It means I won’t have the control to stop from doing this. . . .”

He hoisted her onto the kitchen counter, nudging her thighs apart and stepping between them.

“And it means,” he said, leaning forward to rain kisses along the V-neck of her dress, “that I won’t be able to stop from doing this. . . .”

He cupped her breast.

“Or this . . .”

His thumb rubbed over her nipple, and she sucked in a breath.

“It means, Brit,” Hunter said, his voice a near rasp now, hands moving under the full skirt of her dress to tug her thong down her legs, tossing it aside, “that there’s nothing to prevent me from . . .”

He eased the dress up farther, lowering as he did so. His head disappeared beneath the skirt, the slight scrape of his five-o’clock shadow rough against her inner thighs, the first swipe of his tongue so deliciously erotic that she cried out in need.

Hunter’s mouth against her was gentle yet unrelenting, his hands coming around to cup her butt, holding her to his face.

Brit gripped the counter hard, her head falling back in pleasure as everything faded from consciousness. Her confusing date, her fight with Hunter, her confusion over what was happening with them.

There was simply this, simply them.

Her orgasm came upon her far too soon. She grasped his head, trying to stop him. She didn’t know if she could handle it; she had the panicked sense that it would destroy her. . . .

He ignored the pull of her fingers in his hair, his tongue circling faster until she crashed over the edge. Hunter stayed with her through every shudder and cry.

Only when she fell back slightly, breathing hard, did he retreat, gently smoothing her skirt down her legs, settling the hem modestly around her knees as though he hadn’t just been incredibly wicked on her kitchen counter.

He braced his hands on the counter, watching. Waiting.

Finally, she forced herself to look at him.

He gave her a pensive smile. “Ask me to stay the night,” he said quietly.

“Hunter—”

“Ask me, Brit. Please.”

Damn it. Damn it.

She reached out, cupped his cheek. “Stay.”

Hunter closed his eyes in relief, then turned his head, planting a quick kiss on her palm.

Then he took her to bed.