Lucas trails his fingertip across my shoulder and down my triceps, his feathery touch sending ripples along my sensitive flesh. My hair splays out like a fan on his pillow, our bodies sinking into the oversized mattress that offers warmth and comfort. Silk sheets. A satin duvet. Good grief.

I don’t belong here, cradled in this luxury, and yet, my traitorous mind plays tricks on me, tries to convince me that could become something more than one night of reckless passion. That Lucas isn’t way out of my league.

“Tell me something about you,” Lucas says.

I curl into him, nuzzling my head under his arm. His skin is smooth, bare, muscles toned to rock hard perfection. An unfamiliar heat spreads through my chest. “I’ve never had a one night stand before.”

Never had much sex at all, actually, but I don’t say that aloud, suddenly embarrassed by my lack of experience. Years of “saving myself” for the right man somehow morphed into losing my virginity to a college kid with clumsy hands and a small dick. We tried again, the second time without the numbing help of alcohol, but whatever chemistry drew us together fizzled faster than his fleeting erection. It ended amicably, but it made me wary of sex.

One time with Lucas, and I am beginning to realize what I’ve missed.

He presses his lips to my forehead. “How about sex in a Jacuzzi? Ever done that?”

A blush creeps over my cheeks as I rewind time, remembering the way Lucas’s cock filled me as we ground together under water, his hands firm on my hips, wet tongue flicking each breast until—

Jesus.

I blow out a breath, aware my nipples have gone taut. Heat pulses between my thighs, and I realize I’m wet—again. Ridiculous. “That was a first too,” I say, shyly.

“Hm. What other firsts should we explore?” His fingers pinch at my nipple and I gasp.

A quick glance at the bedside clock pulls me back to reality, and more events of the previous evening come flooding back with less fanfare. Austin’s advances, his bloodied body sprawled out on the bar floor. Shit.

Instinct tells me I’m heading into a PR nightmare, and with Rubberneckers already facing serious heat, I should to get to the office and put out the fire before Austin does something stupid to stoke the flames.

My stomach twists with reluctance.

If I leave now, will this be last time I see Lucas? Shouldn’t it mean something that when we got out of the hot tub, he led me to his bed? That I stayed the night, cradled in his comforting arms? Or that he’s willing, and ready, to fuck me again and again? His hard cock presses against my thigh.

Give your head a shake, Eden.

As usual, I’m reading too much into the situation, leaning on unrealistic fantasies. I don’t even know Lucas’s last name. He could be a serial killer, or married—fuck me, I pray he isn’t married. I try to remember if I saw even a faint circle around his ring finger, but thinking about his hands—his strong, capable hands—just fires up my libido again. Ridiculous.

“I should probably get ready for work,” I say. “I have that nasty employee to deal with. And, I’ll have to go home first—” My cheeks burn at the memory of my discarded blouse, probably still at the front door, torn and stained with Austin’s blood. “—and, um, put on some clean clothes.”

Lucas chuckles. “I took the liberty of having someone deliver a new outfit. I trust it will meet your approval.”

My throat closes in. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s my fault your blouse is ruined.” His eyebrows narrow, and he bites his lower lip. I inhale, breathe out. He’s got more than the fight on his mind, because while Austin’s blood may have soiled my shirt, it was the way Lucas pawed at me that resulted in it being ripped. Urgent, almost animalistic, like a man consumed.

My voice turns embarrassingly dreamy. “Who are you?”

His lip curls up in a sexy smirk. “International man of mystery.”

I shuffle position to sit upright and smile. “I’m pretty sure that title is taken.”

“How do you know that isn’t me?”

Touché. The warmth in my belly spreads throughout my body. I’m positive I must be glowing from the inside out. “Well, there’s nothing mysterious about me.” I pull the satin sheets up over my chest and wriggle my butt so it’s up against the ornate headboard. My fingers find their way to Lucas’ hair, and I draw absent circles through the tight curls that are no longer tamed by his ball cap. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something familiar about this man—or maybe I’m just daydreaming, pretending that he’s somehow stepped right from my most secret fantasies and into reality.

I squeeze my eyes shut and smile, silently chastising my naivety, grateful Lucas can’t read my thoughts. What would he think?

He peers up at me, curious, amused. “What are you grinning about?”

Tattoos and scars aside, there’s something vulnerable about Lucas. A dull ache creeps across my chest, like phantom sympathy for pains I yearn to know more about.

I shake my head. “Never mind. It’s just—” Ridiculous, I think. Jesus. I’m being so silly. Allowing my fictional dreams to play out with a hot guy who probably just wanted to get laid. Bad things happen when my overactive imagination is allowed to run loose. “I think I’ve read way too many books.”

Lucas rolls over on his side and rests his hand on my stomach. I’m sure he can feel the fluttering of a million butterflies awakening. He props his head on his elbow, and his eyes darken. “Any scenes you’d like to act out?”

My face goes hot. “I think we already took care of that.”

I blink, trying to reset my balance, certain we’re not at all on the same emotional page. Lucas is still thinking about this as sex—just sex—while my traitorous feelings have begun to unfold with alarming speed. I need to staunch them now, while I still have some semblance of control.

“Maybe we need to create new scenes then,” he says, skillfully derailing my plan. “You could write them…”

“How did you know I’m a writer?”

Our dialogue over the last eight hours has been reduced to grunts, come-ons, and flirtatious teasing—I’ve not revealed one personal thing about myself. And whatever I know of Lucas is a culmination of assumptions based on my observations of his environment. I’m a trained reporter, with a keen eye for detail. The luxurious apartment, juxtaposed against the hoodie puddled on the garden terrace deck; the collection of metal music t-shirts and rock paraphernalia on his walls, in sharp contrast with the crisply pressed suits I caught sight of hanging in the closet—it all tells me that Lucas is a complex man, and my gut says he’s hiding, or running, from something.

Isn’t that how our fates intertwined?

His eyebrow rises. “I didn’t, actually. But now I know something else about you. Fiction or…?”

I smile, thinking about the half dozen partially finished manuscripts tucked in my desk drawer, most of them hopeless romance with guys that look, act, talk just like Lucas. No wonder I’m tongue-tied with lust—it’s like my muse has magically come to life.

“Just a journalist.”

Maybe it’s my overactive imagination, but the instant I say the words, it’s like the air in the room shifts. Tenses. My reporter instincts go on high alert, and suddenly I’m thrust into defensive mode. “I don’t work for the National Inquirer or anything like that.” Though, Rubberneckers is fast degrading into the kind of tabloid journalism that I loathe.

Lucas’s muscles relax a little, giving me more reason to suspect he hasn’t been entirely above board with me. And why should he? Did I think that just because he’s tasted my pussy I’ve earned full access to his personal life?

“Let me guess…” Lucas strokes the light stubble across his chin. “Fashion?”

I out loud laugh. “God, no. I’m the least put together person in the world.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem that way to me last night.”

I refrain from admitting that the skirt and blouse combination I pulled off yesterday was a result of pairing the two most expensive items in my limited wardrobe. The Rubberneckers dress code is generally more lax, but we’d just met with our lawyer and I needed to feel professional. In control. Even if my insides were—are—a twisted tangle of fear.

“You caught me on a good day,” I say. My gaze falls to the window, where outside the sun has begun to rise above the distant Manhattan skyscrapers. It’s an hour trek to work from here, and every second counts. Still, I’m reluctant to leave the warmth of Lucas’ bed. I curl under the thick duvet, twirling my legs around the satin sheets. “Actually, my friends and I co-publish a tech and finance magazine. It’s called Rubberneckers, kind of a mix between Gawker and Wired.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Lucas says, stiffly.

No mistaking it this time, the vibe between us takes another abrupt shift. The veins in his neck tighten into thick cords, making the scorpion tattoo on his neck appear almost three-dimensional, alive and somehow irritated.

Lucas’s clear annoyance—disappointment?—now hovers like a dark cloud, and whatever pride I’ve felt in Rubberneckers, my company, even myself, begins to shrivel under the near claustrophobic tension that ripples through the room. True, the magazine began as a joke, a satirical insider gossip blog we started in college for an assignment. But we’ve made something out of it. Turned it into a real business that earns us, if not respect, a decent living.

An income that is now threatened by a lawsuit we simply don’t have the resources to fight. My reality starts to spin out of control in my mind.

Marnie always said we’d piss off the wrong “suit” someday, but none of us imagined these kinds of consequences, which is probably clear indication of our youth. We’re amateurs. More savvy entrepreneurs would have thought it through better, would have employed a Plan B.

This is the kind of preaching I expect any second from Lucas, which is why I clam up, knowing better than to further discuss business with him. Talk about anything at all, actually. It’s obvious whatever connection I thought Lucas and I might have has vanished like a puff of smoke.

He shuffles a little so that we’re no longer touching. My skin cools so fast I’m almost worried about catching a chill. Without a word, he swings his legs over the side of the mattress, and presses his palms down on the bed. “You’re welcome to use the shower.” There’s an awkward beat of silence, and then, “I’ll have my driver pick you up and take you to your apartment.”

The cool dismissal stings.

Grateful his back is turned to me, I blink back a tear and gather my composure. We were heading this way all along, I recognize now. It was Lucas’ intensity—his seasick-making sexiness and smooth lines—that steered me off course at first. But now it’s all coming into sharp focus and I blush at my naïve fantasies of a Happily Ever After that can never, will never, be.

No matter how hard I’ve worked to make Rubberneckers a true business, it’s probably a joke to someone like Lucas. A man, who by my keen observation, has expensive tastes and the means to satisfy his needs, no matter how frivolous. How did I miss all of this last night?

My chest squeezes with unexpected pain. Because it was all a façade. Lucas saw what he wanted to see—a damsel he could save, an easy mark, a puppet for him to manipulate. I pretended to be those things too, but in the bright light of morning, it’s clear the charade must end. Has ended. There’s no point in denying it, because Lucas doesn’t even bother to say goodbye as he walks from the bedroom to the oversized en-suite and closes the door, effectively shutting me out.

The bathroom locks with a click, and seconds later, the shower turns on.

I wait a beat, watching as steam rises out from under the door, until it’s obvious that I’ve been dismissed, cast aside like a cheap whore.

Well fuck that.

And fuck him.

Suddenly, I am desperate to leave.