Bryan reached her doorstep five minutes early, bottle of wine under one arm, bags of Chinese take-out in the other. He’d made the right assumption about her wealth. She lived in an expensive suburb, her complex surrounded by manicured gardens and an impressive security system.

It got him thinking about where she got the money. It was either Daddy’s or the dead husband’s. You didn’t get digs like this on a barista’s paycheck.

He knocked on her door with a gentle knuckle, knowing she’d already be waiting after having to buzz him into the building.

Seconds later, the door opened and Ella stood before him, one hand clutching the handle as she rocked a loose grey shirt and a pair of cotton, sporty short-shorts.

“You found the place easy enough?”

“No problem at all.”

He hadn’t expected this—her no-fucks-given attire, the lack of seduction. She dressed simple. Carefree. There was no hint of her trying to impress him, and funnily enough, she had anyway. He couldn’t even smell perfume. Only the faint hint of citrus soap mingling with the Asian spices wafting from their dinner.

“Something wrong?” She frowned, her questioning eyes reading him.

“I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived.”

“You thought you’d get lingerie and scented candles?” She nailed it with a smile. A cute, light-hearted lift of sweet lips. “Let me remind you, you’re not the stud you think you are. I get that you’re the king of orgasms in the Vault. But out here, in the real world, you’re kind of a dick.”

“So you keep telling me.” He held up the bags containing their dinner. “You going to let me in before this gets cold?”

“Oh, sorry.” She stepped back, sweeping her hand to the apartment behind her as if he were royalty. “I guess I was expecting you to pound your chest and demand entry.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

Her apartment was pristine. Nothing out of place. Pillows lined her brown leather sofa. Magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table. The carpet had fresh vacuum marks, the furniture was polished. She had her shit together, at least better than he did.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“Dinner table.”

He continued ahead to the open dining and kitchen area, placing the food and wine on the large wooden setting.

Ella busied herself riffling through cupboards and drawers, then came to stand beside him with plates and cutlery. “Do you think you ordered enough?” Her sarcasm was rich as she helped him place the containers in the middle of the table.

Truth was, he hadn’t known what she’d like. He didn’t even know if she enjoyed Chinese food, so he’d ordered a variety to satisfy every palate. “You can’t order Chinese without leaving enough for leftovers. They’re the best part.”

She nodded, buying his bullshit. “What would you like to drink? I don’t have beer, but I have some of Lucas’s scotch and bourbon hidden in the kitchen somewhere.”

“I’m happy to share the wine with you.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Sure.”

“Something wrong?” he mocked, taking on the same tone she’d used earlier.

“Yeah. You’re being nice.”

“How?”

“The wine. The mass of Chinese food. What gives?”

She was right. This moment escaped his typical normality, but he wasn’t willing to admit how badly he needed her to smooth things over at the Vault.

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing nice about it. I’m starving, and I need as much alcohol to get through this as you do.”

“And there he is, the Brute I’ve come to know and despise.” She slid into her seat across the table, dragging a plate and cutlery in front of her. “But you know what? I think you’re making excuses, because deep down you think I’m super-dooper awesome.” She waggled her perfectly manicured brows.

He couldn’t tell if her pretty smile was annoying, or way too endearing. Either way, it had an effect on his chest he wasn’t used to. And he was surprised her laugh didn’t make him want to shudder. “You’re not too bad.”

She chuckled and dished food onto her plate while he poured the wine. They didn’t talk for long moments. Strangely enough, they didn’t need to. He had no desire to fill the silence. And going by the pleased look on her face, she had no problem with the absence of conversation, either.

While they ate, he took the time to read her. Finding out tiny snippets of her character with the visual sweep. She chewed slowly. Unrushed bites with dazed contemplation. She didn’t gulp at her wine as if consumed with nervousness. She didn’t fidget or fiddle. Despite having a low tolerance to his attitude, she seemed to feel comfortable with him.

“Have you lived here long?” He had a sudden urge to learn more. To dig deeper.

“About a year.”

“And you’ve been a widow for how long?”

Her fork slipped, missing food and splashing sauce onto the table. She stared at the dark brown droplet now marring the wood and frowned. “Long enough.”

The vibrancy of her eyes turned bleak. Her smile faded, and in its place, sorrow grew. She cleared her throat and ran a lazy finger over the dribble, bringing the liquid to her lips to lick away the mess. For a second, he became mesmerized by her far-off contemplation. She was emotionally bare, her pain almost tangible.

He shouldn’t push, and not merely due to manners. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression and make her think he gave a shit. But he needed answers, for no other reason than to understand who this woman was.

“How long were you married?”

She reached for her wine, dragging out the seconds as she took a long gulp. “Eleven months.”

“You must’ve been young.” He was fishing for answers because he hadn’t had time to re-read the finer details of her file when he snooped for her café address.

She barked out a laugh. “How old do you think I am?”

Good question. Tricky question.

He scrutinized her—the young eyes, the ruby lips. She didn’t have a wrinkle in sight, yet she grasped her sexuality like a woman far older than her appearance suggested.

“Late twenties?”

Her mouth quirked and he had the sudden urge to kiss her. There was no romance about it. He wasn’t interested in a chaste kiss. What he pictured was something harsh and unforgiving. Something dirty to wash away the tainted widow.

“You just earned yourself a gold star.” She placed her fork on her plate and inched them both toward the middle of the table.

“I’m right?”

“No. But I’ll take it as a compliment.” She pushed to her feet. “Do you want seconds, or should I put the containers in the fridge?”

“I’m good.” Too good.

He enjoyed knowing they were closer in age than he’d previously assumed. But again, the added information only increased the need for more. He wanted to know everything. Was she still hung up on the love of a dead man? How had she found his sex club? And how did she plan to sate her sexuality if she didn’t return to the Vault?

He shoved the last piece of honey chicken into his mouth as she stacked containers back into the bag. Her loose top gaped at the front, the fucking brilliant view of her bra-covered tits staring him right in the face.

From any other woman, he would’ve considered the act a blatant attempt at seduction. From Ella, he didn’t get that vibe at all. She was oblivious to her temptation and confident enough in her own right not to be embarrassed about a glimpse of intimate skin. It was clear she also had no clue of the filthy thoughts rapidly building in his mind—the need to prove her wrong, to make her fully aware of the control he could gain over her body. He wanted to have her pussy clamping around his fingers. Her thighs clenching around his head. Her lips parting to call his name, louder than she’d ever called before.

Because that was what he was good at.

The only thing he was good at.

He snatched the wine bottle from beside her and filled their glasses. The comfortable silence had turned chaotic. A hint of panic tinged the air, or maybe it only lingered in his blood.

“How many times have you done this?” He needed to know where he ranked on the list. What was his number in the line?

“Had wine and Chinese food?” She didn’t meet his gaze as she lifted the bag and made for the kitchen.

“Brought someone from the club back to your apartment?”

She shrugged. “This is the first time I’ve had any man in my apartment.”

“The first?” He followed, dirty dish and full wine glass in hand. “I thought Shay said you’d been a widow for years.”

“And now you’re taking the invitation as a compliment?” She opened the fridge, shooting him an unimpressed glance over the top of the door as she placed the food inside. “Don’t. Believe me, you’re not special. I just haven’t had much luck with men since Lucas passed.”

With every insult, he struggled to hide his smirk. Her compounding disinterest had the opposite effect on him. A dangerous effect. For once, he felt a strange pull for more.

“Maybe that will change after the demonstration night.”

She closed the fridge and came toward him, taking the plate from his hands to place it in the sink. “You’ve gotta get me there first, bucko.”

“I guess you’re ready for me to prove my worth. Tell me where you want to do this and we’ll get started.”

“Now?” She turned from the sink, her eyes wide. “God, no. I just ate a truckload of food. Unless you have a pregnancy fetish, you’re going to have to wait until my belly settles.”

No, no pregnancy fetish, but he was starting to think he had a thing for kitchens.

He could picture her bent over the sink. Slammed up against the fridge. Splayed on the counter. He didn’t want to wait. He had to get this over and done with before his needs became demands.

“Can we sit for a while?” She made for the dining table to claim her wine glass, bringing a waft of heavenly scented citrus air as she scooted past. “I’ve been on my feet all day.”

He huffed. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Her responding chuckle only increased his annoyance.

“Is it going to threaten your bachelor status if we sit side by side on the sofa?”

“Doesn’t worry me in the slightest.”

“Liar.” Her mouth curved in a knowing smile, the wine glass raising to those tempting lips. “I knew being here would make you uncomfortable.”

“We’ll see who’s uncomfortable once you’re naked and writhing. I figure the apology you’re going to owe me for doubting my skills will be hard to spit out.”

“I’m never going to apologize for not being endeared by your shitty attitude.” She strode into the living room, an added sway to those hips. “If you can work any sort of magic it will merely be a payoff for the crap you’ve put me through.”

His gaze strayed to her ass encased in those tiny sports shorts. If anyone was going through crap, it was him. He was the one who had to figure out how to get her off while holding his own lust in check. Lust that rapidly morphed into a driving force.

He followed her, choosing to stand by the stacked bookshelf while she lazily slumped onto the three-seater sofa. She kicked her feet onto the coffee table, spreading long, smooth legs before him like an appetizer.

“So…” He turned to the bookshelf, taking in the middle shelf stacked wall to wall with cancer information. A cold ache formed under his sternum at the thought of the nightmare his parents were enduring. He wanted to familiarize himself with their suffering, to pretend he was involved somehow. “That’s a lot of books.”

There were emotional titles—When Breath Becomes Air, Everyday Strength, and How to Help Someone with Cancer. Research titles—Radical Remission, What You Need to Know About Cancer, The Facts 101. Even those that promoted alternate therapies.

“Lucas had terminal cancer.”

He’d guessed as much. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

He pulled a title from the shelf and stared at the couple on the cover—Supporting Someone with Cancer: A Loved One’s Guide.

He wondered if his father had this book filed neatly on their perfect shelf back in Tampa. Had he purchased all these titles for the woman who made his life worthwhile?

“How much time did you have with your husband after his diagnosis?”

“Eleven months.”

He frowned and shoved the book back into place. “I thought you said you were married for eleven months.”

“I did.” She sipped from her glass, her eyes trained on his. “It’s a long story.”

“Do you mind if I ask what it’s like?”

“Cancer?” Her forehead wrinkled.

“Yeah. What’s the process? The end game?”

Her mouth opened and closed. Her eyes remained wide.

“Sorry, is that a shitty question?”

She snorted through a sip of wine, then placed the glass down on the coffee table. “I guess it depends why you’re asking.”

He could’ve given a lame excuse. He could’ve lied. “My mother has terminal cancer.”

“Oh, Bryan. I’m so sorry.” Her face scrunched with genuine sympathy, masking all her beauty and replacing it with pathetic emotion.

“Don’t be.” He stepped over her legs and took a seat beside her. “We’re not close.”

“But still, she’s your mother. The news must be devastating.”

The fact his mother had withheld the information from her only son was more traumatic.

“Feel free to take any of the books home with you. They’re no use to me anymore.”

“No. I’m good.” He could ask a question or two to feel connected to a family who disowned him, but he refused to spend hours researching his mother’s downfall. He never should’ve mentioned her in the first place.

“Well, I’ll leave the offer open if you change your mind.” Her voice turned somber, her expression, too. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of them for years. Having the reminder stare me in the face every day is getting a little old.”

“Thanks.” He concentrated on her fingers, noticing how they dug deeper and deeper into the sole of her foot, as if trying to massage the pain away.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She flashed him a look, one that told him she’d battle through this painful conversation, if only for his benefit.

“No.” He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Okay. I get it.” She flexed her feet, feigning relaxation. “So, tell me, why a class?” The pain didn’t leave her features as she blatantly changed the subject. “What will you get out of it?”

“Satisfaction.” At least that’s what he’d told himself in the planning stages. He’d wanted to tweak the club on the most intimate level. To mold the greedy Vault patrons into more selfless participants.

But that aim didn’t hold his interest anymore. Now, the only thing he wanted from the demonstration night was a one-way ticket between Ella’s thighs. To sink under her skin, the same way she was crawling under his.

“I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“That’s exactly my point. You don’t seem the type to willingly help others for the sake of it. And you already have a posse who think you’re the messiah of the female orgasm.”

“You’ve got me pegged. After what? Two conversations?”

Her lips curved, the grief gradually seeping away. “Don’t you think I deserve to know, considering I’m contemplating helping you?”

“Helping me? We both know this is mutually beneficial.” He jerked his chin toward her feet and indicated for her to lift them in his direction with a crook of his hand.

She frowned, remaining immobile.

He slapped his lap, trying not to make a big deal out of the offer. He wouldn’t be able to stop fixating on his parents until she stopped thinking about her husband. And neither thought process was conducive for what he had planned. “Put your feet up here.”

Her lips worked over silent contemplation until finally she turned on the sofa, placing her heels on his thighs. “Your fixation on this being mutually beneficial is a load of bull. It’s not like I can’t get an orgasm without you. I can do the work myself.”

“And you’re satisfied with that? You don’t need a guy to break the monotony?” No matter how she responded, he knew the truth. A woman with her sexuality and passion could never be entirely satisfied with masturbation. It might dull the ache, but she needed to be fucked. There was no substitute for skin on skin.

“I have toys.”

He didn’t appreciate the visual. Actually, his body appreciated it too damn much. His cock stirred, the hard length nudging against her heel. “I’d like to see that.”

“I know,” she drawled. “And you wouldn’t be the only one.”

No doubt. He could sell tickets at the Vault and pack the room with willing voyeurs. She’d enjoy it, too. This woman would love to be the center of innumerable fantasies. She deserved to be.

He grabbed one of her feet, distracting himself as he worked his thumb along her inner sole.

“Oh, God.” She groaned. “That feels good.”

Shit.

As far as distractions went, this one was counterproductive. Her throaty moans and the arching of her back made his cock push harder against his zipper. And those toenails. Jesus. He’d never spent much time admiring a woman’s feet. It wasn’t his kink. But he understood it now.

Those dainty, delicate toes.

The feminine light pink polish.

He was in fucking trouble.

How many men came home to this every day? A beautiful woman. A nice meal. Light-hearted conversation. And the promise of a sweaty, energetic fuck.

“I don’t get you, Bryan.”

Not surprising. He didn’t understand himself. Maybe they could work out his insanity together. “What’s not to get?”

“You bought me dinner and wine. You’re being kind. Well, way beyond civil, anyway. And now you’re massaging my feet.”

His skin itched with the influx of reality. He’d stopped pretending this woman annoyed him sometime in the last hour. Probably earlier. This afternoon could’ve been the culprit.

He shrugged it off, determined to snap back on track. “You’re not a vulture. It gives me the freedom to relax.”

“So, this is the real Bryan?” She scrutinized him, her brows pulled tight. “Far from the brute who torments everyone?”

“I don’t torment anyone. Neither do I pretend to be someone I’m not.” Not really. He lowered his focus to her feet, gently curling her toes under. “This is me. And the guy you met at the Vault is, too.”

She remained quiet, and he didn’t dare look at her to fill the void.

“I’m not an asshole, Ella. Not entirely. I just have a low tolerance for bullshit.”

She tilted her head, pondering, and he knew exactly what skittered through her mind. He knew it even before she opened her mouth. “Why El—”

“Are you ready to get started?” He tapped her ankles, indicating for her to move. He liked her, but not enough to field questions about his reluctance to say her name.

“Ahh. Sure.” She placed her feet on the floor and sat up straight. “How do you want to do this?”

“Let’s start with where.”

“The bedroom?” Her face remained impassive. “Just in case I get bored and want to take a nap.” Her lips twitched, breaking the tension building in his chest.

“The bedroom, it is.” He stood, offering her a hand. “And don’t worry—you won’t be nodding off any time soon.”