“I think I should apologize for having you dress up to eat Mexican food in my living room.” We ordered dinner, and he made margaritas, my favorite. I’m stuffed and satisfied.

“This is perfect.” He’s on the cushion next to me. His thigh lightly resting against mine. I pour Dylan a shot of tequila.

“Have you heard back from Jack?” He throws it back and pours me another.

I shake my head with the glass approaching my mouth. No Jack, my boss, has not made the announcement and time is ticking. I set goals. I achieve them. It’s my MO.

He downs another shot and turns to me with agitation across his beautiful face. “You’ve earned them billions. You’ll get the promotion.” His faith in my work never falters. “We all know you live for BrandShare. They’d be fools not to give you the position.”

“Yeah.” This is one of those moments when I wish I were one of the guys. And Dylan could understand how I can do the work to earn the position, yet not get the position.

Dylan is one of the boys. Not at my office, of course, but in life. The type of man with a commanding presence that appeals to both men and women. Men want to associate with him, women want him in their beds. Hell, he got me in his house without breaking a sweat.

BrandShare provides the clients, I close the deals with a massive one-two punch. I devote all my time—on the clock and off—to my clients. As a result, I return to my beautifully furnished home day after day, night after night, alone. Dylan’s right, BrandShare is my life.

But I’m not one of the guys. They golf. They entertain executives at strip clubs. There is only so much I can do. To offset all of their male bonding I work my ass off, bringing a unique eye, creativity, and my willingness to go the extra mile.

It’s my edge. My superpower. But this wait seems different.

I gave it my all. What if my all isn’t enough? I down another shot.

I’m asking my bosses to step outside the mold and bring on a female, biracial partner. The youngest in the history of the firm. If they decide, no, when they decide to make the offer I will be the first Black, first Korean, first woman and first partner under the age of thirty in one swoop.

Are they ready to take that on? Take me on? What if they give the corner office and partnership to Eric? I throw back another shot with Dylan’s knowing eyes watching me.

“How can you drink this, it burns?” My throat is on fire, and I’m ready to change the subject. “That’s the last one for me.” He laughs as I lean an arm against the back of the couch, every muscle in my body relaxed. I turn to him curling my feet beneath me. “I recall you mentioning a gift.”

“I’ll go grab it.” He sits forward then leans across and kisses me. “Don’t move.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” He’s relaxed with several buttons undone and his signature decorative socks. He always dressed to rival the best high-end model yet on his feet he always has the funkiest socks. He probably owns thousands. He disappears into a room off to the side and returns just as quick.

“It’s not what you think it is, but it’s not what it may look like.” I raise a brow at his cryptic spill. Dylan sits on the edge of the couch with a small box in the palm of his hand, there’s a hopeful glint in his eyes. I smile at his nervous laugh.

“I remember one summer. We were, I don’t know, sixteen or so.” Running a hand over his face and then through his hair. “Anyway, you blackmailed us—”

“I what?” My mind spins as the little black box rests between us.

“You blackmailed us. Do you know how much we paid for those summer camp fees? Hell, I think you owe me at least ten thousand dollars.” He’s probably right.

“Cry baby cry, wipe your weeping eyes.” I hold my stomach laughing. “Open it.”

“Just a second.” He holds a hand up, laughing with me. “You saw a jewelry catalog and there was a pair of earrings.” He faces me and opens the box, diamond studs sparkle against the velvet.

I can’t stop smiling as I hold back tears. I’m not the crying type, but he remembered.

“I saved all summer,” he removes an earring from the box, “after paying off my blackmailer.”

I slap his arm. He removes my hoop earring and places it on the table. Then he adds the diamond stud. I recall his words wrapping my hands around his wrist. “Dylan, how long have you had these?”

He breaks eye contact reaching for the other earring. “Ten years.”

My heart skips a beat, or two.

“Dylan.” I grab his face enjoying the tickle of his beard beneath my hands. I hear warning sounds in my head, but his eyes quiet the voice. I capture his mouth in a deep kiss and our tongues dance as I try to satisfy the unquenchable thirst resurfacing with his confession.

Ten years.

A desire I tucked away, long ago, when all I wanted was to be Dylan’s girl.

His strong arm snakes around my waist pulling me across the couch in a cocoon of tequila and Dylan. Strong, bold, protective. Not aggressive, yet not passive as his mouth introduces me to the man behind my childhood fantasies. I wrap my arms around his neck, not wanting the slightest gap between our bodies, crushing my now aching breast against his rock hard chest. My fingers rake through his hair as I find myself flat on my back and the heat in the room increases, igniting a fire guaranteed to change everything between us.

His kisses move from my moist mouth to the hollow of my neck. And he uses his tongue to retrace the steps his fingers traveled down my body necklace leaving a trail to the infirmary between my thighs. I shift slightly, and he’s perfectly nestled between my legs.

“Baby girl….” It sounds like a mix of a growl and a plea. Dylan pushes up and hangs over me, our breathing in sync—rapid, heavy, thick. The denim blue in his eyes gives me a clear indication that he is affected by our kissing too. His eyes snap closed.

The thought of having this well-controlled man on the brink of losing it increases the rhythm of my heart several notches. To see him mature from wimpy kid to awkward preteen, to dashing teen, now he is an irresistible man that I should leave alone. But his messy hair and flush moist skin make it hard to say no.

I run my hands up his chest. My fingers slightly shaking as I unfasten the small buttons on his shirt. His large hands massage my inner thighs as his fingers brush my satin panties, my back arching encouraged by the slightest touch from him.

I yank the hem of his dress shirt and undershirt free, reaching for his belt and he sits back with his head facing the ceiling. My brain is mixed with need and tequila, and neither want this feeling to end. Not without completion.

“Why’d you stop?” I sit up and rest on my elbows. My dress is around my hips and we look like the most scandalous picture.

“It is the hardest thing I’ve had to do. In life.” His eyes find mine and I believe him. Knowing I place that look in his eyes only makes me more eager to continue. I reach for his pants and notice the obvious bulge and smile up at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” I tease. “Are we not celebrating my birthday?”

“Yes. We are.”

“And, am I not the birthday girl?”

“Technically—”

“Yes or no Mr. Jameson.” I slide my hands beneath his undershirt and I hear that heavenly groan again. It is lighting fuel to my fire.

“Yes,” he says between clenched teeth. I run my hands over his washboard abs and his manhood jumps in my direction. I giggle. And he growls again.

“We’re celebrating. I’m the birthday girl. I want you to finish what we’ve started.”

“Baby girl I ain’t what you’re used to, I play for keeps.”

His gaze shifts from agony to predatory and my inner voice is telling me to pull down your dress and run!

“So before I ruin your beautiful dress and erase your memory of any man you’ve ever been with, count the cost.”

“Mr. Jameson,” I lean forward, “that sounds like a threat.”

The storm raging in his eyes should warn me that playing with this man is a no-no but the chance of him losing control, with me, makes me feel risky. And the only clear thought I can pluck from my discombobulated mind is, for keeps means I’d finally be Dylan’s girl.

Either this is exactly what I’ve always wanted or I need to stay far far away from tequila. Or both.

“Let me help you decide.” Dylan crawls up my body until I’m flat on my back again. He anchors a hand over my head and the other briefly brushes my panties before slipping past the elastic. His thumb finds the source of my ache, I squeeze my thighs trying to back away. “Oh no, you don’t.”

I reach for his shirt to hold on to anything for leverage as my heels dig into the couch. And then a finger slips in.

“Dylan—”

“No, baby girl, this is what you wanted. Isn’t it?”

I nod like a maniac as the intensity increases. The feeling of tiny marching ants leaving little love bites on my exposed skin. His fingers rock inside me and his thumb massages the button granting access to ecstasy and I. Can’t. Breath.

Gasping. Begging. Pleading. My vibrato quickly turns to putty in his skilled hands. Gripping fistfuls of his shirt I ride as if my life depends on it. And then with some sort of witchery, he pushes my dress aside and latches on to my right breast. It stings just right urging me closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Ride it, baby. Give in to it.” His mouth brushes against my ear casting a spell over my body as he strokes me. Deeper, and deeper. I’m on the brink of free falling and I tell him so.

“Baby that will be the sweetest gift.” He bites my nipple and everything goes white as heat courses through my body. No stars. No moon. Just Dylan. And I surrender, screaming his name right before his mouth captures my hoarse cry.

What was that? And can we do it again?