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  She laughs and moans at the same time. “You’re crazy.”

  “No, I’m just fucking turned on beyond anything I’ve ever felt,” I say, my voice rough, as I start to pump.

  She’s silent suddenly. No, moans, no cries, no wild pants. A small but clear voice asks, “Really?”

  She cranes her neck to look up at me. My God, she’s all vulnerable, her eyes so trusting, her body bent in a downward slide. “Yes,” I answer as I slam into her, giving her all of me. My hands clamp tightly to her hips. “I swear, Charlotte. You fucking do something to me.” I pull back out of her so only the tip is in. She writhes, trying to draw me back. “You drive me wild. You make me crazy.” I thrust deeply, and her breath spills out in a gorgeous moan. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

  “Oh God, I feel the same,” she says, and bends lower, lifting higher, offering more.

  She’s all I want. All of her, as I fuck her like this until she comes in a frenzy of sound and heated cries. My muscles tighten, my vision blurs, and my own climax seizes my body as bright, hot pleasure crashes over me.

  I flop down onto the bed, and she flops next to me. Resting her head in the crook of my arm, she stays like that—hot, sweaty, and naked. Absently I run my fingers through her hair. She brushes her hand across my stomach.

  “That was amazing,” she murmurs. “I think that was our best ever. I’m going to give you a gold star for excellence in orgasm delivery. A statue even.”

  “I’d like to thank the Academy,” I begin, teasing her.

  She swats my chest. “So you were faking it? Fine, so was I,” she says with a huff.

  In an instant, I’m on my hands and knees, pinning her. “No, you were not faking it.”

  Her eyes taunt me. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “You weren’t. But just for that comment, you’re going to show me how much you like it when I fuck you.” In a flash I raise her wrists over her head, and lower my arm along the side of the bed, feeling for her dress on the floor. I grab it and yank off the ribbon from the belt loops with one hand.

  I wrap it around her slender wrists then around a bed post. Her eyes track my hands the whole time as I tighten the pink fabric. “Pretty in pink,” I murmur, then I run my fingertip against her lips.

  I locate another condom and roll it on my dick. Yes, I’m fucking hard again. How could I not be? She’s tied to my bed, still wet from her first two orgasms. Of course I’m fucking erect. I spread her legs, savoring the sight in front of me—her legs in a V, her hands bound, her eyes wide open.

  I wedge myself between her thighs. “Now, you’re going to beg for it.”

  “I am?”

  “You are,” I say roughly. “Because you’re not getting all of it until you do.”

  I slide in but I only give her a few inches. I lower to my elbows so I’m close to her and proceed to slow-fuck her for the next several minutes, teasing her the whole time, never going all the way in. She moans and writhes and rocks beneath me, every thrust eliciting a new sexy murmur from her.

  “Say it. Say how much you want me.”

  “I wasn’t faking it. I was joking when I said that,” she says on a pant.

  “Tell me how much you want it all. Tell me how much you want all of my cock.”

  Her hips shoot up. “I want you. I want you so much. Fuck me deep. I’m begging you,” she cries, and she is begging, and it is exquisite to witness her desperate sexiness.

  I fuck her hard and deep, until she is out of her mind with pleasure. Until her cries turn hoarse. Until her eyes squeeze shut. Until she can’t stop saying my name as she falls apart once more. Multiple orgasms sound pretty damn good to me, too, so I join her, coming again with a shudder that jolts my whole body.

  When I untie her, she raises a hand to my hair, drags it through, and kisses me. “I lied. That was the best time ever.”

  “It gets better every time,” I say softly.

  Soon, she stands and starts to gather her clothes. Spinning in a circle, she hunts for something on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

  “Getting dressed.”

  “Pourquoi?”

  “So I can go. Isn’t that the deal?”

  I crawl to the edge of the bed and tackle her, arms around her waist, surprising her.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieks.

  I toss her on the mattress and tickle her.

  She cracks up. “Stop it.”

  I don’t relent. My fingertips race up her sides, making her squirm. “I’ll stop if you spend the night.”

  “Mercy, mercy,” she calls out, and she’s smiling, as wide as the sea of stars in the sky.

  I tug her to me, brush her hair away from her ear, and then whisper, “Will you stay?”

  Her breath hitches. “Yes. You don’t care if we break another ground rule?”

  “We’re still ahead. I mean, I don’t care, so long as you don’t try to kiss me the second you wake up.”

  “Because of morning breath, right?”

  I nod. “Not yours. Just in general.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Morning breath is an excellent new ground rule. I hate morning breath.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I don’t have a toothbrush, though.”

  “I have an extra one. Never been used,” I tell her.

  She places her index finger on her lips as if she’s weighing all the options. “But what flavor toothpaste do you have?”

  A blush creeps across my cheeks.

  She notices and points. “Don’t tell me you use bubblegum Crest?”

  I shake my head. “No. I bought the kind you like. The minty Crest.”

  Her eyes sparkle, and she brings a hand to her chest. It’s the sweetest thing. “You bought me toothpaste.”

  She sounds happier than when I bought her the ring. My heart beats faster, and words start to form on my tongue. Words that reveal strange new feelings inside me. I part my lips so I can say something. Tell her how much I am starting to feel for her. How real it is all becoming.

  I stop when she lowers her mouth to mine and whispers, “You really are my best friend.”

  Friends.

  Yes. That’s all she wants to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Harper licks lemon ice cream in a cone.

  “This doesn’t make up for Santa,” she says, pointing at the treat as we leave her favorite gelato vendor. “But it’s a good start, and you’ve bought my silence for another few days.”

  “Good. That’s all I need.”

  “Saw the picture of you and Charlotte this morning.” She nudges me as we walk along Central Park, en route to a quick softball practice with our team’s star slugger, Nick. The three of us snagged the field for thirty minutes on a Friday afternoon before the actual game tomorrow. I’ve got my glove and bat, and Harper has her glove in her free hand.

  “You really can’t stay away from me online, can you?” I tease her.

  “I know. It’s a terrible addiction I have, my gossip fetish.”

  “So it ran? The one from Sardi’s?” I ask, confirming what I suspected Abe would do.

  “Yup.”

  “That reporter from Metropolis is such a tool.”

  She furrows her brow as she licks the icy treat. “Wasn’t in Metropolis.”

  As we turn into the park, I ask, “Well, where was it?”

  She shakes her head, bemused. “I really can’t believe you don’t look this stuff up about yourself.”

  “Believe it. I don’t. Never have. Tell me.”

  “It was Page Six.”

  My eyes widen. Page Six is the big New York gossip outlet. I try to avoid Page Six.

  “How’d that happen? I thought he worked for Metropolis Life and Times.”

  “He’s an intern there,” Harper says. “Abe Kaufman. I looked him up. He’s in journalism school at Columbia, so he freelances for Metropolis Life and Times as well as Page Six. Looks like he sold the picture of
the two of you to more gossip-centric one.”

  What a tenacious fucker.

  I consider the benefits. If I’m seen on Page Six with my loving fiancée, this could be key placement for Dad for the sale. Mr. Offerman would wet his pants to see me appear like the good, solid, soon-to-be-married son of the respected businessman he’s buying the store from. “What did it say?” I ask hopefully.

  She stops on the path, shoves her glove at me, and whips out her phone. She clears her throat. “Ahem. Spencer Holiday, son of the founder of the well-known jewelry chain Katharine’s, and creator of the popular dating app Boyfriend Material, known for its lack of photos of a certain member of the male anatomy, is betrothed to his business partner and co-owner of the popular bar chain, The Lucky Spot. Charlotte Rhodes is also a Yale graduate, and the ring on her finger is as large as Holiday’s little black book. Looks like he’ll have to burn that list of numbers soon, since the one-time bachelor playboy was using it a few weeks ago. Time to zip it up, Holiday! Check back on Sunday for even more juicy photos and the full story on the engagement.”

  Smoke billows out my eyes. I want to find that horse-faced, cub reporter and throttle him. Wait. I hate violence. I’ll play dirty instead, and slather his Facebook page with so many nut shots he has to shut it down.

  Not my nuts.

  Just nuts. Nutscapes, preferably.

  I drag a hand through my hair. “This is everything Dad didn’t want in the papers.” I point to the phone. “And what the hell is he going to add to this on Sunday? He kept pushing about how new it was, and asking when we started dating. Like that’s interesting? But this write-up is just complete crap. Why would the reporter write that stuff? Why do they do that?”

  “Because it sells, that’s why. But that’s not why I’m reading the piece to you.”

  I hand her the phone and we resume our pace. “Why are you showing it to me?”

  “You really don’t know why I read this stuff?”

  “Because you like gossip?”

  “You’re such an idiot. I do it for you. To look out for you.”

  I soften for a moment. “Really? You do it for me?”

  “I do. Because you don’t. I look you up online to make sure there’s nothing we have to deal with, and this is something we have to deal with.”

  I nod. “Right. We need to figure out how to spin it for Dad.”

  She shakes her head. “Wrong again.” She stops once more underneath a magnolia tree that canopies us with lush, green branches. “Look again.” She taps the screen. “Look at this picture.”

  I stare at the image. Abe caught the moment when I was sniffing Charlotte’s neck. My face is only half-visible, but Charlotte lights up the screen, radiant and joyful. Her eyes are bright, and I swear I see of a flicker of something in them, but my mind returns briefly to her neck and the way she smelled last night. The scent memory washes over me—peaches. She smelled like peaches and dirty dreams.

  Like happiness and desire all at once.

  “See what I mean?”

  I look at my sister and realize she’s been talking to me as I’ve been drifting off. “What do you mean?”

  She pokes my sternum with her index finger. “Don’t break her heart.”

  I stare at her like she’s crazy, but for one rare moment, Harper’s blue eyes are serious. There’s no joking, no teasing in them. “I like Charlotte,” she adds, as we walk along the path to the fields. “I know this started as a fake thing, but it’s becoming real. At least for her.”

  I start to say for me, too, but I’m too floored by her words—I’m not sure I can form my own. I was so certain Charlotte’s ground rules were genuine, that her intentions were truly just for sex, and that her goal was for us to remain friends after a few fucks. But women have intuition, even my sister. They see things men don’t. “Really?”

  Harper rolls her eyes. Ah, my pain-in-the-ass sister is back in full force. “I know this is shocking to you, since your knowledge of love and relationships is woefully limited. You’ve never had a serious relationship.”

  “That’s not true,” I say as we resume our path through the park. “I went out with Amanda in college.”

  “Oh, well la dee dah. Four months. Whoa. Let me call the record books because that is soooo serious.”

  “It felt serious at the time.”

  “Spencer, this may surprise you, given the trail of destruction you leave behind, but every now and then, God knows why, a woman might develop real feelings for you when you screw her. Just be careful, especially when it’s someone you care about as a friend,” she says, as we reach the ball field. Nick’s there already, practicing his swing.

  A million questions race through my head. I want to sit Harper down and quiz her. To ask her more about Charlotte. But Harper elbows me. She licks her lips and stares salaciously at Nick. “He’s so fucking hot.”

  I drop my bat. It hits my toes before I can jump out of the way. “Did aliens just take over your brain?”

  “Look. At. Him.” She’s ogling my buddy, who’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. “His arms. Oh my God. They are the definition of arm porn. I’m going to take some pictures to stare at later.”

  She starts snapping photos on her phone.

  “I’m calling the psych hospital. We’re checking you in,” I say, wincing because my stupid toe smarts now.

  Nick catches her gaze and sets his bat on the ground, leaning casually onto it, like he’s some kind of star ball player. “Hey, Harper. You’re looking foxy.”

  Foxy? What the hell? Down is up and right is wrong, and New York is falling into the ocean instead of California, because why the hell is my best guy friend hitting on my sister?

  Harper juts out a hip coquettishly. She waves at Nick with her fingers and bats her eyelashes. “So are you, hot stuff,” she says, then winks at him before she points at his shirt. “Can you take it off? So I can get another shot.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, sounding like a stripper as he yanks off his T-shirt.

  “Yum.” She smacks her lips and mimes making a cat claw. She leans into me and whispers, “I am so going to be visiting him one-handed tonight in my fantasies.”

  My eyes pop out of my head, and I clasp her shoulders.

  “You have to stop now. We can get you help. There are treatment centers for temporary insanity.”

  “There’s no stopping this train,” she says, tossing her glove on the ground. Shoving her cone into my hand, she struts over to Nick, who’s shirtless, his chest and abs on full display. Harper runs her fingernails down his pecs, then locks her arms around his neck.

  My fists clench, not because I want to hit Nick, but because some primal brotherly protective instinct is curling through me.

  “Dude. Hands off. That’s my sister.”

  Harper swivels around. “Gotcha! That’s for ruining Santa Claus for me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It takes a while to erase the image of my sister and Nick wrapped up in each other, even if it was just a prank, but I manage.

  Thanks to my new obsession.

  This photo. I can’t stop thinking about what Harper said about Charlotte, and I can’t stop looking at that picture on Page Six like it holds all the clues to the universe in it.

  I stare at it as I head into the Columbus Circle station, having dropped my bat and glove at Nick’s apartment near the park. My head is bent over my phone as I trot down the stairs, then slip inside the downtown train. I wrap my hand around a pole while a hipster girl in green skinny pants shoves her way onto the car, sliding past the doors just before they close. She carries bags on each arm.

  “Whew,” she says, relieved to have made it. But the edge of a cloth bag is caught in the door, so she yanks it free and turns in a tangle, spinning around.

  Something whacks my funny bone, and I cringe. “Ow.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Are you okay? Is it my mayonnaise?”

  “Mayonnaise?” I ask, as I rub my p
alm over my elbow while the train slaloms around a curve in the tunnel. What is it about funny bones that hurt so damn much?

  “I have jars of pesto mayonnaise in this bag. I made it myself. I’m giving it to friends. Is it okay?” There’s terror in her eyes as she roots around in the straw bag on her shoulder.

  Pain radiates through my lower arm while she ascertains the state of her condiments. “Don’t worry about me. Your mayo just attacked me, but I won’t file charges,” I mumble under my breath as I wince.

  She looks up, realization dawning on her. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Yes. Elbow matches my toe now.”

  “You got hit with mayo on your toe?”

  “No. A baseball bat attacked my foot earlier. Apparently, inanimate objects are out to get me today,” I say as the sharpness subsides. “Is your mayonnaise going to make it?”

  She nods and beams as we chug into the next stop. “It will live. Sorry I hit you.”

  “It’s okay. Hazard of big city living.”

  She peers at my hand. I’m clutching my phone still. The picture is splashed across the screen. “Cute couple.”

  “Oh. Right,” I say, raising my phone.

  “They look really happy together,” Mayo Girl adds.

  “Do they?”

  She nods. “Definitely.”

  “What do you think he should tell her?”

  She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”

  “So she knows how he feels?”

  She shrugs and smiles wide. “He should just tell her how he feels. If he likes her as much as pesto mayo, he should let her know that.”

  “I’ll tell him to consider that,” I say when the train reaches its midtown stop.

  As I climb up the steps and exit into the early evening, I know this situation with Charlotte isn’t as simple as mayonnaise, and that’s not only because mayonnaise is my least favorite food.

  * * *

  The Lucky Spot is a zoo. There’s no time to think. No time to plan. And certainly no time to figure out what to do with the strange new notions that are implanting themselves in my head.