Addiction (Bayfront Billionaires)

Paris. Five years ago.

A champagne-fueled hookup that still provided highly arousing fantasy material when called upon in the late-night privacy of her bedroom, to accompany her Cadillac of vibrators on the occasion when Liv really needed a spectacular release of pent-up sexual tension.

She never spoke of her ultra-sexy affair with stepbrothers Nathaniel Dalton and Tristan Reeves, whom Liv had known most of her life, or how it’d unexpectedly come about. The two men were Bayfront’s most recent success stories—global communications tycoons whose operations were headquartered in London.

Liv kept their steamy ménage tucked under her pillow, finding it particularly titillating that she’d been the first of her friends to flirt with what could very easily be deemed risqué and scandalous behavior.

Not that Liv shied away from the risqué or felt compelled to hide that side of her. Not by a long shot. The reminder curled her toes, in fact.

Perhaps it was because her magical evening had been so sensuously beautiful, so celestially orchestrated, that it was much more thrilling to retain under lock and key. Her own delicious, forbidden secret.

Aside from that, similar to her ménage à trois partners, Liv’s focus was on her career. That made their “ships passing in the night” scenario decadent and memorable without being cumbersome—or creating any sort of personal or professional hiccup for any of them.

There’d been no expectations or constraints beyond that one scorching-hot encounter. The three were on different trajectories and none of them were inclined to derail their individual agendas.

Again . . . a perfect moment in time, to be forever cherished and never repeated.

For Liv, her star was shining bright and she concentrated on that, mostly undertaking acting roles for independent producer Nick Faulkner’s studio, who was also a Bayfront resident and longtime friend. Liv had gotten her start in the entertainment industry at a young age when she’d modeled and appeared in a couple of short-lived TV sitcoms. When she’d turned sixteen, however, she’d landed the lead in Nick’s first production, which had been a breakout hit at the Sundance Film Festival.

An indie star had been born, and Liv had found a sustainable and exciting niche that involved travel to various locales mixed with studio work, so that she ended up with the best of both worlds—exhilarating excursions that always led her right back home.

Well, she could also tack on the advantage of being a recognizable face and name, yet not someone who lived under a microscope. The paparazzi kept he

r on their radar screen, though she usually wasn’t a big enough target for them to migrate far enough north from Hollywood to camp out on her doorstep on a routine basis. Only when she had a new release—and those media stalkings were usually in conjunction with tracking down Nick as well, and best-selling novelist Hunter Valens, who also wrote scripts for Faulkner Studios.

At the moment, Liv was on hiatus and enjoying her vacay before another impending shift in occupational gears—a new enhancement to her résumé—which she hadn’t revealed to anyone beyond her trusted team. Not even Fallon, who was performing a juggling act as well.

“So how’s the remodel of the lounge going?” Liv asked her.

“Swimmingly, if I do say so myself.” Fallon lifted her glass and they clinked rims. “Who would have thought I possessed project management skills in this arena?”

“Well . . . considering you’ve worked at both Michelin-starred restaurants in the yacht club for longer than I can remember—excluding your time in Miami—I’m not surprised.”

“I’ll admit that, at first, I feared I might be biting off more than I could chew,” Fallon said. “Luckily, I have us on track to host Chloe and John’s rehearsal dinner in two weeks, and then we’ll be open to members the next day.”

“I can’t wait for the big reveal!”

“Neither can I,” Fallon told Liv. “I think everyone’s going to love the new decor and menu. Still a more casual venue than the formal dining room and cigar lounge, but with an updated look. A few additional twists,” she teasingly threw in.

“That you have yet to share with me. Some best friend you are.” Not that Liv could really talk, given the mental confidences she maintained . . .

Fallon laughed softly, but didn’t elaborate further.

“Fine. Have your intrigues and keep me in suspense.” Liv’s gaze drifted back to the marina and the enormous yacht. Changing the topic of conversation, she mused, “That’s quite the floating Plaza Hotel, don’t you think?”

“Maybe there’s a rock star visiting,” Fallon said. “Dev or Morgan would have had to grant permission to enter the cove, but I haven’t seen either since this morning. The captain obviously had to drop anchor along the outskirts of the harbor because we don’t have slips that big.”

“Ah, you left the door wide open for me.” Liv grinned. “That is clearly an extension of someone’s penis.”

“Trust me when I say, my penis is large enough.” The male voice came from behind her. A deep, rough-around-the-edges-in-a-purely-erotic-way male voice.

Liv sputtered, then swallowed her drink while covering her mouth and trying to catch her breath. Because there was a distinct note of familiarity in his tone.

She dragged her gaze from the mini–cruise liner, dared to glance over her shoulder . . .

And nearly fell out of her chair.

Holy. Fuck.