Dirty Secret

"It's all right to have different interests."

"She could talk about it less."

"Whereas you never bring up football?"

"That's different," she says. "Everyone else wants to talk about football."

"And when she brings up gender roles?"

"I bet you can't remember her last point," she says.

"Every detail."

Envy flares in her eyes again. She catches herself and turns to the line.

The person at the register finishes. Sienna moves forward. Orders for both of us.

She lets me pay, moves to the pickup area, tries to shake off her blush. "What did she say?"

"Something about Bond."

"The movies?"

"The very famous film franchise, yes. You're familiar?"

"Of course I'm familiar. I just don't care. A suave British guy in a suit. Like I need more of that in my life."

I chuckle. "Uh-huh."

"You know, before I met you, most of my experience with rich guys in suits was watching assholes try to pick up Indie at Rick's. So I wasn't really all that interested in seeing more in my off time."

"How long did she work there?"

"A few years. She worked at a different bar when she first met Ty. Though I suppose you've heard that story."

I nod.

"It was a good job. And good for her. Guys fall all over her when she goes full ice queen. And… she never told me, not directly, but I know men offered her money for sex too."

"Did she take it?"

"She says she didn't, but… I don't know. I don't think she would. We were never that desperate, and she…"

"Is romantic?"

Sienna nods. "I…"

"There's no shame in not wanting to take money for sex."

Her brow furrows. "I guess."

"I'm glad you didn't."

"So you could be my first?"

"Yes." I slip my hand in the back pocket of her jeans. It feels good touching her, but it's not enough. I need to say this too. "I'm glad I'm the person introducing you to sex. I can't trust anyone else to do it." I can barely trust myself to do it.

Her eyes meet mine. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I bring my hand to her cheek. "I'll always be your first."

She leans into my touch.

I pull her into a soft, slow kiss.

Someone nearby awws. Someone else whispers.

The barista calls our drinks. Sienna blushes as she pulls back, but she stays on her more caffeine mission. She grabs the drinks and leads me out of the shop, onto the bright street.

Midtown is bustling, loud, alive.

It would be easy to let this go, pretend as if I only care because I'm possessive.

As if it's normal I want to possess her.

But I want to tell her this. Not all of it, not here, not now, but soon.

Really fucking soon.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Sienna

Is there such a thing as a perfect day?

It's four and I'm already over the moon.

Between the morning session, the fantastic new shoes I bought at the only in New York eight story Macy's, a lunch of proper New York pizza, and the view from the Empire State Building—

Okay, maybe the day would be better with more activity, but I kind of like him making me wait.

I want him so badly I'm going to explode.

It's wonderful.

Horrible.

Thrilling and bright and alive.

Sure, I'm wound a little tighter than I prefer, but the want feels so fucking good. Like the fourth quarter of a soccer game.

Or the final minute.

My desire to have him is overwhelming my other senses.

And now—

I've waited long enough. I want to kick the winning goal.

But I'm pretty sure it's not happening here, at this Dutch cafe in the Village. According to Cam, the place is a pretty accurate recreation of cafes in the Netherlands (he studied in Amsterdam for a year in college and he's always wanted to see if New York had anything to offer in the stroopwafel department).

It's not the kind of place I imagine him—framed Van Gogh prints adorn the baby pink walls—but he's completely in his element demonstrating proper stroopwafel eating technique.

Between his suit and the tiny chairs, he looks like a dad invited to his daughter's tea party.

Too big and too well dressed and completely and totally enthusiastic.

Oh god. Cam. Holding a baby.

Mmm.

Why am I picturing this? I don't even know if I want kids. Or if he wants kids.

He doesn't want to get married, so why would he want to have kids?

And why am I considering this?

It's a no-fly zone. It's so far past the fly zone.

It's just I want to fuck him again. To feel him come inside me.

That's it.

Sex.

Not domesticity.

Really hot, dirty, raunchy rough sex.

And we're talking about, uh…

Something. Something that isn't how much I want to drag him to the bathroom.

I try to find the thread of our conversation, but I'm distracted by his forearms. He gave me his suit jacket (it's cold in a tank top) and he rolled his sleeves to his elbows for the stroopwafel festivities.

So his gorgeous strong forearms are there, on the table, all sexy and visible and begging for my hands.