Chapter one
Dane
Blaise Farrow got the angle wrong and the pressure exactly right. He corrected inside a breath, head tilting down and tongue slipping between my lips. It was a practiced move. I leaned in as my pulse jumped.
He still tasted faintly of the gin and tonic he’d nursed on Salem Street. The bar was louder than I’d wanted, a narrow place wedged between a wine shop and a closed bakery. The windows were fogged with body heat and the bass of a Robyn remix thumping just low enough to talk over.
Farrow had messaged me on an app. I said yes. He found me at the end of the bar within three minutes, exactly where his message said he’d look, and slid onto the stool beside me with easy confidence.
He’d taken the better sightline to the door. Most people didn’t think about it. Later, when a glass broke at the far end of the bar, his eyes moved to the sound a half-second before mine. Could have been a coincidence. I ordered him another drink.
The radiator in my apartment hissed and ticked, pipes knocking somewhere inside the wall. Outside, cold Novemberrain pattered against the window, and a streetlamp bled gold through the fogged glass. The low light outlined Farrow’s broad shoulders and caught the gold chain at his throat.
He pulled back and studied my face.
“Too much?” he murmured, voice husky.
“Never.”
He smiled, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and dove back in.
Farrow was objectively beautiful. Tall, blond, going darker at the roots, with an off-season tan that meant either money for a Caribbean getaway or pure vanity. He was built like a gym regular and wore a soft grey henley that clung to his chest.
When he laughed, he laughed easily, head tipped back and throat exposed. He was trouble.
I knew what I looked like next to him. With dark hair and a black overshirt, I dressed to be forgotten. He dressed to be stared at. He came home with me anyway.
His hand cupped the small of my back, thumb brushing the waistband of my jeans. He pressed me closer, hips angling into mine as the curve of his thigh rubbed against my groin.
I arched into him. He answered with a low moan, lips parting to swallow mine in a heavy, wet kiss. Tongues. Teeth. The heat built between us.
“Christ, you kiss like you’re not sure about this,” he murmured against my mouth. “Relax, baby. I’ve got nowhere to be until morning.”
He pushed the overshirt off my shoulders. His hand slid under my t-shirt, fingertips tracing the ridge of my spine, pulling me flush against his chest. I reached between us and squeezed. He was hard. He guided me back until the edge of the couch caught the back of my thighs.
I sank onto the worn leather as he knelt between my thighs. He slid his palms up to my belt and worked it open. He pushed mylegs wide, and my breath hitched. Farrow dipped his head, teeth grazing my fly as the zipper came down.
“Look at you,” he whispered, licking the outline of my cock through my black boxer briefs. “All that quiet, and underneath—“ He smiled and didn’t finish.
I raised my hips as he tugged my jeans to the floor. My underwear went next. He flicked his tongue at the head of my cock.
Something hot and bright raced up the length of my spine. I groaned, head tipping back, hands reaching for his hair, still damp from the rain. He caught each gasp and broken intake of breath, parting his lips and shifting his angle of attack.
The couch creaked. His tongue traced circles, and then his lips closed, teeth grazing, never slowing, never hesitating. He pushed against my thighs, spreading me wider.
My eyes rolled back. He wrapped his fingers around the base of my cock and stroked. I made a sound, half plea and half demand.
I was seconds from the edge when he pulled back. His lips were swollen and slick.
“Wait,” his voice was rough, “you’re too fucking gorgeous. You aren’t getting away without getting fucked.”
He rose to his feet as he unbuckled his belt. The henley came first, over his head, revealing a chest dusted with dark blond hair that tapered to a line down his stomach. The jeans were next, kicked aside.
He stood before me in nothing but a pair of fire-engine-red briefs that strained against his hard cock. I couldn’t resist taking inventory and caught a small white surgical scar low on his ribs. He held his weight evenly balanced on both feet, hands relaxed but ready.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “I can stop, and I won’t be weird about it. I’ll just walk myself home and have long, sad thoughts about your ass.”
I huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I want you inside me. Now.”