“No. I don’t need to ask you,” she said as he stroked her through her black lace panties.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she whispered as sparks shot through her bloodstream.

“Why not?” he asked, as if he were truly so damn curious.

“Because you’re showing me.”

His fingers glided across the wet panel of her panties, stroking faster as she rocked into him. He kept a firm grip on her wrists as she greedily sought his friction. “That’s right,” he said roughly. “I’m showing you, Sophie. I’m showing you exactly what I can do to you.”

He stopped momentarily. Her eyes widened. A trace of fear zipped through her. Fear that he might not let her come. “Did you want to question me again?” he asked, taunting her. “I can stop if you have questions.”

“No,” she said, her breath staccato.

“Good. But I want to question you.”

“Anything,” she panted. “Ask me anything.”

He fixed her with a serious stare. “Are you sure you want to go out on stage having just come all over my hand?”

“Yes,” she said, begging.

He leaned in closer to her ear. “I can’t hear you. Say it again.”

“Yes, God yes.”

He ran his fingers across the wet lace. He narrowed in on her where she wanted him. She was so close to the edge, and she needed him to keep touching her. She needed his fingers flying across her clit. Touching her until she fell apart.

“Beg for it,” he commanded.

“Please,” she whispered in his ear, her knees shaking, so desperate was she for release. “Please make me come.”

He rubbed fast and expertly, and she rocked into his hand as bright white fireworks blasted in her brain, radiating throughout her body. Faintly, in the back of her mind, she heard the song nearing the end, and she knew she’d have to come in seconds to make it to the stage on time.

But seconds were all this man needed.

“I want to taste your lips as you fuck my hand,” he said, then dropped his delicious mouth to hers once more, kissing her fiercely as she rode his fingers. He wasn’t even touching her flesh. He was getting her off through the lace. He was that good. She was that turned on. The tension in her body escalated, rising up like a rollercoaster car nearing the top of the hill. Then she reached it, hovered for beautiful seconds in that suspended state of bliss, then raced downhill as if it was an orgasmic joyride. As her own pleasure crashed into her, he ravaged her mouth with his lips, swallowing her moans, tasting her cries, and somehow it felt like kissing was coming, and coming was kissing.

Only it was more. It was being held back. And that was a hint of all that she craved.

She blinked and breathed hard as he pulled away. He arched an eyebrow, and let go of her wrists. Her skin burned from his grip. She shook her right hand.

Gently, he brought her wrist to his lips. He kissed her softly, reminding her of the first time he kissed her hand on the dance floor as he erased the sting, his lips traveling across the same territory where he’d held her tight moments ago.

“Better?” he asked quietly.

She nodded as he gave the same treatment to her other hand. All these sensations both rattled and delighted her—she didn’t know what to make of this man, and how he could talk and touch so rough and harsh in the heat of the moment then become so sweet in the afterglow.

He lowered her hands to her sides then tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes softer now as he looked her over.

She smoothed a hand over her dress. Her legs felt wobbly. Her heart roared loudly. Her body still sang.

Clapping echoed loudly from beyond the curtains. The song was over. “Thank you so much,” the singer said from the stage.

He tipped his head. “You better get out there.”

Nerves took off inside her, then a blast of anger. She was not going to be dismissed. This was not going to be a one-time thing. She grabbed his tie, tugged him close. “Name. Tell me your name.”

She expected a sly remark. A hint that gave little away.

“Ryan,” he said with a glint in his dark eyes.

She scoffed. “Your name’s not Ryan,” she fired back as Heaven Leigh said her goodbyes.

“Why not?

“Ryan’s a nice guy name.”

“Are you saying I’m not a nice guy?”

She shook her head, and curled her hand around his shoulder. “You’re not a nice guy at all.”

He brought his palm to his chest. “I’m hurt. I’m a terribly nice guy. I saved you from those women who wanted to monopolize you at the bar. And I kissed you when you came so no one heard how orgasmic you were.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because you have to go,” he said, nodding to the stage.

“And why are you giving me your first name only?”

He brushed his lips against her ear. “What are you doing on Sunday at seven p.m.?”

She practically held her breath at the possibility unfurling before her—that she might see this man another time. “What should I be doing Sunday at seven p.m.?”

“Be at Caesars. Outside the Fizz Bar. I want to see you again.” He paused then added, “Badly.”

She smiled. She wanted to see him, too. “I’ll be there.”

She ran her hand along her skirt once more then gently touched her hair, making sure it was still in place. Her heart sped up in worry. She grabbed Ryan’s strong arm. “Wait. Is my lipstick smeared?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s all gone.” He brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheek. Softly. “But you look perfect. Every single thing about you looks perfect.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a deep breath as she left.

She walked on the stage, flashing a big, bright smile to the crowd. She thanked Heaven Leigh for singing and then talked about how talented the woman was. As she spoke, she scanned the crowd and caught a last glimpse of the man in the suit, the man who’d made her come backstage. He was on his way out, but he stopped briefly and watched her. He didn’t wave. He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t make a single gesture to say they had a secret.

But the way he stared made her tingle all over, and the way his lips curved up in a grin said he knew he had that effect on her, and that he had every intention of doing it again.

Chapter Six

Ryan gripped the large tree trunk that had fallen on the roof, as his brother finished slicing through the last section of the wood. The chainsaw buzzed loudly in the midday air, then Michael turned it off.

Ryan let go of the wood. Grabbing the waist of his faded gray T-shirt, he wiped the sweat from his brow. His skin was baking under his shirt.

“You think it feels hotter since we’re closer to the sun? Being on the roof and all,” he asked his brother.

“Absolutely. It’s a proven scientific fact that working on someone’s roof equates to a ten-degree increase in temperature,” Michael said as he set the chainsaw on the tiles, resting it by his feet so it wouldn’t topple into the yard.

Ryan rapped his knuckles against the pile of wood they’d chopped from a large tree branch that had fallen on their friend Sanders’s roof during a recent windy night. “Now we just need to get this over to green recycling and we’re good.”

Sanders Foxton was a friend of their father’s from long ago. Nearing retirement and damn ready for it, Sanders was a mechanic at the limo company where their father had worked the last few years of his life. Thomas Paige had been on the job the night he was killed, chauffeuring a group of teenagers around town for their prom, first delivering them safely to the dance, then to their homes. Then he’d returned to his house in his own car and was shot four times in the back in his driveway after midnight.

“Did you meet with Winston?” Ryan asked, as they walked to the edge of the roof, stopping when they reached the ladder resting against the house.