Chapter 2

"Another wedding in the books." I gave a happy sigh as I stowed my lenses away in my equipment bag. "I really enjoyed this one."

The couple I'd photographed tonight had been unmistakably, unerringly, unabashedly in love, and I'd worked enough weddings to know the difference. It had been beautiful to watch and inspiring to photograph.

From the folding chair beside me, my best friend gave me a sidelong look and his trademark smirk. A few moments ago, when the last of the guests had meandered out of the ballroom for an impromptu after-party at the bar, Rafa had made a whole production of shutting down his work phone and shedding his professional-wedding-planner vibe the way some guys changed shirts. Now, he was messing around on his personal phone, and the distinctive brrp of Grindr notifications told me exactly what he was doing.

"This wedding," Rafa teased. "Unlike the last forty-seven weddings you've shot, where you only pretended to enjoy them? Remember, babe, I can hear you wanking to your cake-topper porn. Oh, baby, gimme those hearts and flowers hard! Fuck yeah, fill me up with your unicorns and rainbows! True lurve forever!"

I grunted. "Remind me again why you became a wedding planner when you dislike weddings so much?"

Rafa grinned, teeth bright white against his tan skin. "Because I'm good at it? Because I'm highly organized? Because I was born with a finely tuned understanding of human nature? Because I'm so pretty?" He fluttered his long, dark lashes at me.

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "Pretty annoying," I countered.

"That's not what SamiTsunami_212 says." Rafa shook his phone and wiggled his eyebrows. "He says the only thing that would make this face prettier is a load of his?—"

I held up a hand. "Save it. Please. You're ruining my hearts-and-flowers vibe."

Rafa shrugged. "Like I said, you've always been a sucker for the schmoop. And there's nothing wrong with that. Schmoop can be a good thing. It's just not my approach. I'm practical, that's all. Like the best man said in his speech—love is a series of business negotiations, so it's a good thing the grooms have plenty of experience at the boardroom table." Rafa snickered.

"Yeah. Right." It came out like a sigh.

Oscar had said that. It had been an inside joke, clearly, because it had made Wells and Conor blush and trade goofy smiles while the rest of the guests laughed out loud, but… there had been something about Oscar's face as he said it that suggested it wasn't a joke to him. Not entirely. And for reasons too stupid to think about, I'd found that wildly disappointing. So disappointing that I'd purposefully avoided the man for the rest of the evening.

I'd known of Oscar Overton for ages, the same way most of the city knew him. I'd read about him in gossip blogs and on social media. I'd heard of his reputation for serial dating his way through the men of New York high society. He was well-dressed and urbane, charming and witty, with a handsome face and a casual confidence that made him a photographer's wet dream… and totally unavailable to a regular guy from New Jersey who still considered buying jeans firsthand instead of at the thrift store to be pretty damn bougie.

But then today, I'd seen his pocket twitching when he'd posed for pictures with the wedding party. I'd seen him frantically talking to someone hiding underthe gift table. I'd seen a brief flicker of hurt on his face when one of the other guests made a cutting remark. And I'd realized I didn't know Oscar Overton at all because that Oscar had drawn me in like a moth to a flame, and suddenly, I couldn't not talk to him. Couldn't stop myself from flirting with him. Couldn't keep from wondering if maybe…

Rafa knocked his shoulder into mine. At some point, he'd stood and was now peering at me like he was trying to see into my brain. "What's that about?" he demanded.

I blinked away my mental hearts and flowers. "What's… what?"

Rafa narrowed his eyes and twirled a finger around the circumference of my head. "That. That face right there. Your forlorn face."

"Please. I don't have a?—"

"You do, Hugh. You definitely do. We've lived together since freshman year. I've seen that face way too many times, every time you're interested in a guy and you find out he's not… oh. Oh, no. Who is it?"

"Shut up." I settled the strap of my camera bag over my shoulder and turned to leave.

"Fess up," Rafa demanded.

"You ready to go? I'm tired."

"Hold on, I can figure this out." Rafa hurried after me. "Let's see, I said we lived together in college. That's not forlorn-face-worthy. Before that, I mentioned the wedding toast…" He froze, grabbing for my arm and yanking me to a stop. "Wait. Tell me you're not thinking about the best man."

My cheeks flushing was answer enough.

He let out a low whistle. "He is hot," he conceded, as if he was agreeing with something I'd said. "Smoking hot. And he's got that kind of wounded bad boy thing that made Elena fall in love with Prince Harry last year?—"

"Your sister is married with twenty-seven children."

"But he's Oscar Overton, Hugh. Oscar Overton."

I moved through the ballroom doors and into the lobby. "Ride share or cab? I'm not taking all this stuff on the subway."

Rafa hurried around me to block my path. "I saw him talking to you earlier. Was he hitting on you?"

"What? No. Of course not. Drop it, Rafa?—"

Rafa did not, in fact, drop it. "He was," Rafa breathed. "Oh my god. Did he want to add you to his hot queen harem? Did he want you to bring your camera?"

A buzz of voices washed over us from the bar on the far side of the lobby. Someone laughed loud and drunkenly. "It wasn't like that. He was… nice."

"Oscar Overton was." It wasn't a question, more like an insinuation that I'd lost my marbles.

"Stop saying his whole name like that. He's a man, not a brand name." I couldn't meet Rafa's eyes. "He's a human being, not… Louis Vuitton. Or Merrill Lynch. Or… or… Ironman."

"Oh, boy." Rafa put his hands on my shoulders. "Okay. First, those were actual men. Well, fictional-actual in the case of Ironman, but?—"

"I'm requesting an Uber now." I took my phone from my pocket, but Rafa snatched it out of my hand.

"But second and more importantly," he went on, "Oscar Over—that guy—might be a real human being, but he has a reputation for a reason. He's rich and powerful and even more of a player than I am, which is saying something. Also… pretty sure he ducked out of the party with Roman Burke."

"Oh." My heart squeezed a little. "I thought Roman was dating someone."

Rafa dismissed this with a wave. "I don't know. And neither do you. Because, and this is crucial, Hugh: you don't know Oscar Overton. Not after one conversation where he probably asked you to be his flavor of the month?—"

"He didn't," I insisted, and the fact that it was true—that a guy who dated or at least fucked around with a new guy every night hadn't taken a single shot at me—hurt more than it should have. "If anything, I flirted with him. And I'm aware that I don't know him?—"

"Are you though?" Rafa's voice was low and way too gentle.

"Of course I am." This conversation had officially burned off my wedding afterglow.

"We've talked about this," Rafa continued. "No naming your children before you've actually met a guy in person. No practicing your hyphenated signature until you've fucked twice and shared a meal together?—"

"That was one time," I grumbled.

"—and no planning out your happily ever after with a guy before your third date because that's how you get hurt. Cough, Jared, cough."

I shot him a furious look. "We do not discuss Jared. Ever."

"I know." He held up his hand. "I know, I know. But you know I'm right. Because otherwise, you end up spending four days on our sofa binge-watching Love Island on your laptop, ignoring a billion texts from your sister, and—" Brrp. Rafa glanced down at his pocket. "Shit."

I raised an eyebrow. "SamiTsunami's impatient. We should get home."

"Actually… about that." Rafa gave me a smile that was half-apologetic grimace. "He's, um… here? Like, at the hotel. So."

I snorted, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. "Go."

"Nah. No. It's fine." He threw an arm over my shoulder. "Gays before baes and all that. I'll blow him off. You and I can stake out the bar. I saw at least one wedding guest trying to catch a glimpse of your equipment earlier, and I do not mean your camera. Here, let's untie that bow tie, and lemme unbutton that top—yeah. Perfect." He gave me a critical look, then ran a hand through the curls above my forehead to muss them up. "Trust Auntie Rafa, buddy: the best way to get over Mr. Not-So-Right is to find yourself a Mr. Right Now. Two hot bodies, one hard fuck, zero promises."

Brrp. Brrp. Brrp.

I combed my hair back into place and shook my head, amused. "Go, Rafa." I ducked out from under his arm and pushed him toward the elevator bank. "I'm never gonna see Oscar again, so whatever thoughts I was having, I'm over them. A hundred percent. And I appreciate your offer, but if I wanted a hookup, I'm perfectly capable of getting one without a wingman."

"I know you're capable, but whether you'll do it is a different?—"

"Don't keep Mr. Tsunami waiting on my account," I insisted.

Still, Rafa hesitated. "Are you sure? Because if you need me…"

"Sounds like you're the one who's unsure." I tilted my head in mock concern. "Ohhh, I see the problem. You've started worrying about the last name thing now, haven't you? Would you want to be known in the events industry as RafaTsunami?" I made a disapproving noise. "Maybe Rafael Tsunami-Clavel?" I tapped a finger to my lip thoughtfully. "This is an important question. Maybe we should sit and talk it through…"

"Dork." He shoved my shoulder. "Funnily enough, I don't think that'll come up tonight." Rafa couldn't hide his grin. "But other things certainly will. I'll give you all the dirty deets tomorrow."

I laughed again. "Please do not," I called as he made a beeline for the elevator. "Not a single deet!"

When Rafa was gone, I took a single step toward the front door, my finger poised over the Request Ride button on my phone, then hesitated. I glanced back at the laughing crowd spilling out of the bar into the lobby.

A silver-haired couple dressed to the nines broke into an impromptu waltz, and when the man stepped back to twirl his partner, their friends looked on and laughed indulgently. Over by the wall, barely visible behind an elephant ear plant, another couple was locked together in a passionate embrace, one woman's fingers alternately clutching and caressing the other's back. All around, people were joining hands, linking elbows, cuddling close to their person, riding the true-love contact high.

I sighed.

I hadn't been kidding when I told Oscar about the way some people got at weddings—all juiced up on romance and hope—but I might have failed to mention that I was one of those people. The only difference was, when I was love-drunk, I didn't get the urge to sex up random strangers. I started building fairy-tale castles out of thin air and seeing possibilities where none existed. And when the high faded, the hangover felt a lot like… well, like loneliness.

The feeling never lasted for long, fortunately. I liked my life. I loved my job. After a good night's sleep, I'd wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed. I'd go through the first of the pictures from today and soak in the grooms' happy smiles. I'd take a walk through Central Park and find some content for my TikTok account. I'd let Rafa's sister set me up with their cousin's dog sitter's best friend and find I'd matched with someone new on Tinder, and probably—in fact, definitely—one of those guys would be the guy, my guy, my happily ever after, and everything would fall into place. But for tonight…

I hefted my camera bag strap higher on my shoulder and bit my lip as I looked toward the bar again.

Tonight, I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to be alone. And maybe Rafa was right—maybe what I needed was a Mr. Right Now. A hookup. A distraction. Someone to help soothe the itchy restlessness in my gut that said there was something out there I was missing, something I was supposed to be doing, some path I'd been meant to take and had somehow stumbled past without noticing.

One drink, I decided. That didn't necessarily mean I was committing to picking anyone up, but there was no harm in checking out the options. Extending the night a little longer so I didn't have to face an empty apartment.

I veered toward the bar and slid onto a stool near a group of good-looking guys, tucking my equipment bag under my feet. The bartender, who was busy prepping a round of drinks for someone else, tossed me a wink to let me know he'd noticed me. And while I waited for him to take my order, I got out my camera because in my experience, there was no better conversation starter. It was a fact of life that hot guys loved having their picture taken.

But the moment my camera powered on, a gallery of images appeared on the viewfinder. Just that quickly, I forgot my whole hookup plan because I was too busy scrolling through my photos of the evening until I found the particular shot I'd been looking for: a photo of a man cuddling a hedgehog.

God, but Oscar was gorgeous. His individual features were devastating enough—sculpted cheekbones, pouty mouth, sharp jaw subtly kissed by stubble, just-fucked hair that practically compelled you to imagine running your fingers through it, and eyes the exact shade of a summer sky when the sun was high and the air was buzzing with cicadas. But when you put it all together, the package was somehow even more compelling. There was so much depth to those eyes. Depth that spoke of vulnerability and?—

Fuck. You're doing it again, Hugh Linzee. Pretending you've found a connection with a guy you'll never speak to again. How pathetic can you?—?

"Handsome devil, isn't he?" a low, husky voice said in my ear.

I spun on my stool and gaped at the man leaning against the bar beside me. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, giving a tantalizing hint of smooth skin underneath, and his tie hung loose around his neck. "O-oscar?" I stammered because I was observant like that.

"I was referring to Frank, of course." He nodded at the camera in my hands. "Your rude, unauthorized photographs are a blight on society, but you managed to catch his good side."

My heart hammered at his proximity. "Frank doesn't have a bad side," I said, my voice way too breathy. I cleared my throat. "And they're called candids, which is part of my job." I wet my suddenly dry lips. "I… I thought you'd left."

Oscar's lips twitched up in a sketch of a smile. "Not exactly. I took Frank up to my room, but then Roman asked me to come back down for a minute so we could talk." He made some sort of complicated motion at the bartender, and then he glanced at me. "He and I dated a while back. Now he's planning his marriage proposal."

"Oh. Wow. That's…" I blinked. "Congratulations, I guess."

He snorted. "Not to me." A smile that I'd already started to think of as Oscar's real, unrehearsed smile broke across his face like sunshine, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered madly around my stomach in response. "To his boyfriend. Scotty. But he's asked me to be his best man when Scotty says yes."

"When," I repeated.

"Yep. It's about as close to a sure thing as you can get." Oscar's attention was on the bartender, who set down glasses of champagne in front of each of us, but there was something almost wistful in his tone. Like he wished he was someone's sure thing.

Jesus. My cheeks went hot, and I took a deep drink of cold champagne to cool myself off. This fairy-tale madness must stop.

"So I guess you and Frank will be pulling out your tuxes again soon, then," I said easily, toying with the stem of my glass. "You guys have a talent for this best man business, huh?"

Oscar turned to me, raised one eyebrow, and lowered his eyelids to half-mast. "Baby, I have a lot of talents. And if you play your cards right, you can experience them all firsthand."

I had made the mistake of taking another sip at that exact moment, and the laughter that burst out of me caught me unawares. Bubbles of Cristal flew up my nose, and I choked. "One out of ten," I wheezed when my coughing fit subsided. "Oh, god. That line was literally attempted murder."

Oscar smiled, slow and wide and challenging. "Please. That was at least a five. It was amusing. And ironic."

"If you have to point out the irony though, is it really ironic?" I mused. I patted his hand consolingly. "Don't worry. I'm sure they have some kind of remedial communication classes for this."

"Classes—? I could teach classes, Hugh. I am a celebrated public speaker." Oscar motioned to the bartender again, and he brought over a bowl of nuts and pretzels. "I gave a commencement address at Harvard last spring that was so inspiring there wasn't a dry eye in the house?—"

"Boredom does make some people cry," I agreed.

"And when I spoke at an investment symposium in Switzerland last month, people hung on my every word?—"

"How many of them spoke English?" I asked politely.

"And my best man speeches are renowned for their unique blend of humor and insight?—"

"They're unique." I rolled my eyes. "I'll give you that. Not sweet or romantic or wedding appropriate, necessarily, but definitely unique."

Oscar's eyes narrowed, and he pointed one long finger at me accusingly. "Oh my god. No wonder my lines aren't working on you. You're a closet romantic. Admit it."

"Freely." I drank more champagne and found it settled nicely in my stomach, warming me all the way through. "Nothing closeted about it. I want candles and poetry and fireworks. I want handholding in starlight and passionate declarations of love. I want the irresistible, can't-fight-it-so-don't-try, absolute knowledge that someone is it for me and that I'm it for him. Yep. That's about it."

"You want a fairy tale." The way he said it made the word sound dirty. "That's how hearts get broken, Hugh."

There were a lot of things I could have said to that. Like, that I'd already had so many heartbreaks over the years I was used to them. Like, there were lots of ways hearts could break, and not all of them had the promise of a happily ever after at the end.

Instead, I shrugged. "You just have to kiss a bunch of frogs until you find the right person. Believe me, I know. But you can't win the lottery if you don't pay for the ticket, right? And the more you lose, the more likely you are to win next time."

Oscar rolled his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something that sounded like "gambler's fallacy," whatever that was.

"Anyway." I cleared my throat. "What were we talking about before?"

Oscar sighed. "I was talking about my oral skills," he said dejectedly. "I was going to offer to demonstrate them for you, upstairs, all night long. You were gonna be putty in my hands." He took a long drink of champagne. "But now I'm thinking about frogs."

I stared, transfixed, at the way the strong, tanned column of his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

This man—this sexy, intelligent, witty man—wanted me. I sucked in a breath as a flash of heat kindled in my gut, and my balls tingled. There wasn't a single thing romantic about it. He was not The One, this was not my HEA, and I knew exactly how it would end…

But Jesus fuck, I wanted him too.

I set my champagne on the bar with a little clack.

"Nine out of ten," I declared.

Oscar's head swiveled in my direction, and a confused pucker appeared between his brows. "What?"

"I said… nine out of ten. That was concise, direct, and sincere. I have no notes." I put my hand on his arm and leaned in to whisper confidingly, "I'm a sucker for sincerity."

Oscar placed one hand on the bar beside me and the other on the back of my stool, effectively caging me in. He leaned in closer, and his scent—spicy, woodsy, and expensive—washed over me.

"Sincerity, huh?" My eyes fluttered shut as his mouth neared the spot where my jaw met my throat. "How about this, then: I haven't been able to take my eyes off you all night." His lips brushed over the sensitive skin, sending goose bumps blazing across my body. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you." His teeth nipped the shell of my ear. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about what I'd like to do with you."

"Oh." I could barely breathe, and my head spun. "Yes. Good."

He smiled, nuzzling my neck. "Spend the night with me." He pulled back to meet my gaze head-on, waiting.

I'd adopted a blanket "no casual fucks when working a wedding" rule a long time ago. Not only did hooking up with guests seem vaguely unprofessional, but the hookups were ultimately unfulfilling too. Oscar wasn't wrong when he'd called me a romantic.

In that moment though, I found I didn't care about my rule. It was a heady thing being the center of Oscar's attention, the object of his entire focus. I wanted more of it. I wanted him naked. I wanted him undone. And for once, I wasn't imagining a happy future because every synapse in my brain was very busy processing the absolutely mind-blowing here and now.

I knew Oscar was offering me tonight and nothing more, but my options were to go home to an empty apartment and my hand for company or go upstairs with Oscar. When I looked at it that way, the answer was blazingly obvious.

"Okay," I told him.

Surprise flashed in his eyes, like he'd expected me to turn him down. When he realized I wasn't, that flash turned wolfish. A shiver of desire raced down my spine, confirmation that I wasn't going to regret this decision.

He tugged me from my stool and toward the bank of elevators, where he smoothly slipped his key card into the penthouse slot as the doors slid shut.

The interior of the elevator was all mirrored walls, and we were suddenly faced with a thousand reflections of ourselves. For a moment, there was nothing but silence stretching between us.

Our eyes met in the mirror, and Oscar's mouth started a slow slide into a grin. Then, the elevator jolted, gaining speed as it accelerated upward. My stomach dropped, and I might have stumbled if Oscar hadn't shot out a hand to steady me.

I glanced down at where his fingers wrapped around my hip, and as I watched, he flexed them against me and tugged.

We could have taken it slow. Teased the moment out longer. I could have let him seduce me with a hundred more terrible pickup lines and pretended I wasn't slowly melting inside just from the solid weight of him against me. Instead, I let our momentum take over, pushing him back against the wall and crowding in close, gripping his shirt front in my hand and pulling his lips to mine.

Oscar made a noise—a shocked little inhalation—at my boldness that might have made me laugh if my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied. It figured that Oscar was used to being in charge in the bedroom since he was in charge everywhere else.

But so was I.

I teased him with a flick of my tongue, and when he leaned in for more, I kept my hands on his shoulders, holding him in place. He let out a growl of frustration, and I grinned. I leaned toward him again, this time skimming my mouth along his jaw, down his throat.

Oscar tipped his head back, groaning.

I pushed my leg between his thighs, aligning our hips so that I could grind our cocks together. He was already fully, gratifyingly hard, practically vibrating with the same need that set my insides on fire.

The elevator swooped to a stop, and I pulled back, my eyes meeting his. His lids were heavy, his pupils blown. He angled his head toward mine for a kiss, but once again, I retreated, denying him what he wanted.

He quirked an eyebrow in a look I remembered from the reception earlier—the one he probably thought made him look scathing and imperious but actually made him appear pouty and adorable.

I grinned.

That was apparently enough to send him over the edge. Before I knew what was happening, the elevator doors swished open, and Oscar's hands were in my hair. He crowded against me, pushing me back through the open door and into the foyer of the penthouse suite.

"Stop. Teasing," he growled.

I barely had time to take in the surroundings, the marble floor and paneled walls adorned with gilt-framed mirrors, before my hips crashed against a large round accent table. A massive vase of flowers sitting on top wobbled and tipped, crashing to the floor.

Oscar ignored it. With one hand fisted in my hair, he held me in place as he crushed his mouth to mine. For such an elegant, graceful man, his kiss was anything but. It was barely contained hunger and need. It was raw desire. It scattered my thoughts and sent my pulse skittering.

I responded in kind, reaching for his shirt. I tried fumbling at the buttons before giving up and ripping it open. I needed to touch him, to run my hands over bare skin. I'd expected smooth perfection and had assumed Oscar would have been the type of man to be manscaped and groomed at all times. So I was surprised by the dusting of hair across his chest. I dragged my fingers through it, following the trail of it down to the waistband of his pants.

In seconds, I had his belt undone and was working on his fly, even as he tugged my shirt free. We were a whirlwind of grasping limbs, feet kicking off shoes, and fingers tearing at each other's clothes, desperate to be rid of them. We stumbled through the foyer, crashing against another accent table and sending a statue and a lamp tumbling to the floor.

I winced. "Maybe we should?—"

Oscar cut me off before I could finish suggesting that perhaps we should be more careful. "Fuck it." He barely took his mouth from my neck to growl the words.

"But—"

He pressed a forearm across my chest, pinning my back to the wall. "I'll pay for the damage." He then reached for my pants, nearly ripping them open. "Now, I believe I was going to demonstrate my oral skills."

Then he was on his knees with my cock free and his hand fisted around my base. He squeezed, holding me as he gazed at my dick. The tip glistened with precum, and his eyes cut up to meet mine as he flicked his tongue across it.

"Hmmmmmm…" he groaned in appreciation.

He ran his lips lightly along my length, teasing, and I bucked my hips, wanting—needing—more. "Fuck, Oscar," I breathed.

He grinned, making it clear he was getting me back for teasing him in the elevator earlier. He continued torturing me with his tongue, pressing it against my slit, running it around the edge of my crown, trailing it down my length, lapping at my sac.

My legs trembled so badly I had to brace my hands on the wall behind me. My chest ached, my breathing tight and rapid. When Oscar finally took my tip in his mouth, I almost collapsed as pleasure ricocheted through me. But that was nothing compared to the stars that exploded behind my eyes as he moved his mouth down, taking more and more until I felt myself hit the back of his throat.

I expected to feel his retreat, but instead, he swallowed me even deeper until his lips reached the base of my cock. His hands slid around to grab my ass, holding me steady as he began to take me apart.

"Yes. Christ," I barely managed to say, my thoughts no longer coherent.

Oscar licked and sucked relentlessly, giving me no reprieve. I felt my control slipping as he dragged me closer to the edge.

"If you keep going like that, this all night long thing is gonna be over in two minutes," I warned.

In response, he slipped a finger between my ass cheeks, finding my hole and pressing against it. My hips bucked, my movements becoming more frantic the harder he pushed. Then he was inside me, the tip of his finger searching, searching…

"Fuck. Fuck," I wailed with no semblance of control as he tagged my prostate while swallowing around me again. I threw my head back, not recognizing the animalistic grunts and moans coming from my throat.

In that moment, I knew two things: I was going to come, and I didn't want to come without Oscar.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, pulling his head back, and he looked up at me, surprised. His lips were plump and swollen, his cheeks flushed. Saliva and precum coated his mouth and chin, making him look thoroughly, messily debauched.

"Come here," I growled, yanking him to his feet and shoving his open pants down.

I spun him around in front of me, ignoring his hoarse shout, and wrapped an arm across his chest, bracing his body against mine. My cock slicked against his bare ass, and for a moment, I imagined what it would be like to spread his cheeks wide and press myself against his hole. I had to grasp my root hard for a moment to stop myself from coming.

Not without Oscar.

I reached my hand around him, wiping the spit and precum from his mouth and using it to slick my palm. Then, I grabbed his cock.

To one side of us was a nearly full-length mirror, and I watched our reflections as I fisted him. My eyes feasted on his half-naked body, reveling in the flush crawling up his neck and the utter abandon of his expression. I ground my cock against his ass cheeks as he bucked against my hand. I jerked him hard and fast until he was quivering and moaning.

In that moment, Oscar was mine and mine alone.

That thought sent me over the edge. I buried my face against the base of his neck, taking the tendon along his shoulder between my teeth and groaning as I came against his lower back.

"Oh fuck, oh god, yes!" he cried, his hips jerking as I pumped him. And then he was coming too, head thrown back against my neck.

He sagged against me. My legs were too weak to hold us both up, and I cradled him against me as I slipped to the floor. I lay back, shivering, as the cold from the tiles seeped into my bare skin and pulled Oscar on top of me.

"Note to self," I whispered, grinning. "Marble floors: pretty but not functional."

Oscar chuckled, his breath warm against my chest. I trailed my fingers through his hair, down his back, and back up again in a soothing gesture. He turned his head, pressing a single kiss to my sternum, then lifted one eyebrow at me and smiled.

There was something so simple and easy in that kiss, so sweetly devastating in that smile, that my lust fog fell away for a moment. Maybe this guy could be it. Maybe I could change his mind about love, and this could be?—

"Ten out of ten for the fucking," Oscar said in a thoughtful voice. "But I have to deduct points for the marble, and…" He glanced sideways at the shards of broken pottery and sodden flowers and winced theatrically. "Significant points for the collateral damage. So I'd give it… maybe a four overall?"

"Did you… did you just…?" I glared at him, and he shrugged. "A four?"

Oscar pressed his lips together like he was trying to fight his smirk and losing spectacularly. "I don't make the rules, Hugh." He bit lightly at my nipple, and I hissed. "But I could be persuaded to try again. See if we could bring that score up. There's a huge tub in the bathroom." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And I'm a sucker for baths."

I gasped in an outraged breath and rolled us so that Oscar was splayed out on the cold stone, laughing up at me. "You're gonna regret this, Mr. Overton."

"Am I?" he drawled.

I wrapped my hands around his wrists, and he grunted slightly as I pinned them to the floor. "Mmhmm. Little-known fact, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I will get a ten…"

"I'm terrified." He mock shivered. "Truly."

"And when I do, it will be unforgettable. Un-toppable. The very best sexual encounter of your entire life," I vowed.

Oscar snorted, eyes closed, and turned on his side with a little yawn. "Mmhmm."

I ran my teeth along the edge of his jaw and bit the tendon in his neck so hard he gasped. Despite his sleepiness, his well-satisfied cock began to stir with renewed interest. It was a powerful feeling.

"Oscar?" I said sweetly, trailing my hand down one hairy thigh to his knee and then back up the sensitive skin near the base of his cock. "Last chance to change your mind."

"Do your worst, Hugh Linzee." He pinned me with a look, and heat blazed between us. "I promise you, I rarely change my mind about anything."

In the moment, those words felt like a challenge. A dare. An opportunity.

It would be a long time before I realized they'd been a warning.