Chapter One

“We’re really done this time.”

The words spear through my heart with vivid sharpness. Nothing comes out when I try to speak, as though five years of memories are jammed down my throat. Helpless and confused, I watch Edward shove handfuls of his things into a duffel bag. Two large suitcases are already filled with more of his stuff, waiting by the door.

I’m unsure what triggered this, but it’s miles from how I expected our Saturday afternoon to unfold. Eddie has been in a frenzy for the past hour, scavenging through the apartment to gather his most prized belongings.

“Eddie, please. Let’s talk about this.”

“We already talked about it, Gen. A dozen times. I stayed because I hoped things would change, but they never do. Not with you.”

“I’m sorry! You know work has been hectic lately, and—”

“It’s been hectic since we started dating! You keep making excuses and promising you’ll take a step back and have more time for me, but you never do.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“And yet it is. All you need to do is to prioritize me rather than whatever big promotion comes next, for once.”

“We made a deal, Edward. You agreed we’d wait until I became head of my department.”

“I didn’t think it would take that long! Everyone we know is getting married and having children. But for us … It’ll be what? Another decade before we get there?”

“We can get married if you want,” I offer. “God knows our parents have been pushing us to.”

“Will you make time for family life if we do?”

I press my lips together, seeing no point in lying. Marriage wouldn’t change anything, at least on my side. I worked too long and too hard to let anything get in the way of my objective.

“See? This is why I can’t do it any longer. You refuse to compromise, and that is not how a relationship works, Genevieve.”

“And you? Are you compromising? You’ve been home even less than I have this week.”

Before I can gloat over my excellent point, he says, “I’ve been finding excuses not to be home for months and you didn’t even notice. What’s the point of being here? We barely speak, ignore one another, don’t have sex …”

The last one stings, but I kind of deserve it. It’s been a while since I initiated anything intimate between us, and the last few times he did, I rebuked him on account of being too tired or having work to deal with. 

“I’m sorry,” I say for the umpteenth time. “Maybe we can fix it. I promise I’ll do better. We can set a clear schedule where I make time for you. And establish a weekly slot for sex. We can—”

“Do you hear yourself, Gen? A weekly slot? Is it a chore for you? Like some duty you’d go through to keep me happy?”

“No, it’s not! I enjoy sex with you.”

“Well, I don’t,” he states, his bitter tone sending icy shivers up my spine.

“What do you mean?”

“Sex with you is boring. You treat it with efficiency like everything else, and it’s so dull.”

Now, I’m confused. First, I didn’t make enough time for him and sex, and now I’m bad at it? Somehow, that hurts me more than everything else he’s said so far. Especially since I have to fake my climax most of the time when he always finishes.

I’m still processing his words when he returns to his drawers to pack more things. When he turns around this time, tears are veiling his eyes. That sends a twinge of pain to my heart.

It’s really over, isn’t it? The man I expected to spend the rest of my life with is leaving, and I can’t stop him. Would I want to, anyway? Knowing what I do now, can I still go through with my life plan?

“I wish we could have made it work, Genevieve,” he says, pulling on the zipper of his bag to close it. It’s too full now, so I mindlessly walk up to him to help.

“Where will you stay?”

“I’ll be with Frank until I can find a place.”

“What should I do with the rest of your stuff?”

“I’ll let you know when I have space to store it. Are you okay if I keep the keys in case I need to pick up some things and you’re gone?”

“Yes, sure. It’s still your home,” I say. I own this place, but he’s lived here for four years.

“Do you think you’ll cry for me?” he asks, a lone tear rolling down his neatly shaven cheek.

My eyes drop to the first button of his shirt as I consider his question. He knows that I never cry. The last time I did was after losing my twin. Since those days, not a tear was shed for anyone.

When I can’t find the answer within me, I truthfully reply, “I don’t know.”

He looks disappointed as he says, “I see …”

We grew used to one another, complacent in our arrangement, and our relationship hasn’t felt like one in ages. It was practical and easy, something to hold on to rather than face the unknown with others. Have I slowly been falling out of love with him? When did this become our routine rather than the loving relationship it used to be?

“When will you tell your parents?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Mom knows things have been complicated lately, so she won’t be surprised.”

While I dislike that he’s been sharing our issues with his nosy mother, I suppose it’s good to have her prepared for the shock. My father won’t be an issue since he doesn’t care much about my romantic life. But Mother will endlessly nag me about it.

As pathetic as it is, I say, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, I watch as he hauls his bag over his shoulder. We hesitate on what to do next, and I settle on a brief and tight hug. Despite all that time with him, his body feels alien against mine, reminding me that things fell apart long ago.

“Take care of yourself, Gen,” he says with a small, forced smile once we let go.

“See you around, Eddie,” I tell him, returning a grin I’m not feeling.

I use his reluctance to leave to take one last look at him. His caramel eyes are weary, and his dirty blond hair is slightly askew, which is unusual. I grew accustomed to his face, so dashing when we first met. Then, I speechlessly stare as he makes his way out of our bedroom—my bedroom. Pain, betrayal, heartache … I wait for all those to wreck me, to crush my heart into a pulp in my chest. But they don’t come, and that troubles me. Yes, I feel abandoned and lost, but the agony it should unleash on me is a mere squeeze.

The front door opens and closes, and I stay glued right where I stand. I can’t do this whole thing again. I’m almost twenty-seven, which is too old to do it all over with another man.

It takes my phone dinging on the bed to rip me out of my thoughts. It’s Hana, replying to a text I sent her earlier—when Eddie was packing his things and I panicked.

Hananana

WTH?? What’s happening now? Is he still packing?

With a sigh, I type a reply.

Me

He just left. I think it’s really over this time.

Hananana

Holy fuck! What happened?!

Me

I don’t even know.

I send that because it’s easier than listing everything that’s been going on for the past year or so. She’s well aware of my sex life anyway, or lack thereof. Because she knows me better than anyone else, she replies with just what I want to hear.

Hananana

Red or white?

Me

Both.

Hananana

I’m coming to you as soon as I’m done pumping. Hang in there.

While I wait for my best friend to arrive, I assess what my life has suddenly become. My social circle got a lot smaller, because our mutual friends will pick a side and stick with it. And if I’m being honest, they were Eddie’s friends first—meaning, I already know who’ll get to keep them. At least we never got that dog I wanted, so we don’t have to fight about who keeps it.

My biggest concern is our colleagues. While Eddie and I don’t work in the same department, we work for the same company, and the ten floors that separate us might not be enough to prevent the spread of nasty gossip and rumors.

I still haven’t fully come to terms with everything by the time Hana arrives. She enfolds me in her arms as soon as I open the door, and the relief is instantaneous. Maybe it’s because she’s a mom now, but there’s something motherly in the hug she gives me, possibly the comforting plumpness of her figure.

Maternity really suits her, and the ease with which she’s going through it almost makes me regret never giving it a try. But between Eddie’s schedule and mine, there’s no way we could have made it work.

The mere thought of the future that was pulled out from under my feet makes me hold her tighter.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, honey,” she says in my hair.

“You always hated him.”

“No, I always thought you deserved better, which isn’t the same.”

Less than five minutes after we let go, we’re sprawled on the couch with some random Girl Power playlist in the background and wine in our crystal glasses. She can sympathize with me because we’ve gone through the same strict upbringing, with too many expectations for what we’re meant to become. Growing up in a Korean household, she was left with very little room for failure—which was how she got a full-ride scholarship to Harvard. Now, however, she managed to fight her way out of her strict parents’ grip and lives her life without worrying about meeting their impossible standards.

It takes over an hour to recount everything that happened with Eddie, and we go through both bottles as well as a pizza we had delivered. I don’t cry, so I have the answer to his question: no, despite five years together and the life I could see myself spending with him, I won’t cry over him.

“You know what annoys me the most?” I ask Hana as I crack open the pricey vodka I found in a cupboard. The words drag on my tongue, which means we probably drank too much already. It doesn’t matter though, so I pour some of the vodka into our empty wine glasses.

“That you don’t have ginger beer for Moscow Mules?” she replies.

“No. That Eddie told me I was bad in bed. It’s been five years! And he waited until he was breaking up with me to let me know? Who does that?!”

“A liar. I’m sure you’re great in bed. You do everything with panache.”

“Heck yeah, I do. I’m probably amazing. He was just making up excuses.”

“Totally.” There’s a moment where I can see her intently thinking while I ruminate on Eddie’s hurtful words. She picks up her phone from the low table before us and types something on it.

“If Tyrone tries to leave me, I might murder his ass.”

I chortle at the mere notion. Tyrone, her fiancé, is too enamored to do anything like that. Their relationship is as flawless as it gets, their bond getting stronger with every day that passes. The baby they welcomed into their lives seven months ago, Lucas, brought them even closer.

And here I am, barely affected by my boyfriend of five years dumping me.

“Maybe I’m broken,” I mumble.

“Nah, fuck that. You just slowly fell out of love with him.”

“I walled up again, you know?”

She looks away from her phone to offer me a small, understanding smile, knowing all too well about my dissociative response to trauma. It’s a fun, self-preserving method my brain developed over time—the unavoidable outcome of my parents’ strict education.

“It’s okay, honey. You and Edward were at the end of it, and you knew it in your heart.”

“I still feel like I should have had a stronger reaction.”

“It’s like grief, Gen. There isn’t one singular way to do it.”

“Maybe it’s because I knew it was my fault.”

“Oh, hell no.”

“I could have been a better girlfriend.”

“And he could have been a better boyfriend. He always complained about your work hours, but his are just as bad. That man wanted you to step down and put your career aside for his own comfort. Why didn’t he quit his job if he wanted kids so much? You’re making more than he does—more than enough to maintain your lifestyle.”

“He has his goals, and I have mine,” I justify.

“Exactly.” Her tone turns excited when she says, “Okay, I found a test!”

“For what?”

“To know if you’re bad at sex or not. It’s designed for heterosexual women and all.”

I freeze, many questions running through my mind at once. What if I am bad at sex? What if Edward wasn’t lying, and I’m boring in bed?

“First question,” Hana says without waiting for my approval. “Have you ever had the nastiest, naughtiest sex in your childhood bed as an adult?”

I shake my head, horrified at the thought. Sex in my parents’ house is something I would never do, for fear of whatever repercussions it might bring.

“Alright, so no on this one. Have you ever gone down on someone while pleasuring yourself?”

I shake my head again. Crap, it isn’t starting well.

“Have you ever had sex in a public place?”

“Does being at home with an open window count?” I try.

She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Not when you live on the 28th floor, Gen.”

The more questions she asks, the lower I sink on the couch. With every “no” I utter, I relive Edward saying that sex with me is boring. Hana doesn’t give up though, convinced the test will come through and I’ll get better questions later.

The good thing is that she fills our shot glasses every time I get sad, and we down more vodka. The bad thing is that I get sad a lot.

“What the hell is a Jacob’s ladder?” she asks at some point. Intrigued, I stare at her screen while she googles it. “Holy shit,” she breathes out, scrolling through the images.

I say nothing, too stunned to even speak. Penises. Heavily pierced penises. After a few pictures have passed, I realize that the “ladder” is a series of piercings arranged underneath the shaft. My knees come together on instinct, shuddering at the idea of that entering me. Why on earth would someone do this to themselves? It looks terribly painful—especially in such a sensitive body part.

“That must feel amazing,” my friend murmurs with fascination.

As I watch the pictures of dicks parading under her ever-scrolling thumb, I find myself wondering if it would. It has to be an interesting sensation, for sure.

“So, have you ever had sex with that?” she asks.

“Absolutely not. I prefer my vagina not in shreds.”

She mumbles something that sounds like “you wuss,” and returns to the test to select yet another “no”.

“How many questions are there?”

“Fifty. We have fourteen left.”

“Maybe we should stop now so I can tell myself I might have answered yes to at least one.”

“Come on, I’m sure you will. And who knows, maybe some of those questions were trick questions where you have to answer no to get it right.”

I give her a doubtful pout, folding my arms across my chest. This is turning out to be humiliating, even more than Edward’s words. Now, a curated test will confirm his claims.

When we complete the last question, she angles her phone away so I won’t see the answer. “So?” I worriedly ask.

She remains silent, her eyes going left and right as she reads. “Never mind. This test is stupid,” she concludes.

“Show me.”

“No, it’s dumb. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Before she can react, especially given how much we drank, I snatch the phone away to see my pathetic results. “Please tell us you’re joking,” I read out loud. “There’s no way you answered ‘no’ on every single question here unless you lied. If you didn’t, you are the most excruciatingly bad-at-sex person anyone could ever come across. You lack imagination, boldness, and probably the will to live. Sex with you is, without a doubt, the greatest chore one might ever encounter. We hope for everyone’s sake that they never enter your bed. Please, for the love of God, stop having sex.”

For the first time in ten years, I feel like I might cry. Hana takes the phone away from me, her apologetic eyes not enough to shake me out of my thoughts.

I’m terrible at sex.

I’m beyond boring, and I now realize that Eddie was gentle with his choice of words.

“Oh God,” I whimper with shame.

“It’s just a stupid test, Gen. It’s not true. Come on.”

“It is. It’s so true. I’m the most boring person in the world. No wonder Edward left.”

“No, stop that right now! It’s not true, and we can do another test to prove it.”

“It will only confirm what this one said. Shit, Hana … I’m awful at sex.”

I fall back onto the couch, processing the terrible information. It’s not like I ever believed that I was a sex goddess, but I didn’t think it was that bad.

“Come on, you’re young! You can improve!”

“No, the test said to stop having sex altogether. I think I’ll do that.”

“Fuck that test. It’s just a stupid bucket list that one person decided on. It’s their subjective opinion of what makes someone good in bed, not some globally agreed upon truth.”

I lie there, staring at the high ceiling above us. Maybe it’s the wine and the vodka—or perhaps desperation—but a ludicrous idea sprouts in my head. “It’s a bucket list,” I repeat.

“Yeah.”

“Which anyone could go through.”

“I guess.”

“Even me.”

Now she’s catching my drift, and a glimmer of interest shines in her brown eyes when I look up at her. “Even you, yes,” she confirms.

“Then I’ll do every item on it and show that stupid test who’s boss.”

“Yes, you will!” She’s beyond hyped up now, sitting straight up on the couch.

I push myself to the same position, slightly worried by how the earth spins too hard and too fast.

“There’s one problem though,” I say with a frown.

“What?”

“How am I going to find some guy with a Jared’s ladder?”

“Jacob’s. And I know exactly how.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Do you trust me?”

“With my life,” I gravely reply.

“Good. First, we have to make you look hot. Then, we have to take a few pictures. Come on, get up.”

Springing off the couch with an uncertain balance, she pulls on my arm to force me up. I let her, not because she’s stronger than me, but because whatever she has in mind sounds like a great way to take my mind off Eddie. She drags me all the way to my bedroom and then into the walk-in closet. My chest tightens at the sight of the empty shelves and racks, and the few things that he left behind.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Hana mutters, sensing my distress. “Come, honey, let’s get you looking all sexy.”

She pushes me to the back of the closet, where I keep the few party dresses I own. “The green one,” Hana commands. “With the spaghetti straps. You look so hot in it.”

Since she sounds so confident, I take out the Dior dress and examine it from top to bottom. It is a lovely garment, and the deep green satin molds my shape to perfection, leaving very little to the imagination. It reaches below my knees, but there’s a slit that runs high on my thigh and makes it a little more daring than what I’m used to. The cleavage is also a little much, but I’m allowed to flaunt my breasts now and then. The color is ideal for my complexion, and it’s a nice contrast with the auburn hues in my hair, which cascades in waves down my shoulders to the middle of my back.

“Go on,” Hana bosses me. I comply, too tipsy to question anything that’s happening. “Not gonna lie,” she starts as I remove my clothes, “this comes at a perfect time. I’ve been wanting to go out clubbing, so I’ll get to accompany you.”

“How’s clubbing related to any of this?”

“Well, you’ll have to find Eddie’s replacement.”

I scoff, shaking my head disapprovingly. “I don’t have time for that. My vibrator will have to do. At least it never misses, and orgasming in two minutes is so much better than wasting time with a man who can’t figure out where my clitoris is.”

“Only you could be so pragmatic,” she laughs.

“I’m a busy woman.”

“I’m well aware. This is nice, by the way. Shame you had to get dumped for us to have some quality time again.”

An incredulous laugh bubbles in my chest. “I missed you too, Hana.”

“Of course you did. I’m amazing.”

She really is. My social life might be in shambles, but as long as I have this woman by my side, everything isn’t entirely lost.

Chapter Two

There’s a pounding in my head that won’t go away. Even in my sleep, I can feel it. What the hell is happening to me? Am I dying of some unknown disease?

Seeking some comfort, I wiggle closer to Edward with a mumble, wrapping an arm and a leg across his frame. I stay there for a few seconds until I realize something’s wrong. This body is softer than Eddie’s, and it’s wearing sequins instead of the usual cotton and silk blend pajamas.

My heavy eyelids flutter open, and my gaze falls on a lush mass of black hair. Oh, right. Hana came over. And we drank way too much. Because Eddie dumped me after telling me I was boring in bed.

Which I am.

The reminder has my heart dropping low into my stomach, making me nauseous. Or maybe it’s the alcohol painfully leaving my bloodstream.

I haven’t been single in over five years, and I don’t mind it as much as I should. My biggest issue is that it sets back my plans. Without Edward, I’ll eventually have to start over and find someone else to build a future with. The prospect is unappealing, to say the least.

“Are you awake?” I whisper in Hana’s ear. A vague grunt comes as a response. “How’s that first postpartum hangover treating you?”

“My boobs hurt more than my head, so it’s not that bad.”

“Did you bring your pump?”

“Yeah, it’s in my overnight bag by the door.”

To thank her for rushing to me in my time of need, I slither out of the covers. That’s when I remember that I’m not wearing a nightgown. At some point, Hana slipped on a blue sequin dress from my closet that fit her silhouette, and by the time we went to bed, we were both too drunk to change into something else. I broke one of the spaghetti straps in my sleep, a costly mistake.

Hana is sitting up when I return, and I hand her the pump before heading to the dressing room.

“As much as I regret it now,” she says from the bedroom while I take the dress off and make a mental note to have it fixed soon, “I’m glad we caught up.”

“Me too. You’ve been so busy lately with little Lucas.”

“Yeah, who knew having a child would be so time consuming.”

“Literally everybody, Hana.”

“Hmm … And you? How’s work going?”

I wince, slipping on a comfortable sweater while I think of my answer. “My boss is still a pain in the ass. But he’s retiring in a few months, so I’m biting my tongue and waiting.”

“You think you’ll get his position?”

“No one else is as qualified as I am, so I should.”

“That’s exciting!”

Once I have flannel shorts on, I pick a similar outfit for my girl suffering out there. “I know. In three months, I could be the head of NexaCorp’s legal department.”

“Worldwide?”

“Just the US.”

“Also impressive,” she approves with a lopsided grin.

“Worldwide will be the step after that.”

Her head is leaned back on the headboard when I return, her expression one of relief, while she holds the pump against her left breast. “Will you still remember me when you’re head of the world?”

“Always,” I promise with a chuckle.

“Good.”

I sit on the bed, and we recuperate in silence for a moment. The only sound that fills the room is the rhythmic sucking of the pump, and I welcome it as it anchors us in time. “Did you get any matches?” she randomly asks.

“For what?”

“The dating app.”

Oh.

Oh! Crap!

All the wine and vodka shots entirely wiped that part out of my memory. Full-on panicking, I seek my phone, fragments of what we did the night before resurfacing. Just how drunk was I to agree to this?! I find the iPhone lying face down by the foot of the bed and come back to sit next to Hana. I barely have any battery left, but enough to do a quick check. My teeth gnaw at my lower lip, anxiety wrenching and twisting my guts. Holy cow, I have over a hundred notifications, and they are all from that kinky dating app we drunkenly downloaded.

What a stupid thing to do.

I open the app, which leads me straight to my page. The profile picture I uploaded only shows my chin and the deep cleavage of my now-torn Dior dress. I vaguely remember telling Hana that I didn’t want to be recognizable on an app like this, and I thank my drunk self for that.

There are two more pictures attached to my profile—one of my cleavage and one of my ass, which is only covered by the narrow V of my tanga. Alright, I take it back. My drunk self can go to hell. Before it’s out there any longer, I head to the settings and remove the two extra pics, scolding myself internally. At least we used a fake name—Jessica.

Gathering my courage, I read the description Hana and I came up with. Oh, God … It’s bad.

“Down to fuck with a man who has a Jacob’s ladder. Please, only DM me if you have one. Otherwise, abstain,” I read aloud, in case she forgot as well.

“Did it work?”

“Too well. I have 153 messages.”

“I told you it would,” she brags with a proud grin.

Mortified, I open the app’s inbox, wondering what kind of desperate creatures my profile attracted. The first message is a very poorly executed dick pic.

“Ew,” I let out with disgust.

“Damn, that is one ugly dong,” Hana says with unmasked amusement.

“And it’s not even pierced.”

“Men will use every opportunity they get to show their dicks.”

The other messages I open aren’t any better. By the twentieth, I’m certain I won’t go through with that stupid bucket list thing. This is providing terrifying insight into the dating pool out there, and if this is my alternative to being single, I’ll get myself a couple of cats and call it a day. These men are pigs and the odds that I’ll ever let another one inside me are getting slimmer with every dick pic.

The one that takes the cake is a picture with a spunk-covered hand with an attached message that brings back my nausea at once. “Look at what your ass did to me, you dirty, dirty slut,” I read, scandalized. “Okay, I’m done.”

“No, keep going!”

“This is turning me gay, Hana. I swear, I’ve never been as unattracted to men as I am right now.”

“Do you want me to open them so you won’t see how they defiled that beautiful bum of yours?”

Since there is no better alternative, I hand her the phone. While she scrolls through the many messages, I twist to collect the charger’s cable to plug it in. “Okay, this one has potential,” she says after a few minutes have passed.

She shoves the phone in my face and I read the message, reassured to see it isn’t another inappropriate picture.

Eli

Hey, I don’t have a Jacob’s, but my best bud does. Let me know if you’re interested and I’ll set you two up!

“Well, that looks promising,” I say.

“Right? He’s the only one who wasn’t downright sexual and trying to get into your panties.”

“And he has good grammar.”

I visit the man’s profile to get a better idea of what he might be like. Eli, 31, apparently lives in Brooklyn. He looks like a decent guy and gets bonus points for not having a picture of himself with a fish. His light chestnut hair, a little too long in every picture, matches his eyes, which have something in them that beckons trust.

“Too bad it was all for nothing,” I let out, throwing the phone on the covers.

“What?!”

“Oh, come on. It was a stupid, drunken idea. There’s no way I’ll go through with it.”

“It’s not like you’re committing to anything,” she carefully argues. “You can meet up with that guy and decide whether or not you want to go further.”

Ugh, that sounds time consuming. “I don’t like sex enough to go through all that.”

“Then you’ve never had great sex, Gen, because it’s definitely worth it.”

It’s my turn to purse my lips in a disapproving way. I always favored intimacy with long-term partners over one-night stands. Hana used to tell me I was doing it wrong, insistent that I’d never discover the true joys of sex that way. She’s always been more adventurous than me, and I can’t count how many times she encouraged me to put myself out there and experiment, try new men, or discover what I like. But this is going too far.

At the same time, I try to excel at everything I do, pushed by a deeply rooted need to gain my parents’ approval—something my therapist and I are working on during our rare sessions.

I give my everything at work, doing better than all my colleagues. I made the dean’s list at Harvard, finished high school as valedictorian, won championships for my extracurricular activities … Everything I undertake, I give my all and nail it. Somehow, my unhealthy need for perfection and nothing less is taking over my subpar sex life. While I don’t have to become the best at it, I can’t possibly remain the worst.

My drunken enterprise led me into a position I never thought I’d ever be in, and now I’m cornered, having to choose between my need for perfection and the comfort zone I so fiercely cherish.

“You have to try that ladder thing,” Hana insists. “And then let me know if it’s worth it. I’m sure I can convince Tyrone to get pierced.”

My nose scrunches on its own at the idea of her poor fiancé going through that. It must take a certain kind of man to undergo such mutilations. And for what? Is it to receive more pleasure? Or is it to give more of it? Regardless, it seems entirely unnecessary.

When Hana grabs my phone, I’m still torn, unsure if I want to disturb my neatly organized life for this. Nearly every hour of my days is already claimed, and sacrificing my little leisure time doesn’t sound appealing. But I say nothing and watch as she returns to the message Eli sent.

“Hi, thanks for reaching out,” she says as she types the words. “I’d like to know more about your friend. Is he hot? Is he a serial killer? Or a weirdo?”

“Nice priorities,” I scoff.

“You’ll thank me later.”

I’m genuinely surprised when Eli’s answer comes five minutes later. Hana is now pumping on the other side, and I’m still trying to muster the energy to go get us some ibuprofen.

Eli

It’s my understanding that he’s hot, yeah. And he was forced to put his serial killer career aside when he ran out of space to bury bodies in his basement. As for the weirdo part, I guess that one’s subjective. But he isn’t a creep, if that helps.

“A basement in New York? In this economy? He’s a catch,” Hana jokes.

I chuckle, rereading the response. It’s odd how a man selling himself to get laid feels untrustworthy, but this doesn’t. Not as much, at least. There’s some amount of authenticity to it that I wouldn’t trust otherwise.

We’re not expecting another message, but it comes nevertheless.

Eli

I realize this is weird, but you’re looking for a Jacob’s, and he’s into redheads. I thought it might be a good match. Fair warning though, he isn’t looking for anything serious. I hope you don’t have expectations regarding that.

“See? The stars are aligning,” Hana says with a grin.

“It’s kind of perfect, yes.”

“Then ask for the guy’s number. You can make it safe if you’re the one in charge.”

As I type an answer to Eli, I wonder again how I ended up in this situation. My life was perfectly fine twenty-four hours ago, with my dream Upper East Side apartment, a successful man in my life, a coveted job … And now, I’m messaging a stranger on a dating app, already way down the rabbit hole. The only excuse I can think of is that I’m still a little drunk and definitely sleep deprived.

But like Hana said, I’m in charge, so what’s the worst that can happen?

Eli is just as quick as before to send the number, and yet again, Hana spurs me on, encouraging me to send a text before my courage wavers. So, I save the number as “Ladder Guy” in my contact list and send a quick text.

Me

This is Jessica from the dating app. I think Eli told you about me? Would you like to meet?

There, that’s it. Now, all I have to do is wait for Ladder Guy’s answer. And if it never comes, then I’ll focus on another item from that list and circle back to this one. I got 153 messages in one night, so I’m sure it won’t be hard to find willing men.

When the phone vibrates in my hand, I almost drop it, surprised. My eyes widen when I see he is already texting me back. Oh, I’m not ready for this. I thought I’d have hours to prepare.

With a hand that slightly trembles from anticipation and worry, I unlock the screen to see his response.

Ladder Guy

Hello, Jessica from the dating app. He just sent me your profile’s screenshots.

Then, there’s nothing for a moment, and I wonder if he’ll ignore my offer to meet. Which I understand if I’m being honest. Had Hana come to me with such an offer—setting me up with some random guy she came across on a dating app—I would have refused too.

Well, now that I’ve flipped the situation around and realized the absurdity of it, I’m beyond confident that he’ll keep his distance. And if he doesn’t, he might not be very sane.

Just as I think it’s over, the phone vibrates again. He sent a second text.

Ladder Guy

Absolutely I’d like to meet.

My heart’s in my throat, anxiety wrenching my gut. This is how women get killed, isn’t it?

“If I end up murdered and found in a ditch, I hope you’ll regret doing this to me for the rest of your life,” I mumble to Hana.

“Oh, come on,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “It’s not like you have to meet him in Central Park in the dead of the night.”

A quick look at my schedule informs me that the only time I’ll have before a while is Friday. It’s definitely short notice, but the sooner, the better. And it’s the most scary and complicated item on that list, so I’m glad I get to cross it out first.

Me

The only time I have this month is Friday evening. Is 6:30 alright for you?

As I wait for his reply, I fidget with my phone. “What the hell am I doing?” I mutter to myself.

“Living a little, for once,” Hana replies, clearly excited about the whole situation.

My phone buzzes again, and my heart races. “Please, don’t be free,” I whisper as I unlock the screen.

Ladder Guy

I can make that work. Do you have a place in mind?

The sensation under my ribs intensifies, and I can’t tell if it’s anxiety, excitement, or worry. Hana was right about making it safe, so I decide on somewhere with CCTV and a security detail where no one would attempt something. Even the elevators have cameras, so I’ll feel safe enough to relax and let go of my worries.

Me

The Plaza Hotel’s bar on 5th Avenue.

I’m not entirely sure that we’ll end up sleeping together, but it being a hotel would be convenient if we decide to.

Ladder Guy

I’ll be there.

Me

Should I wear something specific so you’ll recognize me?

He doesn’t know what I look like, and I won’t send him a picture of myself. I’m pretty wary of such things and maintain a low online presence.

Ladder Guy

Cleavage.

My jaw drops, my cheeks burning from his audacity. Right, he doesn’t know my face, but he has Eli’s screenshots. Before I can get too offended by the rudeness of his suggestion, another message comes in.

Ladder Guy

I’ll recognize the freckles.

Well, it’s not as bad as him distinguishing me because of my breasts. But maybe he’s being humorous or flirty and I’m not getting it.

Me

And how will I recognize you?

Ladder Guy

Oh, don’t worry, love. You’ll notice me.

That almost sounds like a threat. Or is it a promise?

Chapter Three

I observe the bartender, considering calling him to order another drink. It would help soothe my nerves, but being tipsy by the time Ladder Guy arrives doesn’t sound like a good idea.

I take a deep breath instead and gaze at the bar’s entrance. He’s nearly five minutes late. Already, this isn’t starting well. I don’t care what Hana will say about it—I’m not waiting more than ten minutes for someone I don’t even know.

It’s my first time doing something like this, and I don’t like it. As soon as I sobered up after that drunken night, I deleted my profile from the app and removed it from my phone. The only reason I’m even here is because she forced my hand with blackmail, threatening to post Throwback Thursday photos of me that should never see the light of day.

Because I blame her entirely for the situation I’m currently in, I send her a text.

Me

This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

Hananana

You haven’t done it yet.

Me

Hana, it’s too much.

Hananana

Oh, come on. It’s nothing millions of people haven’t done before. Besides, he could arrive any minute now. Aren’t you a little curious?

Me

The fact that he’s late doesn’t work in his favor. He has another five to arrive, and then I’m gone.

Hananana

You’re such a wuss, Gen. It’s just a drink with some guy.

I set the phone down with a frustrated sigh. “This is ridiculous,” I whisper to myself. I’m sure there are better and saner ways to hone my craft. It’s been less than a week since Eddie broke things off, so being here now is way too early.

The thought of my ex makes my lips pinch with bitter discontentment. Although I haven’t cried yet, nor am I feeling any deep emotions over it, the breakup is affecting my work. My mind isn’t as focused as it used to be, and I’ve become paranoid, thinking every whisper I catch is about me.

Serves me right for dating someone who works for the same company.

We haven’t spoken since he left. Not via messages, not on the phone, not in real life … I’m unsure who should be the one reaching out first. I’m the dumpee, so it would be pathetic if I did. He said he’d keep me updated when he had a space for his things. Maybe I should wait for that. Or maybe he’ll come to his senses and return home.

I grab my clutch from the bar top, deciding to put an end to this madness. I’ll pay for my lemon drop martini and leave before Ladder Guy can arrive.

Just as I’m about to wave for the bartender, a movement to my right catches my attention. The tall, broad, and dark silhouette that just entered the lounge is hard to miss, so my gaze is drawn to it at once. And when my eyes land on him, my credit card nearly slips from my fingers.

I don’t think anyone quite like this man ever stepped into The Plaza. The way the surrounding chatter slightly dims confirms my suspicions.

Despite everything going on with him, the first thing I notice is how strikingly attractive he is. His angular jaw can cut through granite, and his deep-set, hooded eyes have a laser-like sharpness to them as they scan the room’s occupants. The man’s bone structure is immaculate, his cheekbones high and mighty, with a strong brow that rests under a flat forehead. His nose is also of ideal proportion, narrow and balanced. The bump that sits high on it indicates it was broken at least once, but that, somehow, doesn’t get in the way of his magnetism. His dark hair is neatly cut, short at the bottom, with a flawless fade that leads to longer hair, which is slicked back.

Once I’m done taking in the dazzling features of his face, my inspection lowers, which causes my eyebrows to shoot up. Below that remarkable jawline of his, reddish tattoos creep up from the collar of his black leather jacket. As much as I want to hate it, I can’t deny that it not only heightens his gorgeous features, but also gives him a dangerous and daring aura like I’ve never seen before. I can’t make out the intricate drawings inked on his skin from where I am, and my eyes dart lower on instinct. On his large hands, more inky drawings, all the way to his knuckles.

Who the hell is this man?

When his analysis of the bar’s patrons ventures toward me, I tense on my stool. The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise. Then, his intense gaze locks with mine, and my breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering in my chest. The flicker of recognition that sparks in his eyes nearly undoes me.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn’t Ladder Guy.

But he doesn’t continue his search, taking a confident step in my direction instead.

Oh, don’t worry, love. You’ll notice me. Well, his overly confident statement now makes sense. I could hardly not notice him. Jesus Christ, everyone in here noticed him. For some reason—probably naivety—I didn’t expect him to have anything other than those piercings I need him for. But now that he’s approaching me, I realize how stupid that was. If he isn’t scared of a giant needle repeatedly stabbing his penis, he’s definitely not worried about one running across his skin to draw tattoos all over it.

Panic slowly sets in, my breath returning in short and irregular pants. What the hell did I get myself into?

I should look away and pretend I have no idea who he is, so maybe he’ll be on his way and ignore me. But my entire body has turned both tense and limp, refusing to bend to my brain’s will.

The closer he gets, the more intimidated I am by his height and build. Even fully dressed, I can guess at the hard-earned muscles that ripple underneath his dark jeans and the black T-shirt under his leather jacket. He seems to be in his early thirties, which is when men peak, according to Hana. The stranger confirms that theory, clearly in his prime.

My mind goes entirely blank once he’s two steps away, close enough to catch the jade green of his irises and the finer details of his stunning face—down to the grain of the stubble that dusts his carved cheeks.

“Hello, Jessica from the dating app,” he says in a low voice that drips with sin. Australian. He has an Australian accent, which comes as an even greater surprise than the tattoos and the rest of him.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without the …” His eyes slowly descend to my chest, where purple satin covers me with modesty. April is too cold a month to wear something low cut, and I wouldn’t have, anyway. “… freckles,” he concludes.

Lie, a voice shouts in my head. Lie and say he’s got the wrong person. My mouth opens, eager to put an end to all this madness, but not a sound comes out of it. Something’s happening to me, and I hate it. His closeness is rendering me completely useless.

His head tilts slightly to the side, a devilish half grin pulling the corner of his lips. “Cat’s got your tongue, love?”

Again, my vocal cords are unable to produce a sound. Not when my attention is on the tattoos that I can now see clearly on his stretched neck. Feathers. The incandescent tips of feathers are what’s creeping out of his collar.

“Hmm …” he continues, his face veiled with amusement. “Too bad. I had plans for that tongue of yours.”

It’s either the crudeness, the image, or the reminder of why he’s here, but that shakes me out of the trance he put me in. This was a mistake, and I must end it before it derails any further.

“You must have me confused with someone else, sir,” I boldly lie, my voice slightly trembling.

His assurance doesn’t even waver at my statement, his eyes still determinedly staring at the details of my face. “Are you sure about that, love? I’d recognize that shade of red anywhere.”

Everything inside me flutters when he sends a hand between us to catch a strand of my hair between his thumb and index.

“Again, sir, I’m not—I’m not Jessica.”

“Let’s make sure, yeah?”

The instant he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, I realize my mistake. I don’t even need to look at his screen to know what his thumb is doing on it. When my phone rings and vibrates on the bar, I close my eyes to recompose myself and avoid his cocky smirk.

Alright, I was caught in a lie, but I can still wriggle out of this mess.

“You’re a naughty liar, Jessica,” he says with nothing but amusement after hanging up.

My eyes whip open. “And you’re late.”

For some reason, that earns me a dashing grin. And at that very moment, I’m glad my legs are tightly crossed as I sit on the stool because I feel it inside me.

Again, who the hell is this man?

“My apologies for the wait, but I was detained,” he offers with a slight bow of his head. I can feel my cheeks warm up at the thought that the man is even more dangerous than he looks. He must catch my inner turmoil because he impishly adds, “At work.”

My shoulders sink with relief, and he bites back a smile.

“Mister …” I trail off, trying to remember a name I never even asked for. “Sir. I fear there’s been—”

“Hold that thought. Excuse me, mate,” he calls to the man behind the counter. The tattooed stranger points at my empty glass and says, “Another like this, and I’ll have a draft beer.”

The bartender nods and springs into action with quiet efficiency. Oh, no. We’re not having drinks.

“Sir,” I try again.

“Jake.”

“Mr. Jake—”

He can’t quite hold back the chuckle that rolls out of his throat. “Just Jake, love.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Would you prefer kitten? Baby? Sweetheart? Red?”

My cheeks, or rather my whole face, warm up at the flirty tone he uses for each endearment. I gather myself as swiftly as I can. “I would prefer Jessica,” I reply dryly.

He laughs again, shaking his head. “Listen, I get that I’m not what you expected. But I came from too far to not at least have a drink,” he nonchalantly explains. “So, I’ll have a beer over there, and if you feel like not making this evening a waste of time, you’re free to join me. We’ll have a nice chat and part ways.”

The bartender chooses that exact moment to return with the drinks the man—Jake—ordered and a bill. Once he’s paid, this enigma of a man extends his tattooed hand to the tall glass of foamy beer, offers me a wink, and heads off to the table he gestured toward.

I sit there, dumbfounded, while he walks over to the empty booth. My eyes rake up and down his silhouette without my approval, and I marvel at the powerful legs I can perceive under his jeans and the roundness of his behind. This man is quite the specimen, and I don’t recall ever meeting someone as effortlessly alluring as him.

Maybe one drink. That way, Hana won’t be too hard on me when I tell her I chickened out and nothing happened. At least she’ll think I gave this man a fair shot. Also, it would be rude of me to make him come all this way only to leave because of his unexpected appearance.

With a deep sigh, I slide down the stool, grab my phone, my clutch, and my lemon drop. He must hear the clicking of my heels on the polished marble of the floors, but he doesn’t turn around. He’s busy removing his jacket when I join him.

Adamant to make things clear before this goes any further, I say, “Sir, you—”

My interjection dies in my throat as the leather comes off, revealing more tattoos. His arms are covered in intricate designs of ink, and it only adds to his irresistible charm. The artworks are eclectic, but they somehow blend well together, showing a level of craftsmanship I never thought possible in tattoos. The incandescent feathers that creep up his neck are part of a much larger design, and more of them descend on his biceps. It looks like he has enormous wings spread across his back, which pour onto the rest of him.

A man from the hotel’s staff is by us before I can remember how to speak, and he takes the jacket before disappearing back to the corner he came from.

With unwavering confidence, Jake lowers into a chair as I stand by the table’s side, unsure what to do next. “Sit,” he offers, gesturing at the cushioned seat opposite his. It’s a suggestion more than an order, so I comply without a word.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the chatter of the bar’s patrons. My eyes dart to his inked forearms when he folds them across his broad chest and observes me. At this point, I have to admit it to myself, I’m beyond intrigued—I’m fascinated.

“Eli and I have been wondering,” he starts, his green eyes commanding mine to meet them, “is it a dare?”

“Is what a dare?”

“The Jacob’s ladder. Were you dared to try? Or is it a kink? Something you enjoy doing now and then?”

“No, I …” My gaze shies away from his, and I fidget with the velvet of my tiny black clutch. “I’ve never tried, but I was curious about what it might feel like.”

Another crooked smirk tugs at his lips. “Women usually come back for more. So, I’d imagine it feels good. You used the past tense. Are you not curious anymore?”

I can’t hold back an embarrassed wince. “The drunk version of me was very keen on trying when she created that profile. But sober me is still debating it.”

“Now you’re testing my morals, red. I’ve never had to get a woman drunk so she’d want a ride,” he says with humor. “And as tempting as you are, I won’t stoop that low.”

My face is in a state of constant heat, but he still manages to make me blush harder. “That’s commendable of you, sir.”

“Do I look like someone who goes by ‘sir?’” He gestures at himself, compelling my gaze to examine him once more. “Call me Jake.”

“And do I look like someone who calls people by their first name five minutes into meeting them?” I retort, echoing his gesture.

His eyes do the same as mine did, and I swear they linger on the fabric over my chest for a moment too long. “Clarke,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“My surname is Clarke.”

“Oh … Alright, that works better for me, Mr. Clarke.”

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about this man’s attitude that confuses me. When he arrived, everything about his demeanor told me he was a conqueror, a man who domineeringly took whatever he wanted. But since then, he’s been nothing but respectful of my boundaries, despite the occasional flirting.

So, even though this won’t lead to anything other than a drink and a conversation, I’m glad that I stuck around. This is a lesson in prejudice that I obviously needed.

Chapter Four

Eli is getting more than a pat on the back for this one. Jessica from the dating app is even more gorgeous than he reckoned. That means I lost our bet and owe him ten bucks. But I don’t feel like a loser as I look at her freckled features.

My best mate knows me too well; the creature I found perched on a stool is exactly my type. Hair like flames licking down her perfect silhouette, and golden-brown specks that dust her face. If Eli’s screenshots are unedited, they also scatter down her cleavage and her arse. But her beauty goes much beyond that.

Her doe eyes convey a natural innocence, the cornflower blue shade of her irises almost luminous. Above them, the perfectly drawn arches of her eyebrows match the auburn of her hair. Coral pink lips are pushed into a discontented pout just below her slightly upturned nose, and their fullness triggers fantasies I can’t ignore. If I’m a lucky lad, I’ll eventually know the feeling of that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock.

There’s something about her that calls to me. Maybe it’s her uptight demeanor and how fun it would be to shake her out of it. I’m fine with her changing her mind and us not having sex, but part of me hopes she returns to her initial idea. Something tells me it wouldn’t take much. She’s trying to give the illusion of control and detachment, but I’m too well-versed in women to let it fool me. Is she aware I can see her knees pressing together whenever I’m flirting? Does she know her cheeks flush when I say dirty things? My only issue with the latter is that it makes her freckles fade away, and I’m torn between enjoying the sight of those or keeping up with the embarrassed arousal I can so effortlessly trigger.

But maybe she’s feigning the innocence in her eyes to drive me mad. After all, she’s the one who posted such a bold request on a famously debauched app. So maybe I’m the one unaware.

As my thoughts battle to discern if she’s a naive little lamb or an expert puppeteer, I pick up my beer and take a long gulp. Good, it’s European—none of that piss-poor American nonsense. She takes a sip from her glass, then a second, then a third, and puts it back. How many cocktails has she had? Is this her second or third? This one’s going down fast, meaning we might get very little time together. Also, if there’s a slim chance that we end up in a bed somewhere, I’ll only indulge if she’s sober. I meant what I said earlier.

“Did it hurt a lot?” she asks.

“The piercings?”

She nods. Will you look at that? Proper little Jessica is thinking about what’s going on in my pants.

“Not as much as I thought it would,” I reply.

Her frown tells me she doesn’t believe my answer. “I’d expect getting four holes pierced there would be agonizing.”

“Six.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve got six piercings there. Four looked too scattered.”

Her eyes widen, her lips part, and I decide this is what I want to do all evening long: shock her with my brazen crudeness over and over again. She’s madly alluring whenever I shake her conventional and proper manners.

I take another sip of beer to hide my proud grin and then decide she can take more. “The ladder hurt, but not as much as the apadravya.” Her huge eyes become even rounder, and I can’t hold back my grin anymore. “It’s when you pierce the—”

“I know what it is,” she cuts me off before she raises her glass, taking another sip.

When I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in my seat, I notice the way her eyes scan my tattoos again. I didn’t miss the way she reacted when I removed the jacket, completely flabbergasted by the sight.

Posh women like her always go nuts for the ink. And the muscles, too. It tugs at their proper education and snobbish values, and they can’t compute the thoughts they trigger. Their brains begin to wonder if maybe bland-and-boring-Bernard, or whatever the fuck their partner is called, is what they really need after all.

Given the place she picked for us to meet, I figured she was upper-class, so I knew my appearance would surprise her to some extent. But she had to know the kind of men her very specific request would bring, didn’t she?

“Do you do this often?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Certainly not. This is the first and probably last time.”

“Am I being so terribly disappointing, red?”

The nickname earns me a glare, but she still answers, “You’re not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

She ponders for a moment, her pretty little head tilting to the side as she assesses me. “Not someone this intense.”

Despite her earlier shock—which I was expecting—she seems to have a bit of spunk. That bold lie about her not being Jessica was greatly entertaining, and the way she owned it was admirable. It’s a good thing. I like them fiery inside and out, or it quickly gets dull.

“You’ve seen nothing yet, red.”

The freckles are gone again, and she squirms in her chair. Just like that, I know she’s imagining my pierced cock in her pussy, and it compels me to do the same. Well, if this doesn’t lead to sex, I’ll be going home with the bluest balls I’ve ever sported.

As though reading my mind, she puts her glass down and faces me, her expression grave. “If we were to engage in coitus,” she hesitantly starts.

“Don’t call it coitus.”

She disapprovingly frowns. “It’s the proper terminology.”

“Unless you want a man to go flaccid, don’t call it that.”

That’s a lie, though. I’m hard as fuck in my jeans, somehow turned on by her rigid manners.

“I couldn’t care less about the state of your … appendage.”

I grin, unable to hold it back. Just thinking of my dick makes her cheeks pinker. “You were saying about us possibly fucking?”

“Yes, I need to clarify a few things.”

“Clarify away.”

“First, I’d need to see recent STI test results.”

Well, she doesn’t beat around the bush. “Sorry, love, but I always use condoms. Especially with strangers from random dating apps.”

“It would be in addition to the use of a condom,” she states firmly. Then, after a brief moment of silent thought, she asks, “Does the latex impede the sensation of the piercings?”

“No. If we fuck, you’ll feel them. And me.”

My crude words make her blush even redder, and the way she presses her crossed legs together isn’t lost on me. She likes this, my attitude, the unknown territory she’s venturing into, the way we couldn’t be more mismatched … It works for her as much as it works for me.

“I get tested every two months, and I’m currently waiting on the results from last Wednesday,” I offer as a compromise. “Would that be recent enough?”

She thinks about it for a couple of beats and nods. “If we do this within the next ten days, that’ll suffice, yes.”

“Brilliant. Anything else you need? My social security number? Place and date of birth? My family’s medical history?”

The playful banter doesn’t land well this time, and her face falls into a vexed scowl. “If you’d rather not abide by my rules, we can put an end to this and call it a day.”

“I have no issue with it, Jessica from the dating app. I’m just not used to this being so businesslike.”

She winces, her blue gaze shying away from mine. Another long gulp of her drink gets swallowed, and I reckon she has two left before she’s done with it. “I will be drafting a contract in the eventuality that I make up my mind and decide to indulge in this.”

“A contract?”

“Yes.”

Well, that’s new. Kind of. I’ve never signed a contract for a one-night stand.

This isn’t a date, so I won’t ask personal questions, but if I had to guess, I’d say she either works in HR or she’s a lawyer. This contract thing has to come from somewhere, and I can’t think of another profession that would even come up with the idea.

I sense my mouth betray my amusement again. This woman is definitely a novelty. We’re both experimenting tonight, aren’t we?

“If we do fuck, I also have a condition,” I say.

She looks slightly taken aback, as if I can’t also have a say in this. “Go ahead.”

“It’s just sex. I’m not looking for anything serious, red, so this isn’t the start of some great romance.”

This time, she chortles. “Of course, it would only be sex. It’s not like we’re compatible anyway, Mr. Clarke.”

Good. She gets it.

“I’m just making sure. I’m not the monogamous type, so you’d only hurt yourself if you expected more.”

She rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “A man with commitment issues, how original.”

My lips bend into a smile. “I reckon I’m doing a favor to your gender, red. My talents deserve to be shared around, spreading as many pairs of legs as I can.”

“And you’ve spread many, is that it?” She can barely hold back from rolling her eyes again.

“They part for me, like the sea for Moses.”

An unstoppable snicker pours out of her lush lips again. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You’ll get it once you’re full of me.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks while mine rushes to my cock as I trigger naughty images in both our minds. Goddammit, I feel like a hormonal teenager.

“Does this usually work?” she wonders, her blue eyes scanning mine intently.

“Does what work?”

“The arrogance. Does it get women going?”

I lean back into my seat, entertained by her spirit. “You call it arrogance; I call it confidence.”

“It’s overconfidence, at the very least.”

“Maybe you should give me a try and judge for yourself.”

She looks more comfortable now, but my offer takes us a couple steps back again. Women usually like my cocky attitude, but I’m realizing—maybe too late—that it might not work on someone like her.

“Well, rest assured, Mr. Clarke, I won’t demand anything more from you than sex. Especially if you’re God’s gift to women. I’m a girl’s girl, so I’d hate to rob my sisters of your talents.”

“That’s the spirit, red.”

I’m not ready for this to end when she slips her phone into her clutch and downs the rest of her drink. “Well, it was interesting meeting you, Mr. Clarke. Let me know if you are still interested in furthering this encounter.”

I’m a little ashamed at how fast I answer, “I very much am.”

Her cheeks get rosy again, and just like that, I know she’s imagining my cock once more—which, to my dismay, hasn’t deflated through the whole encounter. I haven’t prayed in two decades, but if that’s what it takes not to head home with blue balls, I’m about ready to kneel and ask the Almighty to do me a solid. She intrigues me, and I’m dying to know what brought her here. Also, I’d love to see her under me, mewling my name as I fuck her hard and show her just how intense I can get.

“I might be in contact,” she replies.

“And when would that be, red?”

“I’m not sure yet. All of this is still being debated.”

I nod, take a long chug of my beer, and set the glass back down. “I don’t normally do this, you know.”

“You just said you only do hookups,” she points out, confused.

“Exactly. Meet. Fuck. Move on. What I don’t do are these little dates to get to know each other.”

“That isn’t what this was.”

“Then what was it?”

She thinks about her answer for a moment. “See it as a job interview. A way to assess if we’re compatible.”

“I see … And how did I do?”

The faintest smile makes the corner of her lush mouth twitch when she replies, “You did adequately, Mr. Clarke. I’ll probably be in touch soon.”

After a polite nod, she stands from the cushioned seat with her things and walks away. With what I can only describe as whiplash, I stare at the firm roundness of her bum, watching how the purple fabric of her dress clings to it. I almost regret seeing that third picture from Eli’s screenshots. I wish I could have discovered what it looks like in person. But I’ve looked at that picture quite a bit, enchanted by the constellations that her freckles form there.

She’s fucking stunning, and I’m a little offended that she never turns around to check me out one last time. Then, once she’s done getting her coat back, it hits me.

“Adequately?” I mutter to myself.

No, that won’t do.

I spring to my feet and hastily walk after her. She’s already in the lobby when I catch up, and I call out, “Jessica!” She doesn’t respond to it, which forces me to quicken my pace. “Red!” I call out again. This time, she stops and turns to me with a nonplussed frown.

There’s a large potted palm right by where she stands, so I clasp her wrist and pull her toward it. “Adequately?” I ask as I release her, a little vexed.

“Adequately is good,” she defends herself. “It could have gone a lot worse.”

“It isn’t good in my books. I can’t let you leave finding me ‘adequate.’”

“What’s your plan?” Her big blue eyes squint at me, wary.

I hope I’m right about her being a lawyer when I say, “May I offer a closing argument?”

She hesitates for a couple of seconds, wondering if she should allow it or not. Fuck, I don’t even know what I’ll say if she agrees. She’s close enough that I can smell the cherry scent etched on her skin and admire the specks on her face. But this means I can also see she’s breathing a little too fast, and her pupils are bigger than they were moments ago. I’m not the only one affected by the closeness of our bodies.

“Alright,” she eventually decides.

I’m not proud of what I do next, but I can’t think past my need for her, especially not with the way her lips are slightly parted, as if inviting me to act on my ludicrous impulse.

Because I’m not one to force a woman to do anything without her consent, I slowly lower my face to level it with hers. She tenses all over but doesn’t recoil, her gaze fixed on mine. When I’m sure she would have pulled away or pushed me if she didn’t want this as much as I do, I close the small gap separating us and press my mouth to hers.

I have no fucking idea what’s going on, but the softness of her lips feels damn right. Because I don’t know what to do now, I stay frozen in place. As closing arguments go, this one’s quite shit, isn’t it? She’ll give me a resounding slap, blush furiously, and leave me there like the moron that I am. The fuck am I doing?

The instant she rises a little higher to intensify it, all of my worries vanish. My hands reach out for her waist, and I pull her in as I tilt my head, aligning our lips and deepening the contact. I swear she melts against me, as affected as I am by this chaste kiss.

It’s when her slender hand rises between us to rest on my chest that I lose it. I tentatively lick the seam of her lips, a rumbly groan rolling in my throat. She surprises me once more with how receptive she is when she unlocks her jaw to grant me access. The invitation couldn’t be clearer, so I dip my tongue inside her warmth, licking with greed.

Things get out of hand in seconds, like a lit match thrown into gasoline. I’d blame it on the potted palm that isolates us, but she’s the reason why I get lost in it, completely oblivious to the people surrounding us in the lobby. All the flirting from before led to this, and now that our minds have expressed themselves, it’s our bodies’ turn.

It seems she gets overwhelmed as well, shyly darting out her own tongue to sample me while she has a hand firmly clasped on my neck. She tastes like lemon and sin, and I don’t think I could ever get tired of it. Not when her perfect body is pressed against mine, my cock hard and demanding between us.

My hands work faster than my brain as they lower down her back to grab her arse, eager to feel more of her. When I pull her closer to let her feel what she’s doing to me, she lets out a helpless whimper that passes from her lips to mine. I know I’m in deep shit when it echoes all the way to my balls.

The wanton sound has a different effect on her though, and it seems to shake her out of the lustful exchange we’re having. With a shocked gasp and a shove on my chest, she rips herself away from me.

Her glassy eyes look up at mine, filled with want, and her hand is over her mouth as if she can’t believe what just happened. We stand there for a moment, our breathing slightly ragged as we try to recompose ourselves. I have to force myself not to grab her again, ignoring every cell in my body screaming for more.

With a trembling hand, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I notice that the tip of it is even redder than her cheeks. This. Her blushing ears are why she deserves to be called red.

She doesn’t say a thing, adjusts her bag over her shoulder, and turns away from me. Before I know it, she’s back to her walk out of this place. I watch, feeling like an imbecile, until she disappears through the revolving doors.

Fuck, I messed it all up, didn’t I? She was a wild deer, and I scared her by acting like a tactless brute. “Fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself.

I’m so mad about the way I handled things that I don’t finish my beer when I return to the bar. I fetch my jacket and the helmet I left with the valet service by the hotel’s entrance. During the entire ride back to Brooklyn, I scold myself for my abrasive manners. I’m usually a lot better with the ladies, but it seems this one isn’t like anything I’ve known before. She stressed me out somehow, and I panicked.

When I arrive at The Devil’s Court, there’s barely any space left for my bike. I still make do and enter the crowded bar. The familiar atmosphere helps with the frustration, and the rock band on stage does a great job shushing the thoughts of failure. Ever since we bought it, this place has become a second home to me and my mates. It doesn’t matter if the floor is always sticky, regardless of how much we mop it, or if the smell of cigarettes is etched into the old wallpaper. This poorly lit bar with loud rock, good booze, and questionable company is ours, and we love it exactly the way it is.

After a quick scan of the crowd, I spot Eli by the bar, talking to Killian behind it. We’re a tight trio, and I know that two minutes with them will be enough to get my mind off the stunning redhead I just botched it with.

“Already back?” Eli asks when I arrive next to him. “I see your stamina hasn’t improved.”

“You’re one to talk. When was the last time you got your dick wet, you twat?” The reminder makes him scowl, but he deserved it.

“What happened?” Kill wonders, pouring a beer for me.

“Nothing, we just had a drink.”

“Oh, so it was a date?” Eli interjects.

“No. It was a … job interview of sorts.”

Kill sets the pint before me as Eli continues the interrogation with, “Did you pass?”

“I don’t know yet. Probably not.”

“Why aren’t you asking him the important question?” Kill asks Eli.

“I’m savoring it because I already know the answer. See how defeated he looks?”

Fuck, right. I forgot about that. With a discontented mumble, I take my wallet out and find a ten-dollar bill that I smack in front of Eli.

“So, she was hot?”

“Yeah.” I don’t say that she was stunning, with the body of a goddess, the face of an angel, and the bearing of a queen. They’d never let it die otherwise.

“Told you. Some women don’t put their faces on those apps because they’re so pretty they’d get stalked and all kinds of creepy shit.”

“Well, in my experience, it’s usually because they don’t have much to offer. Now, can we move on to another topic, or should I go find someone more amenable to spend the evening with?” I ask, mindlessly eyeing the packed room.

I have a pair of balls that need emptying, and I can spot a few women I’ve already shagged and who’d probably be more than willing to help me out. While I wish the night ended with proper little Jessica, I’m not opposed to finding some relief with a woman less complicated than her.

A woman who doesn’t need a contract to fuck. One who won’t think I’m only adequate. And one who won’t make my cock ache every time her face turns red with arousal.

Shit, I really messed this one up, didn’t I?

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