Things We Burn (Jupiter Tides)

Chapter 1

One

“Can we leave yet?”

My best friend side-eyed me. “We only just arrived.”

“Yes, I came, I saw.” I waved my hand at the crowd.

“You’re also supposed to conquer.”

“I haven’t got the energy to conquer,” I whined. “I worked more than I slept this week.”

Exhaustion had settled deep into my bones, making moving my limbs, talking, and worst of all, socializing, seem torturous. I was already fantasizing about my bed and the six hours of sleep I’d be able to grab if I left at that instant.

“Then it’s all the more important for you to be here right now.” Kiera reached forward to a waiter with a tray of champagne, taking two glasses. “You are in dire need of a life.” She handed me a glass.

I took it on reflex more than anything else. Champagne was the last thing I wanted right then. What I really wanted was a warm cup of tea and my bed.

“ This isn’t the kind of life I want.” I gestured around the room with my glass.

The room was full of very impressive looking people. People in expensive outfits with glossy hairstyles—both the men and the women—and glowing skin, who were laughing and generally looking fabulous.

I doubted I looked fabulous. Kiera had tried to get me into one of her short, tight, sparkly dresses. Though my best friend was a force of nature, I was not a short, sparkly dress kind of woman. She knew this, yet she pushed me to wear some scrap of fabric I doubted would cover enough of my body to keep me out of a police car for indecent exposure.

Instead, I’d worn a pair of black, low-waisted slacks and a black halter, relenting by wearing a pair of Kiera’s shoes. They were much too high and uncomfortable for someone who had already been on her feet for at least twelve hours today.

I had no idea what I was thinking. About the shoes or letting her drag me to the party.

Oh yeah, I knew what I was thinking. I hadn’t been laid in months, and I was looking for some real human contact and an orgasm that didn’t come from my vibrator.

This party was really the wrong place to go for that.

Sure, the men here were handsome. If you liked them with fake tans, perfect hairstyles, sculpted muscles and a mouth full of teeth too white and straight to be anything but veneers.

I liked my men a little more … rugged. The kind of men who wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t had a haircut or color in months. That my eyebrows weren’t groomed and I was neither tanned nor flawless. That I was not a size zero nor even a size six. The kind of man who didn’t notice all that stuff and really only cared about whether I was borderline attractive—which I thought I was—and consenting—which I also was. Almost every man here had a supermodel type on his arm or was ogling one of the many supermodel types who filled the room.

It was not my night.

At least there was wine.

I sipped it. Expensive wine too.

I wasn’t a big drinker, mostly because I didn’t have time nor the inclination. But some of the perks of my job gave me access to some of the most expensive booze on the planet. Sure, it was good. I enjoyed the ritual of it. The history. The way it paired impeccably with food. But I wasn’t about to spend a thousand bucks on something I was going to pee out later.

Just when I was about to write this party off as a fail, my eyes found silvery-blue ones.

The most striking color I’d seen on a man. Or a person, for that matter.

And they were looking at me.

Me.

In a sea of gorgeous people.

Standing beside Kiera—the tall, stunning woman who had made men walk into walls from staring at her before.

He took my breath away.

And not just because of his eyes.

There was a whole lot more going on.

A face, for starters.

One that was not polished nor tanned like the others in this room. It was olive-colored, though in a more natural way. He looked like he was Italian or Greek and spent hours in the sun. Weathered. Even from across the room, I could see creases on his face.

He had dark, glossy black hair that brushed his eyebrows. It was messy, tousled and long enough to communicate it was overdue for a cut. His nose was crooked. Like it had been broken and then never healed quite right.

There was a scar going through his lips, one that marred them just a little. Not enough to turn his attractive mouth into a grimace. Nor did it obscure his ability to smile. Which he was doing right now.

Though you could call it more of a smirk.

A smirk that did things to my … lady bits.

They had been sorely neglected by members of the male sex. Things were dire if a smile was doing it for me.

Although this was no regular smile. This dark-haired, rugged, square-jawed man was something else. And he definitely didn’t look like he belonged here at this party.

Most men were wearing collared shirts, if not expensive suits.

He was wearing a simple black tee and black jeans. Though he made them look like they were worth a million bucks. He had tattoos scattered up and down his arms and one crawling up his neck, if I wasn’t mistaken.

He was tall. Towering, one might say. I didn’t think a man’s height overly mattered to me before. But it did now.

He must’ve been over 6′, and he was full of corded muscle. Not bulky but defined. His biceps were stretching the sleeves of the tee he was wearing. And not because he was wearing a size too small either.

I would’ve liked a size smaller because then I would’ve seen the outline of the six-pack he most definitely had.

“Holy shit,” Kiera breathed from beside me. “That’s Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes.”

I reluctantly wrenched my gaze away from my man to look at where my best friend was gazing.

Except she was looking at him .

“You know him?” I asked, a little disappointed. I recognized the way she was looking at him, and I immediately felt a stab of aggression toward my best—and only—friend in the world. That did not make sense. For me to feel territorial over a man I didn’t even know, for me to feel disdain toward the one person on the planet I had that I didn’t outrank or was blood related to.

“Of course, I do,” she hissed, still staring, openly.

Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes still had his attention firmly in our direction. It felt like a game, a challenge, that unrelenting stare.

My gaze darted down to my glass. I did not shy away from eye contact, didn’t blink first in games of power moves. Until then.

“He’s only the biggest thing in extreme sports right now,” Kiera babbled, unaware of the turmoil swimming through my mind. “He just cleaned up at the Motocross Championships.”

Puzzled, my attention went to her. “Since when do you follow sports, extreme or otherwise?”

As much as I loved my friend, and I did, dearly, she was not someone who had varied and eclectic interests. She loved parties, expensive shoes, going to the spa and steamy romance books. Not that there was anything wrong with those things.

In fact, she had a lot more going for her compared to me who didn’t have any interests. Beyond my job, though more than one person—people I’d dated—had called it an obsession.

Sad, really.

“You do not have to follow sports to know who Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes is,” she scoffed, as if it were obvious.

“Why are you calling him by his full name?” I asked, genuinely confused. “And what is with ‘The Devil.’” I air quoted. “It sounds like the name of some Disney channel character in a teen sitcom.”

Kiera rolled her eyes then glared at me. “If you actually lived outside of that small, steaming kitchen you cage yourself in, you would know that he’s kind of a celebrity in all spheres. On account of him being fucking hot and a total badass. He’s dated countless models and actresses, and he is literally fearless . He has medals and awards in like three different extreme sports. He competed in the winter Olympics after breaking his arm in the qualifiers and brought home the silver. Brings new meaning to the term ‘daredevil.’”

“You sound like you’re reporting for an entertainment channel,” I told her, failing to be impressed. I’d met many people who were famous, talented and world renowned in their field. More often than not, they were obnoxious assholes. You had to be in order to get to the top.

I supposed I was one too.

She shook her head. “No, I just live in the real world,” she snapped, though not unkindly; it was just her brash way as a native New Yorker. “One where Kane Rhodes is currently king. And apparently, he just dumped his latest—oh, my fuck, he’s coming over here, he’s coming over here.” She readjusted her dress so her already well-exposed breasts spilled out further.

I didn’t do anything to alter my appearance. It was what it was these days. Though I did wish that I had washed my mousy-brown locks and done something other than take them out of a French braid and kind of spritz the curls a little. They were just touching my shoulders, the volume of the curls softening my face somewhat but also not looking anywhere near as polished and shiny as everyone else’s at the party. I’d tried products to tame the frizz, the fly-aways, spent money that made me wince. But my hair always ended up the same. Wild, unruly and easier to shove up into a bun. What I was used to since it needed to be tied up for work.

At least Kiera had done my makeup.

I’d initially thought she’d gone way overboard with the blush high on my already round cheekbones, and she’d made the liner on my eyes too dark, causing my shadowy-brown eyes to look almost black. Then she’d swiped red lipstick over my lips—my most hated feature, even though Kiera told me she paid a hefty amount to get fillers to look half as natural and full as mine.

The top I was wearing was Kiera’s. Though we had the same bust size, we did not have the same waist by any stretch of the imagination. The fabric was silky and had a lot of give, but it still clung to my torso in a way that made me slightly self-conscious. My stomach was not washboard flat, and my hips were wide. I had the traditional hourglass shape. I’d never really tried to lose the extra pounds I carried because it was my body’s natural shape, and eating was part of my job.

It wasn’t that I thought I was some wallflower; I understood I had all the features that made me conventionally attractive. I had curves that a certain kind of man enjoyed. But I never felt comfortable with them, never felt like they matched up with who I was. I was not the sex kitten type person that my full lips, hourglass figure and dark gaze communicated.

Maybe, deep down I wanted to be. I’d never felt comfortable with sexuality or femininity. I’d shoved it down whenever my mother tried to address it, further bolstering the distance between us.

Hence why I wasn’t used to wearing a whole lot of makeup, and I didn’t recognize myself when Kiera had finished with me.

I kind of looked … sultry, I guessed? Who could tell?

Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes did in fact seem to be making his way over to us, though. And it made sense that he was doing that because of my petite, curvy and knockout bestie with the greatest tits you could find in this room.

“He’s coming over here,” Kiera repeated. “Oh my god, I wish I was filming this.”

Of course, she did. Kiera had a social media presence that had taken off. She’d recently been able to quit her job in cosmetic sales to pursue it full time. That was where the tickets to this swanky party had come from. Perks of the job.

I watched the crowd part for this man, people staring as he walked by. Some were even gaping. A couple of people not so discreetly filmed him.

My attraction to the man waned some. Anyone who garnered attention like that would likely have an ego the size of Texas.

Though my attraction waned, it didn’t fizzle out completely. No, my heartbeat thundered by the time he stood in front of us.

“Hi.”

His voice was like honey. Or whisky. Something smooth and impossibly rich and manly at the same time. But with an edge. A rasp.

My skin prickled with the single syllable greeting.

That was not directed at my best friend.

But me.

Or maybe the person behind me.

There was no way for me to check without it being obvious.

I was pretty sure it was me, though, because he was standing close to me. Like really close. Much closer than was polite.

I could smell him.

He smelled of a woodsy aftershave and something else. Something that wasn’t manufactured and didn’t come out of a bottle. That was all him.

I could bathe in that smell.

Pheromones, I reminded myself. Pheromones. It was a natural phenomenon, designed by nature. On a cellular level, we must’ve been somewhat compatible. That was it. It didn’t mean anything profound. No fireworks nor love at first sight that Hollywood tried to peddle.

No, we were animals at our cores, a chemical reaction to satisfy an ancient urge to further the species.

“Hi,” I replied reflexively, trying to get my bearings.

I wasn’t someone who was shaken easily. Working in some of the most chaotic and high-profile kitchens in the country will do that to you. If you were going to crack under pressure, you did it about the first year of working in an actual restaurant environment. Usually the first month. I had seen too many mental breakdowns to count and been on the edge of a few myself. There was a moment when you were sweating, when Chef was screaming at you, when your fingertips burned because you hadn’t yet scorched the feeling out of them, when you couldn’t remember the last time you slept and you seriously thought your heart was going to explode. That was the moment when you walked out of the kitchen forever. For your own sanity.

Or you held on to your shit by the tips of your seared fingers, embraced the part of you that thrived off this chaos and pulled yourself together. I was proud to say I got my shit together years ago and hadn’t come close to losing it since.

Yet here I was, having heart palpitations because a hot guy said hi to me.

Pathetic.

I’d been around plenty of good-looking people, plenty of men with attitude and charisma that made them more attractive than they should’ve been. The restaurant world was driven by men like that, ones who had power, were used to women falling at their feet and saw women who didn’t as people to be conquered.

Once... Once I’d let a man like that conquer me, and I’d promised myself I would never let that shit happen again. I’d never be charmed by talent and power and wealth.

That reminder hardened me ever so slightly.

“I’m Kane.” His eyes twinkled, that smirk still in place on his face.

“I’ve heard,” I replied, my voice somewhat cooler now. I’d found my trademark calm. A couple of seconds too late, but better late than never.

He raised his brow playfully. “You’ve heard ?” His eyes were electric blue. The tattoo on his neck was a delicate sparrow, juxtaposed by hard cords of muscle.

There was no way to catalog the rest of the tattoos—of which there were many—without it looking like I was gawking.

I nodded, taking a small sip of the champagne in my hand. Not because I was thirsty, but because I needed something else to do other than just stand there and look at him. I forced myself to make the sip slow, almost lazy. “About ten seconds ago.”

His brow stayed raised, and his smirk stretched into a full-on grin. “You’ve known who I am for ten seconds?”

I shrugged. “Give or take.”

He ran his hand through his dark hair. Now that I was up closer, I could see it had a wild curl to it. There didn’t seem to be any product taming it. His tan skin was smooth but also weathered in a way that communicated he didn’t slather expensive products on his face. And the lines around his eyes and forehead said he didn’t inject Botox like many of the men at parties like this did. There were thin streaks of silver in that inky hair, barely noticeable to the naked eye, but I was making it my business to catalog every inch of him.

His left hand had a tattoo on it, a vintage looking compass with script around it I couldn’t read. The tattoos on his arms weren’t a cohesive sleeve; they were unevenly spaced, and although I couldn’t peer closely at them, I could see they varied in intricacy and style.

I pegged him to be my age, maybe a little older than my thirty-five years.

“Well, you seem to have me at a disadvantage since you’ve known who I am for about…” he looked to his wrist where an expensive looking watch sat. “Twenty seconds … give or take, and I still don’t know who you are.”

He was flirting. That much was obvious. Just because I hadn’t been laid in a while didn’t mean I was na?ve. I watched the mating dance at the restaurant every single night. People were always screwing each other… Front of house, back of house—everyone dipped their pen in the company ink.

Except me and a handful of others who had learned our lesson the hard way and kept our work life and sex life separate. Which, in a job like mine, meant that you didn’t have a sex life because you dedicated your life to your job.

It hadn’t bothered me. I wasn’t a sexual person.

Or at least I’d thought I wasn’t.

Feelings and hunger were waking up in places I didn’t even know I had inside me from just this man’s proximity and his playful, charged gaze.

“I’m not known for bringing new meaning to the term ‘daredevil,’ so it makes sense you wouldn’t know who I am,” I replied, a hint of teasing in my tone. A very slight hint. I had somewhat of a dry, cold sense of humor that a lot of guys—most guys—did not understand or like.

They thought I was mocking them, and their fragile egos did not react well.

Kane, on the other hand, seemed absolutely delighted. He chuckled. Low and throaty, a sound that … did things to me. I squeezed the stem of my champagne glass.

“Seems you’ve learned a lot about me in a short amount of time.” He met my dry teasing tone with one of his own. “I’m impressed.”

I shrugged in response.

I got the impression he had a lot of women falling over themselves or throwing themselves at him. Not that it wasn’t tempting. But again, I’d been around too many men like that, and I hadn’t so much as blinked at them in years.

Kane, on paper, should’ve been just like the rest. Handsome, rich, flirty, charismatic. I was inoculated to all of that. Or I’d thought I was.

It turned out he was a different strain of man entirely.

“If you know even a little about me, you may know that I’m not left at a disadvantage for long,” he murmured, reaching forward to take my champagne from my hand—our fingers brushing in the process and my body jerking at the contact—before lifting it to his lips, right over top of the imprint of my bright red lipstick, and taking a long sip.

I watched his throat move as he swallowed, enchanted by the muscles in his neck, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the rough stubble covering his bronzed skin. The sparrow on his neck moved its wings.

My haze lasted for about a second.

Until the music and the voices of the party filtered back in, and there was movement to my right.

Kiera’s eyes were darting between the two of us, holding her own glass and wearing what could only be described as a shit-eating grin.

She’d watched and heard the whole exchange. Of course, she had. She’d been standing right beside me the entire time. I’d just forgotten about her presence.

A dick move.

Kiera talked a mile a minute and mingled with the rich and famous on the regular, and not once had she left me standing awkwardly at her side.

“This is Kiera Graves,” I said quickly, focusing on my friend. I waved at the man still holding my champagne glass with lips slightly reddened from the transfer of my lipstick. “As we’ve established, this is Kane Rhodes.”

I had angled my body to face both of them, giving Kane my side and, therefore, not putting myself at risk of ogling him like a lovestruck teenager while he drank my wine. A gesture that was so intimate and sexual I could barely breathe.

Kane did not seem perturbed; he merely changed his position, coming to stand beside me, so close that our bare arms brushed.

My body stiffened.

I did not like my bare skin brushing someone else’s like this. I had an odd thing about touching. About this kind of touching. Not quite intimate but familiar in a way that made my skin crawl.

No one, not even the scant amount of lovers I’d had, could touch me in that way. Except Kane could.

A complete stranger.

It didn’t make my skin crawl.

No. It sent heat sparking up my arm and into every nerve ending in my body.

“And you don’t know her name,” Kiera nodded to me, still grinning between the two of us like a Cheshire cat. She was enjoying this. Because she’d never seen me in this kind of situation with a man. She’d never seen me in any kind of situation with a man.

I’d met her after all the drama with the man I didn’t speak of. Had only mentioned it to her once when she’d gotten me drunk on grappa on the one vacation she’d forced me to take in Corfu.

Kane looked at Kiera when she spoke, maybe out of politeness, but his gaze didn’t stay on her for long. As if it were magnetized, it floated back to me with a sultry warmth that made the back of my neck hot.

“Unfortunately, not yet,” he replied.

“Well, then I’m not doing my job in promoting her,” she frowned.

Kiera was not a publicist by trade, but she tried very hard to be my publicist, agent and manager all in one.

“No, I’m just doing my job in sabotaging your efforts to promote me,” I countered, focusing on Kiera and not on the man staring at me, whose arm was still brushing mine.

Kiera’s scowl deepened, but she kept her attention on Kane. “Avery Hart is the best chef in New York. Which means she’s the best chef in the world.”

I rolled my eyes. Kiera was of the opinion that New York was the best city on planet Earth, and if it didn’t happen in New York, then it didn’t happen at all.

“I think many chefs in New York, and in France, Italy, Japan and practically all over the planet would beg to differ,” I told her, my ears already hot. I bet they were turning red. I loathed when the conversation veered to me in this way. I should’ve been used to it. Part of the game was playing into praise and giving interviews, though I had strict guidelines to determine which ones I’d participate in.

Pretty much being whenever the owner of my restaurant vaguely threatened me into doing them so the restaurant got more buzz.

Not that it needed it.

Our reservation list was booked two years in advance. No amount of social cachet or fame could help you jump that list.

Kane’s eyes were still on me. I could feel them. It was a surprise I wasn’t just melting to a puddle at his feet.

“A chef.” His voice tickled my skin. “I consider it a crime that I haven’t eaten your … food, Avery Hart.”

My body might’ve twitched, had I not had exquisite control over my reflexes.

He’d paused on purpose, to make the not so vague sexual innuendo. If any other man had uttered that sentence, it would’ve come off as sleazy and gross.

With Kane, it was only riveting and charming.

I forced myself to straighten my back, my brain battling against the reaction of my body. Over how easily this stranger had power over it. The lack of control was what snapped me back into my usual fa?ade. I cleared my expression and stared at Kane, forcing myself to ignore the heat in his eyes.

Ensuring that my hand didn’t shake, I reached out and took my glass back, maintaining his gaze as I took a long sip.

He didn’t speak, just watched me drink, his eyes traveling to my throat as I swallowed.

“You won’t eat it for another two years,” I told him after I swallowed. “That’s if you call the restaurant right now and ask for a reservation. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I have an inkling you are many things, Avery Hart, but I know you’ll never be disappointing,” he snickered without missing a beat.

I opened my mouth to sling a cold retort, even with my body close to spontaneous combustion, but Kane didn’t give me the opportunity.

“Kiera Graves, you strike me as a woman who can handle herself,” Kane stated playfully, eyes still darting from her to me.

Every time that azure gaze zeroed in on me, my knees quivered, and my stomach felt like it was bottoming out.

“Oh, I can take care of myself,” Kiera countered with a gleam in her eyes. One that usually signaled trouble.

“So you wouldn’t be cast adrift if I were to take Avery away with me.” He stepped even closer, our arms no longer brushing. They were now pressed together, and I could feel the warmth of his body, smell the depth of his cologne mixed with a scent that couldn’t possibly be mixed in any laboratory. A scent that was only biological.

I had a nose—part of the job description. Taste was arguably the most important, but every sense was part of the cooking and consuming experience. So maybe my nose was more sensitive than the layperson's.

Or maybe it was something utterly and wholly innate that made my entire body jerk when his smell hit my nose.

Or maybe it was the warmth of his body, the sheer size of it, big, powerful and all-consuming.

Maybe it was the words he said, the words that it took a second to process.

“I would have to insist you take Avery away with you,” Kiera answered. “This isn’t really her scene.” She waved her hand at the party.

“Avery walks and talks and has an opinion of her very own,” I informed the both of them, my voice sharp, cold despite the fire in my veins.

I was the ‘Ice Queen,’ after all. A title coined by some disgruntled staff in my kitchen. Or maybe it had been an old lover; I didn’t know. But the title stuck.

The Ice Queen of Inferno .

A rather tacky title some second-rate newspaper had run, cobbling together quotes from the scant amount of interviews I’d done to create a ‘profile’ on me. They’d also interviewed people who I’d fired from my kitchen, all of which did not have nice things to say about me.

Neither of the people in front of me blanched at the tone that sent grown men running away from me in the kitchen. Both of them just grinned. Kiera’s playfully and knowingly, and Kane … with pure lust.

The man in question turned to face me fully, the front of our bodies mirror inches apart. Much too close for people who had only learned each other’s names … minutes? ago.

My breathing turned shallow at the closeness that should’ve been far too intimate for strangers, yet I leaned into it.

“Do you, Avery Hart, want to leave this godforsaken party full of vapid idiots—present company excluded—and come home with me?” Kane asked, eyes twinkling with sensual promise and mischief.

There it was. Plainly. Come home with him. No bullshit. No, he was saying exactly what he planned. Desire was threaded into his gaze, into his proximity and in the chemistry between our bodies that didn’t make a lick of sense.

I was about sense. Logic. Weighed risk. The only excitement in my life happened in the kitchen. I was strict about that. Nothing unexpected. Nothing chaotic. Nothing dangerous.

Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes promised nothing but chaos. Danger. I should turn my back on him.

Instead, I looked up at him and uttered a single word.

“Yes.”

I hadn’t thought my body could have any more of a visceral reaction to a person, hadn’t thought Kane could radiate any purer sexual or masculine energy.

I’d been wrong.

The second the single syllable exited my mouth, all playfulness left his gaze.

He was a portrait of desire. Ravenous hunger.

For me.

He didn’t hesitate, his arm wrapping possessively around my waist, resting his palm on my lower back.

That area burned with what felt like a brand.

“Kiera, it’s been my pleasure.” He gave my friend brief eye contact before moving us away.

I didn’t say anything to her, letting myself be taken by Kane. A quick glance over my shoulder showed Kiera grinning ear to ear, raising her glass to me in a toast.

Whipping my head back around, the throngs of people I’d previously had to weave through parted for us.

They parted for Kane.

Everyone melted away from this man’s path, eyes following us. I didn’t miss the way people zeroed in on him. They whispered to each other. Some even snapped photos on their phones.

Even that didn’t jerk me out of my daze. I was a private person. I didn’t have social media, something that confounded Kiera every day of her social media obsessed life. I didn’t like photos being taken of me. Not because I had some kind of murky past with an old boyfriend looking for me or something dramatic. I simply didn’t like attention. Which might’ve confused people considering the culinary world was filled with narcissistic attention seekers looking for fame. But there was also a decent amount of us there for the passion, the art of it.

The attention should’ve made my skin crawl. I should’ve pulled out of Kane’s grip and slunk out of the spotlight. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not just because his grip was vice-like. But because I didn’t want to.

I cast my gaze down from the prying eyes and phones but otherwise let the moment be captured. Surely, these people were acting like sheep; one sports fan took a photo, then the person beside them followed suit because they didn’t want to miss out on capturing the moment they brushed elbows with someone famous.

The photos would sit on the phones, forgotten by the next drink, I was certain.

Suddenly, we were no longer in the overly warm and crowded room that smelled of salmon canapés and too much aftershave; we were in the crisp New York air, the smell of crushed leaves welcome to my senses.

We passed the valets and people coming and going in a haze. I was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to remain composed as the heat from Kane’s body merged with the chill of the autumn air.

The party was held on the Hudson, in an industrial district that was quiet at night. The city never slept, but parts of it lay dormant, waiting for someone to rouse it. Rounding the corner, past the bustle of the party, the road was desolate, no rogue partygoers, no cabs, no one. Except me and Kane.

A man I’d just met.

Taking me down a dark alley.

Granted, he was supposedly very famous and hadn’t exactly taken me by force, but I knew how quickly situations could change. Fame and the spotlight did not turn scoundrels into gentlemen. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Despite my initial reaction to the man, unease prickled up my spine.

As if sensing me tensing, Kane stopped, so I stopped with him.

“This is me.” He motioned to a motorcycle that was parked along the brick side of a building. My knowledge of motorcycles was slim to none, but I could tell from the sleek shape, the color and the gleam of chrome that it was probably an expensive one. One he’d left on an abandoned side street of the city. The flippancy of someone with too much money or the ego of someone who thought they were untouchable, I didn’t know.

“You want me to escort you back to the party, I’m happy to do it,” Kane offered.

I tore my gaze off the bike and focused on him. The night was thick and closing in fast, but there was enough glow from the streetlights to show the sincerity on his face.

Though I didn’t know anything about the man beyond his name, nickname and profession—if daredevil was a profession—I got the impression he was somewhat experienced with women. The wantonness in his gaze, the ease in which he’d sauntered over to me... The fact that he was rich and famous and handsome. Yes, he’d had experience.

But he wasn’t assuming because I’d said yes in a crowded room while holding a drink meant I couldn’t change my mind before going to a second location with him. He was making sure I still wanted this.

Kane Rhodes was sexy.

Kane Rhodes establishing consent was somehow even sexier.

“No,” I stated firmly, squaring my shoulders. “I do not want to go back to the party.”

It was the safer option.

But tonight, just for tonight, I wanted to dance with this devil.

Although he might’ve just asked the gentlemanly question, the grin that stretched upon his face was most definitely devilish.

His grip flexed at my hip.

“Don’t worry.” His tongue darted out to wet his plump lips. “I won’t go too fast.”

“You better go too fast,” I raised a brow at him. “I’m expecting you to live up to your reputation.”

He blinked at me, then his face got hungry and sexy, and my pussy pulsated.

Actually pulsated.

I didn’t think men could literally make that happen.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grabbing the back of my neck and yanking me to him so our lips crashed together.

My body responded to him immediately and violently. I was ready to climb up his body like it was a tree, so I could grind my pussy against his hard cock.

I knew his cock was hard because our bodies were pressed together.

He was well-endowed.

Very well-endowed.

“I need to get you home,” he rasped against my lips. “Or else I’m gonna bend you over this fucking bike.”

Another pussy pulse. In fact, that may have been a full body pulse.

“I am gonna do that.” He brushed hair from my face before tucking it behind my ear. “But maybe not right outside a party full of assholes.” He nodded his head in the direction of the thumping music.

I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. Keeping my mouth shut was good because I feared I would tell him I didn’t care about the assholes and beg him to fuck me against the bike right there and then.

And although that prospect was erotic and exciting at that moment, a voice at the back of my head told me I’d eventually regret doing something like that.

Me getting bent over a motorcycle was not the kind of publicity I wanted.

He moved backward, but not before kissing me quickly again on the lips, slipping his tongue in once more so I could taste the champagne he’d sipped from my glass.

I stood rigid and somewhat unsteady on my feet as he stepped away and did something near his bike.

“Helmet,” he said, slipping something tight onto my head.

I didn’t complain, though I worried about the helmet hair I’d be sporting when we got to our destination. Never in my life had I worried about how my hair looked more. And I was not a woman bothered by that kind of stuff.

But safety was more important. I’d always muttered curses about the motorcyclists I saw on the highway doing ninety without helmets.

Safety.

A good thing.

“Hop on,” he said, once he was situated on the bike.

It occurred to me then that I didn’t know this man. I knew that he was some kind of famous daredevil and people seemed to be impressed with him. I knew he was a great kisser. I knew he possessed the ability to make my pussy pulse.

Other than that? Nothing.

He could be a serial killer.

Or just a really big douche.

I didn’t hesitate.

I hopped on the bike.