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CHAPTER 1
GAVIN
I never walk into a room without a plan. I don’t care if I’m entering a board meeting or a bar—I map out my goals beforehand and prepare to execute them. Tonight’s birthday party for my girlfriend’s roommate is no exception. Right now I’m on a mission to locate my date on the rooftop terrace, strip off her panties, and leave her believing today is her special day.
“Gavin!” The twenty-something birthday girl grabs my arm. She’s named after a flower, but hell if I can remember which one. “Now that you’re here, darling, this party is officially lit.”
I raise a practiced eyebrow. “I’m not that exciting.”
Violet—that’s her name—laughs as if I’ve told a particularly hilarious joke.
“In fact, I need to return to work later,” I add.
I want to be clear. I’m not here for Violet’s bash. Tonight, I have a singular goal, and she’s waiting on the roof.
A young hipster in a tailored orange suit sidles up to me. “New product releasing soon, Gavin? I’ve heard rumors that you’re developing new software. If you’re planning a release, I could help with the PR. I’m starting a public relations group, and I’d really love for you to be my first client.”
And I’d love to lick my girlfriend until she screams my name.
I slap hipster dude on the back. “I’m afraid we want different things right now, my friend, and I’ve had a long day.”
Truth.
“Before I talk business,” I continue, stepping away from the birthday girl and her admirers, “I need a drink.”
Lie.
I’m eager to give Alexandra an orgasm, but the bar’s on the way to the stairs. I’ve been to the Brooklyn penthouse before, though I prefer having Alexandra come to my Manhattan apartment. The twenty-something trust-fund crowd leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I wouldn’t have even crossed the east river tonight, but Alexandra sent me an invitation I couldn’t refuse.
I pause beside the temporary bar set up beside the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “The birthday girl and her friends would like shots. Tequila. Top shelf.”
The bartender nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Violet!” I call over my shoulder. “It’s tequila time.”
“Shots!”
The call echoes around the room. A group suddenly crowds around the birthday girl, eager to share in the celebrating. I take advantage of the distraction and open the sliding glass door leading to a terrace. Following Alexandra’s instructions like a treasure map, I find the stairs and climb two at a time.
Overeager? Hell, yes. I want this woman. Unlike her trust-fund former roommate, Alexandra actually works for a living. Her receptionist gig at my gym pays the bills while she tries to launch her acting career. Her friends fall in the take-them-or-leave-them category for me, but I’m crazy about Alexandra’s work ethic.
She understands me on an elemental level.
I grin like a fool when I reach the top of the metal staircase. I can picture my best friend’s reaction to my lofty claim. “Elemental? You just mean she’s good in bed.”
That is precisely what I mean. But Alexandra takes “good” to new levels.
How do you tell if a woman shares your sexual kinks? I ask myself this question on every first date. Given my habit for choosing Mrs. Right Now—my best friend’s label, not mine—I’ve been on hundreds of first dates, and I still haven’t found an answer. And failure is not something I take lightly. I came from nothing, and now I’m worth more than one billion dollars.
Not that I’m into anything from the Fifty Shades playbook. I’m not that kind of billionaire. But nothing turns me on like sex with the possibility of getting caught. I’m not talking public parks or places that might lead to a night in a jail cell. I’ve had enough trouble in my life, and I’m not about to invite any more.
But a private rooftop terrace while a party buzzes below? The chance that one of the other guests or a member of the catering staff will hear my girlfriend’s moans and come investigate?
Oh, hell yes.
