"What would you put here?" he asks.
"What would you?"
"To fit the mood?"
"If that's what you want to accomplish."
"We're in an expensive hotel," I say. "It should feel that way."
He nods in agreement.
"But it should be specific too. So travelers remember they're in New York."
"The best of the MoMa?"
"Maybe. I do like pop art. But I don't think it fits here. I'd do something simpler. Photography maybe. Black-and-white panoramas."
"The skyline?"
I nod. "Too obvious?"
"Obvious isn't bad."
"Maybe the MoMa then. Prints of the most famous paintings from New York museums."
"To assert your cultural superiority?"
"New York is the greatest city in the world."
"Have you been to that many?"
No, but I am a born and bred New Yorker. "Enough."
"Were you born here?"
"How did you know?"
"I can always tell."
"You're not a New Yorker?"
"No, but I've come to appreciate the charms of the city. And its citizens."
Fuck. I must be as pink as my shoes.
"You have the best art in the US."
"I know."
"Should I compliment the coffee now?"
"Who needs coffee when you have art?"
"What's your favorite painting?"
"In the city?"
He nods.
"Drowning Girl. Lichtenstein."
"The MoMA."
"I go almost every weekend."
"Alone?" he asks.
"Usually."
"You're self-reliant."
Because of the painting? Or because I go on my own. "I am."
His gaze shifts to the waitress.
She steps into our space with a smile and sets two drinks on the table. Something bright pink, in a martini glass with a chili sugar rim. "Enjoy."
"Thank you," Max says.
She leaves with another smile. Is it friendly or interested? No, it doesn't matter. She's doing her job. I'm here for one night with him, and he's being polite.
I may be nouveau riche (sort of), but I'm never an asshole to servers. Even when they're assholes to me.
"Try it." He pushes one glass to me. Picks up the other. "If it isn't to your liking, I'll order something else."
I bring the drink to my lips and take a sip. The kick of pepper, the sweet, fruity flavor of pineapple, and a depth from the cranberry and orange liqueur. "Perfect."
He swallows. Coughs. "Spicy."
"You think?"
"You don't?"
"A little."
"Are you one of those people?"
"Which people?"
"With an obscene tolerance for spice?"
"So I hear."
"Does that mean you enjoy pain?"
"I haven't tried it." Not really. "Not with someone I trust."
"Do you trust me enough?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"No."
He smiles. "I appreciate the honesty."
"You won't change your mind?"
"No. I want you to stay honest. I like your sincerity."
My cheeks flame. It's hot in here. It's way too hot in here. I take another sip, but the drink does nothing to cool my temperature or calm my nerves.
Still, it feels rich.
Rich and complex, with the perfect mix of heat and sweetness.
Like Max.
"It's brave," he says. "Admitting vulnerability. Admitting inexperience."
"Thank you."
"Okay."
"You remember the safe-word?"
"Cranberry."
"I'm not planning any scenes. Not for a first time. Unless that's what you're looking for."
"A scene?"
"A role-play scenario."
"Do you do them?"
"Sometimes. It depends on my mood. My partner."
"Do you want to do one with me?"
"No," he says. "I want to be who we are. Two strangers, meeting at a bar, for one night of adventure."
It sounds sexier on his lips.
Or maybe it's the reality. We're not trading texts about times and preferences. I'm not wondering if he's short or tall, thin or muscular, handsome or less handsome—
He's here, and he's just right. Even though he's not the tallest or the broadest or the most typically handsome.
I prefer the intensity of his features.
The perfect height—in my heels, I'm a little taller than he is.
The lean muscles.
He's just… right.
"Does that work for you?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Is there anything else you haven't mentioned? An injury or a medical condition?"
"I'm allergic to dairy."
He finishes his drink. "Is there anything I've missed? Anything you want me to know?"
One night. No last names. No details. All dirty promises. "Nothing comes to mind."
He stands and offers his hand. "Then I'm ready whenever you are."
Chapter Two
MAX
Opal shifts in her seat, straightening her back, projecting pride and strength.
Bravado or an awareness of her power?
I'm not sure.
She's gorgeous, sweet, eager.
And I'm already hard, watching her pretty red lips part.
She captured my attention with her first message—I know this isn't why we're here, but I have to say I love the painting behind you.
She stopped to discuss art.
My kind of woman.
But that's why I shouldn't be here—
I want more than one night. I already know that.
I want to take her home and teach her everything I know.
Right now, I don't have a home. I don't have a place for my life, much less hers. And she's beautiful and sweet and inexperienced.
She's sunshine, and I'm darkness, and I can't bottle her light.
Opal swallows a sip of melted ice, stands, offers her hand. "I'm ready."
She's tall—eye to eye with me in her heels—and she radiates power. Not the conventional, masculine idea. A feminine one. The softness, vulnerability, ability to admit her desires.
She's gorgeous. Long, slick, straight dark hair, deep blue eyes, slim curves. She's young, maybe too young to drink at a bar, but I don't care.