Page 9 of A Million Times, Yes

A shiver ran through me as he turned silent. One that came with goose bumps.

“The men you’ve been with wouldn’t know how to fuck you even if you gave them step-by-step instructions. Me? I’d have you coming within seconds. The difference between those guys and this”—he tapped his chest—“that’s what entices you. It’s what gets you out ofbed when your alarm goes off instead of hitting snooze.” He lifted both arms and clasped his hands behind his neck. “If I’m wrong, I’ll run back to where I came from, and you’ll never see me again.”

“And if you’re right?”

“Tell me, Maya. Am I right?”

He was.

But was I comfortable saying that?

I’d never been with a man like Jordan. Someone who held nothing back, who praised my body before even touching it, who was more focused on pleasure than dating, and whose self-assurance radiated off him.

I gripped my hips, feeling the tightness of the fabric, how it hugged me in a way that left little to the imagination, and I wondered if I should start wearing looser clothes.

“I’ll let you think about it.” He caressed the side of my cheek. He didn’t cup it. He just gave my skin a single swipe with the backside of his fingers, causing a wave of sparks to jolt through me.

His touch lasted only a second before he jogged off.

I couldn’t believe I was staring at his back, that I was frozen and breathless.

And shockingly wet.

Chapter Three

Jordan

My cell rang on the way to my kitchen, my brother’s name on the screen. I swiped to connect and held it up to my ear. “Gavin, what’s up?”

“You’re awake?”

An unnecessary question. We were both early risers; he knew that. Me, to work out, Gavin because his son had to get up for school.

“I’m about to go for my run.” I pulled the phone away from my face to check the time. I had exactly three minutes before I had to leave. “What do you need?”

“Have you checked your email?”

“No.”

“Do it, and then you’ll know why I’m calling.”

His order pinged my nerves, like a delivery driver slamming on the doorbell more than once. “Why don’t you just tell me what it says.” I went to the cabinet to collect my vitamins, palming the large pills and shooting them into my mouth.

“We’re in the final stages of the Clover deal.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.” I grabbed a bottle from the fridge that was premixed with electrolytes, a cocktail my chef concocted when he stopped in every few days.

“He came back with a counter.”

The Clovers, owned by Andrew Clover, were the only professional sports team in Boston we didn’t own. We had the trio of hockey, football, and baseball in our portfolio. The city’s NBA team had been on my father’s radar for years. Every time he’d made an offer, Clover shot it down.

Until Gavin and I decided to speak to Clover ourselves, a meetup that took place in his suite in Costa Rica, where he was vacationing with a woman who wasn’t his wife.

I swallowed the vitamins, moving the bottle away from my lips, but only by an inch. “And?”

“It’s a billion more than what we offered.”

I laughed. “That motherfucker.”