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We are indeed thinking the same thing.

Lust taps an inquiring knock in the neighborhood between my legs. For a half minute, neither of us moves.

I don’t trust myself to reply. I pull the towel off, then sidestep into the open, unwinding the scrunchie holding my hair on top of my head. It fans over my shoulders.

He steps into the doorway, the hunger in his eyes full of unexpected warmth.

“You’re stunning.”

“Likewise,” I manage.

His torso is a feast for the eyes—elegant slopes of gym-chiseled perfection, tapering from powerful shoulders to a trim waist sketched with a magnetic V-cut.

My shameless gawking elicits a chuckle.

“There’s more,” he assures me in an affectionate taunt.

The way he holds my gaze as his fingers go to the button on his trousers sends a shiver through me. He unzips and steps out of his clothes.

His legs are long and sculpted with the defined muscles of an athlete. My eyes slide over him and my nipples tighten as I zero in on a fantasy-worthy cock. He isn’t erect—there’s just enough blood flow to give it a lift—but already delectably big.

Phae, you’re officially forgiven for not texting back.

I’m not short at five-nine, but he towers over me.

He walks me slowly backward to the mosaic-tiled wall.

Steam curls around us. His huge hands skate over my hips.

Our eyes are inches apart, and his smile is so cocky that I’m not sure whether I want to bite his lip in annoyance or lust. The mint-and-cognac of his breath is a magnet pulling me closer.

Dammit, why isn’t he kissing me?

I press against him, my breasts meeting his chest with its light dusting of dark hair.

He holds my face, almost reverent. “You’re shivering. Should I stop?”

“I’m shivering because the suspense is killing me.”

One of his hands spreads across my lower back and the other rakes into my hair as his lips claim mine, leisurely tasting, slanting over my mouth again and again.

I moan into his mouth in encouragement. He cradles one of my breasts and with a thumb traverses the areola.

I lean into his touch, and he dips to lick my nipple.

My head drops back. A trembling sigh escapes me as he cups the mound of my pussy. He gives my nipple a pinch with his teeth, then returns to kissing my mouth. As his tongue breaches my lips, his fingers slide into me, wet and effortless.

“The verdict is in,” I manage through kisses. “It’s a major yes. Do you have condoms?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He steers me under the shower spray and combs both hands into my hair.

I’m all but boneless in his clutches, murmuring approval as he lathers his hands and proceeds to deliver a scalp massage so luscious, it bodes damned well for what he might accomplish below my waist.

As he rinses the suds from my head and they coast down my body, he teases his slippery hands everywhere, following the snaking white paths of foam. Gathering my hair, he wrings the water from it, then wraps me in a towel and picks me up bride-style, carrying me to the double sinks.

I twist to look at our reflection in the mirror, and my breath catches.

He’s so handsome, and I look natural in his arms—it’s hard to believe we’re strangers…

Setting me on the counter, he opens a leather shaving case. Sure enough, there’s the bottle of Neroli Portofino. He draws a string of three condoms out and tears one off.

I wrap my hand around him, and he sucks in a gasp through his teeth. His long-lashed, smoky eyes drop closed above those perfect cheekbones. In the light over the sink, I can see him vividly—the laugh lines flanking his eyes are beautiful.

I stroke him and draw the condom from his fingers, ripping it open with my teeth and rolling it on before pulling him to kiss me.

“Right here,” I whisper. “I can’t wait.”

He gives my lower lip a bite. “I have to taste you first.”

He opens the towel and pulls me to the edge, then kneels. Caressing my legs, he parts them and sets them over his shoulders, kissing a trail up to the juncture of my thighs. I grip the edge of the counter with one hand and comb my fingers into his thick, soft waves.

His tongue glides and gently probes. Parting me with his thumbs, he licks in slow sweeps.

I push against him, and he draws my clit between his lips, sucking lightly.

His long, skilled fingers slide into me again.

My hands tense on the counter—my breath coming in gasps, whispering encouragement—as he intuitively finds the gentle, patient rhythm I need.

“Please don’t stop… exactlythatohmygod …”

In another minute, the rush of climax chases and overtakes me, wringing out a breathy moan as a shiver snakes through me. When he stands and kisses me, I taste myself on his lips. Golden afterglow dances down my legs.

He’s poised at the gate, and the muscles inside me beckon. I wrap my legs around his waist. He breaches me in a gorgeous thrust, then pauses to watch my eyes as I get used to his girth. A wicked smile dances across his expression.

“Are you going to come for me again, kleine Hexe?” He slides his hips side to side, grinding the wetness between us. “A quiet girl,” he teases between kisses. “Do you live someplace with thin walls?”

He draws back fully and thrusts into me deep. My fingernails jab the muscles flanking his spine.

“You say you’re not shy, but”—another deep thrust—“such restraint when pleasure takes you. Are you such a proper girl that you won’t scream?

” He rocks into me steadily, defining the perfect angle with every luscious thrust. “Are you quiet when you touch yourself, biting your lip in silence when you come on those pretty fingers?”

I’m half delirious with arousal, eyes closed tight. “Yes… yes, I do…”

“You won’t let them make you scream—those boys who don’t deserve you. A peach with a stone inside no man will crack.”

My eyes fly open, and his look is a bold smirk.

He’s in my head as deep as the rest of me, and it makes my heart hammer in more ways than one.

He lifts me and strides through the bathroom doorway, setting me on the high bed.

Still inside me, he positions his legs outside mine, then begins to move again.

A helpless whimper rises from me. The spiral of climax is winding tight again, and I follow it.

The way my trapped legs are clamped around his cock is like nothing I’ve ever felt.

“Tha-that’s… o-oh God…” I falter, my breath catching.

“Yes?” He kisses my lips with surprising tenderness, and it sends a shiver through me.

“It’s amazing—oh God, more …”

He kisses me harder; I suspect he’s close too. I moan into his mouth, commanded by his body, restrained by his muscular thighs as the tide nears. His big hands cradle my head, fingers entwined in my hair while his hips arc him into me.

“Scream if you want to,” he murmurs near my ear. “No need to drown your fire.”

“Oh God, I can’t…” My hand drifts up, ready to cover my cries as the window of climax opens a crack and a glittering white rush begins to pour in.

My shriek surprises me. I move to muffle it, and feel him lace his fingers with mine, drawing my wrist to his lips.

Hearing my own voice like this is hot in a way I hadn’t expected; I’ve created the soundtrack to my own erotic movie. I go all in with a shouted “ Yessss! ” as he finds his own release with a gritty cry, driving into me high and hard before dropping his head against my shoulder, panting.

After a minute, he kisses my neck and moves off me, pulling me sideways into one brief, firm embrace before getting up and walking to the bathroom. The sink runs, and I curl into a contented ball, cheek nestled against the rumpled duvet.

As the water turns off, I hear the unmistakable sound of Phaedra’s ringtone—Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back”—from the other room.

“Oh, now you call…” I mutter.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and walk to the bathroom—passing him in the wide doorway, exchanging mildly bashful post-sex smiles—then pull on the loungewear I’ve left on the counter.

I go to my purse in the living room and call Phae back.

“Where the fuck are you?” she snaps.

“Excuse me? I should be asking you .”

“I came downstairs, and the bartender said you split with some rando!”

I throw a glance at the bedroom and walk toward the smaller guest room, dropping my voice. “Well, I dumped Josh, and—”

“Oh, good call,” she interrupts, raising her voice over the swell of background music in the bar. “A total wanker.”

“So, you could say I celebrated that decision with… a sexual ‘palate cleanser.’ And don’t be judgy about it.”

There’s a long pause. “ What the hell? ” Her laugh is shocked. “Nat, you wildcat! What’s his name, and where’s he from? Are you gonna see him again?”

I wince, knowing the flak I’d get for the no-names thing.

“He’s, uh, English.” I struggle to make up the most English-sounding name possible. “His name’s Reginald… um, Throckmorton.”

“Oh my God. Sure! ” She brays out a screech of laughter. “You got played! ‘Reginald fucking Throckmorton ’? Guess that answers the question of whether you’re gonna see him again.”

“Shut up.”

“If he’s a Brit, maybe he’s with Allonby Racing. They’re on floor eleven; I’m on eight. Not the big suite at the end of the hall—that one’s my boss, Klaus. I’m in the last room on the left before his. What floor are you on?”

I swivel to peek back again and nearly jump out of my skin to find “Reginald” standing in the guest room doorway. I mute the phone.

“ What floor are we on? ” I whisper.

“Eight.” He gives me a cool smile and walks off.

My stomach drops, and a tide of panic floods over me as I realize why he looks so familiar.

Though already a racing fan, I’ve been studying F1 history, strategy, and drivers since landing the new job.

But somehow I neglected to recognize the Emerald team principal, billionaire 40 percent stakeholder Klaus Franke.

To be fair to myself, Emerald’s TP isn’t their “public face”—that role is held by Phaedra’s dad, charismatic owner Edward “Mo” Morgan.

Mo loves to talk, and fans love to listen to his folksy, idiomatic sass, delivered in his signature Southern drawl and punctuated with quotable catchphrases.

Klaus is more a “strong, silent type,” in the background.

Oh God. What the hell have I done?

Apparently I’ve had a one-off with one of the most important non-driver figures in the sport that’s about to become my life.

Goodbye, professional credibility.

I unmute the phone. “I’m not sure what floor I’m on.”

Phaedra’s pause all but screams, I didn’t want to have to ask this, but…

“So, uh, he’s probably another married one, right?” she ventures.

My face goes hot. “I don’t know or care.”

For the record, I very much do care about that kind of thing. But I’ve been suckered enough times that at a certain point, I started pretending marital status doesn’t matter. Being seen as a homewrecker somehow feels less mortifying than being cliché gullible.

I catch sight of myself in a mirror and glare at the face that made my stupid ex Josh once joke, You’re too pretty to be wasted on print media . Glossy dark brown hair and fine bone structure I inherited from my mother, my father’s full lips and long-lashed blue eyes.

Unfortunately, I may also have my parents’ irresponsibility, despite working hard my entire life to prove otherwise.

I fought their legacy when I chose the debate team rather than cheerleading in high school.

I fought it when I kept up a consistent 4.

0, studying on weekends instead of dating.

I fought it when I applied to Queens U Charlotte instead of party school University of Alabama, where my peers were dying to go.

And finally… I fought it when I got offers from both Vogue and Auto Racing Journal , and spite-chose ARJ because Josh once said I should “get established in the fashion industry before you age out and lose your looks.”

I’ve completely messed it all up, right out of the gate. What do I do now?

I need to get the hell out of the United Arab Emirates and hit the reset button on this disaster. After all, I don’t need to be here—I won’t officially start with ARJ until next month. This trip is just to chill with Phae and get the lay of the land.

No pun intended…

I’ll head back to the States , I resolve, and by March when the new racing season begins, Klaus will have long forgotten me .

“Okay, um, I’ll meet you at your room soon!” I tell Phae. As she’s replying, I hang up and hurry back to the bedroom to collect my travel outfit from the en suite.

Charcoal Suit— Klaus Franke , oh my God—is sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard, perusing something on an iPad and wearing a businesslike scowl. He glances over the tops of a pair of reading glasses as I enter.

Flashing a smile, doing my best not to look panicked, I walk into the bathroom. My purple dress is folded on the counter, and on top of it—

Tell me that’s not what I’m seeing.

A stack of hundred-euro notes is perched on my dress.

I strangle the money in one fist and clutch my folded clothes against myself, marching back into the bedroom.

“What the hell is this?” I demand, holding the cash up.

He pulls his reading glasses off. Before he has a chance to say anything, I throw the money. It flutters around him, half of it hitting the floor beside the bed.

“You think I’m a prostitute?” I rage. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I don’t assume one way or another when I meet women in this manner.” He sets his glasses aside. “Money is useful to everyone. Consider it a gift.”

“No thanks. Asshole. ”

I storm to my suitcase and cram my dress and shoes inside, then haul it to the door in bare feet. I wave my hand in front of the confusing door latch, assuming it must be motion-activated, then spin around with a growl.

Klaus is standing a few yards away.

“What’s with this techno BS?” I demand. “Does it need to scan my retina? Are normal human doorknobs too pedestrian for your cool luxury suite?”

He walks over with maddening leisure and slides his fingers under the matte metal flap that opens the door, pulling it wide.

“I’m sorry for offending you,” he says quietly. “It was a terrible blunder.”

I wish he looked sarcastic, but his eyes are the tiniest bit sad.

“This,” I tell him, summoning my inner badass and donning a frosty mask of disdain, “has been both the best and most disappointing lay of my life.”

I drag my enormous suitcase out and stride to the elevator.