“Sure you weren’t.” He snorts with a smile. “I can practically see the croissants dancing in your eyes.”

I eye a slice of eomuk on my plate. It would make such a nice juicy thwap hitting Rye’s forehead. “It’s called hyperbole, Rye. Maybe try it sometime.”

“Hyperbole, huh?” He rubs his chin like he’s trying to figure out what the word means, when I know perfectly well that he already does. An evil gleam lights his eyes. “You mean like, this barbecue sauce is so good, I want to lick it off—”

“All right,” Scottie cuts in. “If I have to hear your sex fantasies, Rye, I’m liable to lose my dinner. And that is not hyperbole.”

Rye chuckles and reaches for the carton of dumplings. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m done.”

The guys start arguing over how far-reaching Kraftwerk’s influence was on modern sound, and I zone out, stewing in my annoyance. Rye is his usual cocky and easygoing self. Laughing in that boisterous way that has the corners of his eyes crinkling and those little half-moon dimples forming on his cheeks.

Under the table, my hand fists the loose folds of my skirt. I feel duped. Yes, we’d agreed to keep this…arrangement a secret, but I hadn’t expected him to still antagonize me. It reminds me of all the times he made me feel like a fool. Worse, I feel vulnerable. After years of working to protect myself, the sensation twists in my stomach.

I suck in a breath and push back from the table. Rye’s laugh falters, and he glances my way, the motion so quick, I’d have missed it if I weren’t hyperaware of him. Damn it. I don’t want this awareness, this weakness.

“You okay, Bren?” Libby asks at my side.

“Of course,” I say with forced lightness. “Just getting some more beers for the table. Anyone want anything else to drink?”

I’m waved off. They’ve moved on to whether Off the Wall or Thriller was Michael Jackson’s greatest album.

“You’re completely wrong,” Rye practically shouts at Whip, his arms animated in his fervor. “Thriller is too slick and commercial. It was produced with hits in mind. Off the Wall was pure Michael. He got to truly play with his sound for the first time.”

Whip snorts long and loud. “I can’t believe you, who’s endlessly fiddling with sound, are dinging an album for being too perfectly produced.”

I walk out of the dining room before I’m subjected to any more. Someday, I’d love to go a week without hearing a word or note of music.

Once I’m in the hall, I sigh with relief. Unlike some of the open-concept apartments my friends live in, my condo is prewar with classically separated rooms. I actually love that feature because it means I can escape into my kitchen and rest against the counter for a quiet moment without everyone seeing me. I take a few calming breaths, determined not to think about Rye anymore.

That’s when he walks in.

He stands inside the kitchen, his big body filling the doorway, his blue eyes narrowed on me. My frazzled nerves jump and twitch, and I clench the side of the marble countertop to steady myself.

“What’s wrong?” His deep voice stays low so no one will hear us.

A laugh rasps my throat, but I don’t find this funny. “Are you serious now, Mr. Hyperbole?”

With a quick glance toward the dining room, he moves farther into the kitchen, his gait stiff and halting like he’s trying to restrain himself. I take a breath as he comes within touching distance. He makes a furtive motion, reaching for me but stopping short with a growl of frustration.

“That upset you?” He sounds truly surprised and a little distressed.

I want to push him away. And I want to arch my back so the tips of my breasts are that much closer to the hard expanse of his chest. Shit. I’m so messed up. I hold perfectly still. “Was that really necessary?” I hiss. “Arguing with me about something utterly ridiculous yet again?”

“Of course it was necessary,” he hisses back, clearly wanting to raise his voice but trying not to. “I have to act the way I always do with you. Because otherwise they’ll see.” He flings his arm in the direction of the dining room, color rising over his cheeks. “They’ll all know how much I want you. That I’m fucking aching to touch you.”

My breath leaves in a whoosh, and his comes out in a pant.

“They’ll see right through me,” he whispers hotly. “I couldn’t let them know that, Bren. Not if we want to keep us a secret.”

“There is no us.”

His eyes flash. “Bullshit.”

We’re both breathing too hard, sparks snapping and flying between us. It heats my blood. My nipples draw tight and tender. Rye’s attention flicks to them. He lets out a harsh breath, and I draw one in.

I don’t know who moves first. I don’t care. He’s stepping up to me, and I’m rising to my toes, my hands clutching his big shoulders to hold on. His mouth is hot, desperate, and oh, so good. Rye cups my cheeks as he angles my head to kiss me deeper. The soft stubble of his beard tickles the sensitive edges of my lips and sends licks of pleasure up the backs of my knees, between my shaking thighs.

I slide my tongue over his, and he whimpers. The helpless, needy sound goes straight to my core. It lights me up, and I arch my back, pressing into the warm wall of his firm chest.

With a grunt, he grabs my ass and hauls me onto the countertop. His mouth never leaves mine as he shoves my thighs apart and steps in between them. Instantly, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing his warmth, his strength.

“Fuck,” he rasps against my mouth. “You taste so good.”

I’m not ashamed to admit I mewl in agreement. My hands are in his hair, gripping the short strands. We’re eating at each other’s mouths. It’s messy, frantic. I don’t want it to end.

Hot palms slip under my skirt and slide up my thighs. I shiver, and his mouth descends to a sweet spot on my neck. “Need to feel you, Bren. Just once.”

The tips of his fingers dance along the edge of my panties. I spread my legs wider, tilt my hips up to give him more room. A tremor goes through Rye at my compliance. It turns into a moan when he slides a finger under the silk and touches my swollen sex.

I jolt against that questing finger. My head is floating away, my belly clenching with delicious heat. I’m on the edge of coming and he’s barely touched me. His breath is hot and fast against my neck as he explores me with steady strokes. Weakly, I rest my cheek on his wide shoulder, unable to do anything other than feel.

Dimly, I hear our friends laughing in the other room, the rise and fall of conversation. That I’m hidden away with Rye, his hand in my panties, his mouth sucking my neck, heightens everything. This lust has sharp edges, a painful bite that makes me quake.

He pushes his thick, long finger into me. Deep. Demanding. Perfect. I stifle my scream against the damp hollow of his neck as the orgasm rolls and shudders through me, not ending but building, rising all over again.

“Fuck, yes,” he whispers, fucking me with his finger. He knows exactly how to do it, how I like it—a little rough, a little hard, but oh, so thorough. The muscles in his forearm shift and flex with every thrust and pull. “Give it to me, Bren.”

Panting, I fist his shirt and strain against him. It’s too good. I’m liquid lust now, melting for him.