And then he’s kissing me. He releases my arm and buries his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth covers mine. I moan as his tongue roughly explores my mouth, and my arm snakes around his neck. I don’t know if he’s pulled me closer or if I’ve moved against him, but I can feel the hard press of his erection against my thigh. He’s right, damn him. He’s right. I want this, I want this, I really shouldn’t want this.

Then he releases me, and I feel so loose and weak I’m surprised that gravity doesn’t suck me down to the ground. He shoots me one final, smoldering look and then strides to my door. He opens it and disappears over the threshold before my heart rate has returned to normal.

I reach out and clutch the back of the dining table chair, then slowly lower myself until I’m sitting. I bend forward, my elbows on my knees, wanting to hate him for the offer he made and for the things he said. True things, but they’re a truth I wish I could ignore. That I will ignore.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but I’m still at the table when Jamie waltzes in, hair mussed and no bra. I’m certain she was wearing a bra when she left; I would have noticed if she’d been sitting half-naked with Damien.

“Douglas?” I ask. I hadn’t heard the familiar bang and thump, but I’d been a bit preoccupied.

“God no,” she says, and for a moment I’m relieved. I have no theory as to how she misplaced a bra, but at least I know she wasn’t out grabbing a fast fuck. “Kevin in 2H,” she says, and my relief turns cold and icy.

“You fucked him?”

“Trust me, that’s all he’s good for. The guy’s really not a brain trust, and we don’t have a lot in common. Well, except for an excess of energy.”

“Jesus, Jamie.” My problems seem petty and stupid compared to the complete randomness of Jamie’s conquests. “Why sleep with him if you don’t even like him?”

“Because it’s fun. Don’t worry. He’s not going to go all stalker on me. We both know it’s a no-strings kind of thing.”

“It’s dangerous, James,” I say, the nickname from our childhood signaling that this is a Serious Conversation.

“Bullshit, Nicholas,” she counters. “I told you. He’s not the dangerous sort.”

“I’m not talking about only him. But just because you think he looks nice doesn’t mean he’s not a whack job. And how do you know you won’t catch something? Were you careful?”

“Christ, already. Are you my mom? Of course I was careful.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I move the five feet into our living room and flop onto the sofa. “You’re my best friend. I worry. I mean, you do these guys, and then they’re out of your life.” I frown, thinking of Damien. “Do you ever think about dating?” I ask, more harshly than I intend.

“Do you?”

I struggle to remain level. “This isn’t about me.”

“No, but it could be. I fuck around. You don’t fuck at all. It’s like we’re that Emily Dickinson poem.”

I stare at her, utterly confused.

“The candle,” she clarifies. “You burn at one end, and I burn at the other.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

She shrugs. Sometimes Jamie is profound. Sometimes she’s not. She doesn’t much care either way. It’s one of the reasons I love her, and one of the things I admire about her. No matter what else she might be, at the end of the day, Jamie is always Jamie.

Not so, me.

Or Damien Stark, I think.

I wonder if that’s why I find him so alluring.

“That smile isn’t for me,” Jamie says. “And I seriously doubt it’s for Kevin or Douglas. So let’s see … hmmm … could you be thinking about the sexy hunka hunka billionaire who just left our little shack of a condo?”

“I could be,” I admit.

“So what was the present? More important, why aren’t you two in your bedroom fucking your brains out?”

“We’re not dating,” I say.

“Like you have to date to fuck?”

“He wants me to pose for a nude portrait,” I say, though I hadn’t intended to tell her a thing. “And he’s willing to pay me one million dollars to get it.”

She gapes at me. I have actually flummoxed Jamie Archer. This is a first.

“A million dollars? Seriously?”

“Yup.”

“So? Are you thinking about it?”

“No,” I say automatically. “Of course not.”

But even as I say the words, I know I don’t mean them. I am thinking about it. About being naked on that canvas. About Damien Stark standing in his living room and looking up at me.

A shiver runs through me. “Let’s go,” I say.

Jamie cocks her head. “Go? Where?”

“Out. It’s Saturday. There will be dancing involved. And drinking. Definitely drinking.”

“Are we celebrating?” There’s a knowing lilt to her voice.

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But maybe I just want to dance.”

“We should call Ollie and Courtney,” she says once we’ve both changed and are back in the living room. I look up from where I’m checking my purse for all the necessities of a night out. “He called earlier, by the way. I forgot to tell you.”

“Oh, hell. Did he want me to call him back?”

She shrugged. “He was just calling to check on you. Make sure Damien Stark didn’t eat you up last night. Little did he know.”

My cheeks warm. “You didn’t tell him?”

“All I said was that you got home safe. That Stark put you in a limo and sent you home. I didn’t share the dirty details. Should I have?” There’s a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I bet Ollie would like that story.”

“No,” I say firmly. “No.”

“So do we call them?”

“Why not?”

Courtney declines since she has to wake up early to go to some conference in San Diego, but Ollie is up for meeting us. We start out at Donnelly’s, a pub near the house he’s renting in West Hollywood, and move on to Westerfield’s. “Don’t worry,” Ollie says as I eye the long line behind the red velvet rope. “I promise we’ll glide right in.”

I assume Ollie has some sort of suck with the guy at the door, but it turns out that my friend is relying on Jamie and me. The bouncer looks us up and down, and Jamie gives him her best I’m so hot it should be criminal look. “In,” the guy says, and I can feel his eyes on my ass as we enter the dark, thrumming venue.