Then she tries to get me off the hook.

“Nicholas doesn’t like taking pictures, Marty.”

I hold up my hand. “No, it’s all right. A photo is fine.” Then I lower my voice so only she can hear me. “But I’m going to need a deposit from you in my spank bank tonight.”

She giggles, while Ellie watches us carefully, with something like approval in her eyes.

The ride to the hotel is pure, unadulterated torture—and an exercise in restraint. Our small talk is comfortable and benign, but our looks are intense and heated. I catch Olivia checking out the perpetual bulge in my trousers no fewer than three times. And I don’t even bother trying to pretend that I’m not staring at her tits. Her scent—that clean, freshly shampooed, warm honey scent—fills the space of the limousine, making my nostrils flare, trying to absorb every trace of it.

Logan and Tommy flank us on the way through the lobby, with James taking the rear position. It’s busier than it was last night—crowded with visitors on their way to dinner or a Broadway show—and we’re the recipient of more than a few double takes. Once we arrive in the suite, the lads scatter. I’ve given David the evening off so that we have some privacy, and I guide Olivia into the kitchen.

Over a glass of white wine, she tells me about her day, about the poor, bedraggled young mother and her brood of five hell-raisers who visited the coffee shop. I convey the boredom of the Art Commission of New York charity luncheon—which is really just an excuse for politicians to hear themselves talk.

I take a chopping knife from the wood block on the counter, and the unpleasant, piercing sound that results from sliding it against the sharpening stone momentarily halts our conversation. Olivia comes up behind me, peeking over my shoulder as I slice the salmon and chop the celery into match-sized sticks.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asks with a smile in her voice.

“Japan.”

I look over my shoulder to catch her rolling her pretty eyes—because I suspect she already knew the answer.

Then she picks up a knife herself, stands next to me, and makes quick work of three carrots, chopping them just as well, if not better, than me.

Then she shrugs coyly. “Manhattan.”

We both chuckle as she rests the knife on the counter and I wash my hands. As I dry them on a clean towel, I lean back against the sink—watching her.

Olivia runs her hand along the counter, observing the dishes of spices and rice, shrimp and salmon. She dips her finger into a small bowl of black soy sauce and seems to move in slow motion when she raises that finger to her mouth, and wraps those gorgeous fucking lips around it.

I’ve never come in my trousers, but I’m dangerously close.

A groan is trapped in my throat, because I want to be that finger—more than I want to breathe. Our eyes meet and hold. And the air is thick between us—filled with magnetic particles that draw us toward one another.

Dinner’s going to have to wait.

Looking into her eyes, hearing the needy little puffs of breath that slip out between her glistening lips, I know for certain—we’ll never make it that long.

Then there’s a noise from the other room and Olivia jumps. Almost as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. She’s all too aware of the security team’s presence.

And that just won’t do.

“Logan,” I call, not taking my eyes off of her.

He pokes his head through the door. “Yes, Sir?”

“Go away.”

There’s a brief pause. And then, “Aye. Me and James and Tommy’ll be down in the lobby and by the lift—to be sure no one comes up.”

We wait, staring at each other…and when the elevator pings, proving that we are finally, perfectly, blessedly alone, it’s like the starting shot of a marathon.

We move at the same time—Olivia springs forward and I pull her into my arms. Hands grasping, legs wrapping, mouths clashing. She squeezes my waist with her thighs and my palms flex against the taut swell of her arse. My teeth nip at those gorgeous fucking lips, scraping gently, before covering her mouth in a searing, wet kiss.

Yes, yes, this is it. It’s everything I’ve been fantasizing about—only better.

Olivia’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes like sweet grapes against my tongue. She moans into my mouth—a sound I could easily get drunk on.

I move us to the kitchen table, knocking over a chair. I perch her on the end, both of us breathing hard and heavy.

“I want you,” I rasp. Just in case that isn’t clear.

Her eyes are bright and manic—caught up in the same tsunami of sensation that grips me.

She tears the gray flannel from her arms.

“Have me.”

Christ, this bold, daring girl—I adore her.

Olivia’s pale arms wrap around my neck as we clash back together, kissing and grasping. I pull her hips forward to the edge of the table, grinding my erection that’s hard as stone between her open, denim-covered legs. My hand dives through her soft hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her still so I can take and take from her mouth.

She moans again, sweet and long, and the sound pushes me right to the edge, making me shaky with want for her.

Then with her legs wrapped tight around my waist, she pushes against my shoulders, forcing me back, breaking our kiss. I catch her drift when she jerks at the hem of my shirt and I help her out—pulling it over my head. Her dark, enchanting blue eyes go wide as she takes in my bare torso, running smooth, petal-soft hands across my shoulders, over my chest, down through the grooves of my abdomen.