Why do all the hot men have to be deviant assholes?

In a perfect world, Adam would be a firefighter. He’d rescue cats out of trees and help old ladies across the street. He’d be a hot guy hero. He’d be sweet, but not in a pushover sort of way. He’d be protective and possessive. He’d be a gentleman until we hit the sheets then he’d be demanding and generous.

“Sweetness?”

God, he had to stop that.

But stupid me didn’t tell him that.

“Yeah?”

“You keep staring at me like that, we might not make it inside.”

I continued to stare, wishing he was real—wishing he was not who he was but instead the man I wished him to be. The man I dreamed my whole life I’d have. The kind of man who couldn’t wait to pull me into his arms and kiss me breathless. But more, he wouldn’t hide it—he’d tell me straight-out, and by doing so make me feel wanted, sexy, loved.

I was beginning to understand that kind of man was not real. He was the fabled male spawned by past generations of women who’d passed down the lore of greatness from grandmother to mother to daughter, making us believe that one day we’d find him.

“Sloane, baby, you good?”

Baby.

Sweetness.

I didn’t know which one I liked better, but I did know I needed to get my shit together. The good news was my nerves were no longer producing copious amounts of sweat now that my heart was pounding in my chest.

“I’m fine. But I’d be better if you backed up so I could get out of my car. Unless you plan on conducting our meeting in my—”

“Our meeting?” he cut me off asking.

Lascivious. That was the only way to define this new smile and suddenly I was no longer worried about the mountain stream of perspiration I had going on—I now had a cascade of wetness flooding my panties like the River Nile.

Jeez.

“That’s why I am here. We have a party to plan.”

That was a load of shit and I knew it.

“Right.” Adam straightened while his lips twitched, and he lowered his hand in an offering. “Let’s get inside.”

I contemplated how rude it would be to ignore this gentlemanly gesture and get out of the car without taking his outstretched hand. Then I wondered why I cared if it was rude or not, we were playing a game of make-believe. The courteous offer was probably part of the act to lure women into letting their guard down. As fast as that nasty thought entered my mind it was met with rebellion. Adam didn’t need to lure women into doing anything.

I took his hand, ignored the spark of excitement, and allowed him to help me out of the car. I was faced with a new dilemma—what now? Did I keep ahold of his hand? Did I pull away? Did I kiss him? Did I play hard-to-get? Did I wise up and admit I was in over my head and my plan was going to fail?