2

I stepped out into the bright SoCal sunshine, slid my sunglasses down over my eyes, and stopped dead. Not only did my feet stop moving but my heart did this funny flutter—a cross between skipping a beat and thumping double time.

Adam Newcomb.

Right in front of me.

A man who was so insanely gorgeous that it was actually annoying. I’d never seen him in the light of day, nor had I ever seen him outside of the club. And seeing him now, dressed casually with the sun’s rays making his sandy-brown hair look more sandy than brown, I wished I never had. In the club, he looked like the wealthy businessman he was. In broad daylight standing on Ventura Boulevard, he looked like the quintessential California Abercrombie model and that was annoying, too. But his unruly hair, jeans that were faded in a way that let my practiced eye know they were not designer but fit him like they were specifically made for him, and his tee that molded to his upper body to perfection were not annoying—they were infuriating.

He was so freaking hot, I was rooted to the sidewalk outside of a boutique. It’d be a miracle if there wasn’t drool leaking from the corner of my mouth.

Gah.

Why?

Why did hot guy Adam Newcomb have to be a member of a sex club?

Seriously!

“Sloane.” My name rolled off his tongue and that was maddening, too.

There was an arrogance to the way his lips formed my name, the way his eyes danced with humor. He knew I was stunned by his presence, and he had no qualms calling me out on my stupor by way of saying my name in a sexy, smooth tone that made me wish I could hear him when we were not on a busy sidewalk but instead alone in a room with a bed and rumpled sheets after he’d given me multiple orgasms and I’d returned the favor.

Yep. That was what I was thinking, and I knew that even though my eyes were covered by my shades, Adam read my look. Those delicious lips quirked up into a smirk. And you guessed it, that smirk was sexy as fuck. I also wanted to wipe the grin off his smug—but handsome—face.

Adam’s head tilted to the side just a smidge and he looked like he was going to say something. Something likely to embarrass me, like calling me out for standing there like a zombie staring at him. Or maybe he’d snap his fingers in front of my face to pull me from my dirty thoughts.

Gah.

So, I beat him to it and asked, “What are you doing here?”

The smirk turned into a full-fledged smile when he asked back, “Here, like in front of,” he paused and his eyes flicked to the sign behind me, “Reclaimed? Or here as in walking down Ventura?”

“Here, as in The Valley,” I clarified.

“Did I miss the sign on PCH declaring The Valley off-limits from all non-residents?”