She glances at it, then locks eyes with me again. Her lips curve into a small smile. She answers in a low voice, "Yes. Totally legal as of today." She inhales deeply then licks her lips, and her cheeks turn redder.

I clench my jaw, keeping my breathing controlled, trying to convince myself she doesn't mean anything by that admission, but I can't. There's a tornado of lust and hope swirling in her blues, and no matter what lie I tell myself, it's impossible to ignore.

Christ, she's young.

I bet she's tighter than any woman I've been with in years.

She'd look good on her knees, with her hands bound and those plump lips around my cock.

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. She glances behind her, then refocuses on me.

More visions of her in positions I can never have her in assault my brain. Several moments pass before I state, "Happy birthday."

Her face lights up even more as her lips curve into a bigger smile. She shifts on her feet. "Thanks."

"Twenty-one is a big occasion. I assume you're going out and getting crazy with your boyfriend later?" I question, prying for information.

It doesn't matter. She's Hugh's daughter.

She shakes her head, and a blonde curly tendril falls over her eyes. She replies, "I don't have a boyfriend."

Thank God for that.

Not that he'd have anything over me.

Mesmerized, not thinking clearly, and unable to stop myself, I reach for the lock. She holds her breath as I slowly drag my fingers over her forehead, then even slower over the side of her head, pushing her strands behind her ear. Just as I suspected, her hair's soft, unlike the typical overprocessed blondes roaming all of L.A. I've always known she's a natural blonde, but finally feeling it only adds fuel to my thoughts. I have to stop myself from wrapping all of it around my fist.

She arches her eyebrows, waiting for me to answer, the heat from her cheeks radiating past the inch of air between her skin and my hand.

We've never been this close, nor have I touched her before. Now that I breached my self-control, I step closer, studying the flecks of blues in her eyes. I admit, "Your eyes remind me of the favorite part of my morning surf."

Her voice falters as she inquires, "How so?" She swallows hard but doesn't flinch or retreat.

Her ability to stand in front of me and not break our heated gaze challenges me. It stokes a deep-seated craving I can't seem to shake. I contemplate taking her to my house—not the club—which is another surprise. I don't bring my play things home. They stay at the club and out of my private life. Yet the thought of breaking her into submission in my personal environment, somewhere she can't come and go from, with no one else around, takes root.