She lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Won’t need it. Because this is one bet I’m totally going to win.”

* * * *

I’m still thinking of Aly’s ridiculous bet later that evening as I feel the leather mold to my ass when I bend to scratch Pumpkin behind the ears. A ginger-colored mutt of a cat, I’d found her hiding behind a dumpster when I’d gone to look for packing boxes before moving into my current Studio City rental. She’s now the most pampered indoor cat in Southern California, and at the moment, she’s annoyed with me for not picking her up to cuddle.

“I’m sorry, baby.” She’s a kneader, and I don’t want to risk her claws in the pristine leather—or on my bare shoulder, for that matter. “Come on. I’ll open a can of tuna.”

I see her ears twitch—I know she can understand me—but she’s in a pissy enough mood that she doesn’t follow me to the kitchen. Not, that is, until I start to run the can opener. Then the lure of tuna overcomes her annoyance and she trots into the kitchen, does a figure-eight between my legs, then parks herself by her Miss Kitty placemat that I keep by the sliding glass door that leads into the backyard.

I hear her purr as I put the plate down and know that all is forgiven.

Too bad all problems can’t be solved as easily.

Since I’m in the kitchen anyway, I open the fridge and pull out an already open bottle of Chardonnay. I tell myself I only want a drink because it’s late summer and the house is warm and I’m decked out in meteorologically inappropriate leather.

Which is ridiculous.

I want a drink because I’m going to a BDSM club.

Or, more accurately, because I’m going to a BDSM club with Riley.

I fill the glass, toss back a long swallow, and for about the millionth time wonder what the hell I was thinking.

That’s not a question I have time to consider, however, because the doorbell rings and my stomach pretty much drops to the floor.

That boy’s cock is going to bust right out of his jeans.

Aly’s words once again ring like klaxons in my head, and as I hurry to the front door, I can’t erase the image of faded blue denim riding low on Riley’s hips, the material hugging his thighs, and his equipment so hard that the button fly is about to burst. Oh, dear Lord in heaven.

By the time I reach the door my mouth is dry and I’ve decided to murder my best friend.

As soon as my hand reaches the doorknob, I hesitate, remembering not only the situation, but the town I live in. “Who is it?”