Well, fuck . . . me.

My eyes travel with the ice cube, watching it run over each breast, the water slipping down between the two plump mounds and into the valley I desperately want to explore. And in seconds, with my eyes watching her and her breath picking up, the tension between us grows.

“How many times in one night have you made a woman come?” She continues to move the ice cube around, and I continue to follow it.

Licking my lips, I say, “Too many to count, but my bare minimum is at least two before you leave my bed.”

“How kind of you.”

“I tend to be generous.”

“I see.” She gulps. “And, uh, would you say you’re at least nine inches?”

Smiling to myself, knowing the tables have turned, I say, “Why, you interested?”

I expect her to be flustered, to maybe lie and say no, but that’s not what happens. Nope, that confidence of hers just pours right out. “If you’re at least nine inches, then yes, I am.”

“High standards.”

“I know what feels good, so I only settle for the best.”

“I am the best,” I say, now leaning both arms on the table so I’m closer. “I know how to edge out a woman, bring her to the precipice of an orgasm, only to make her wait, and wait . . . and wait.” She sighs. “Until she can’t take the pressure, the buildup, anymore and I allow her to come. I know how to use my tongue, how to make you shiver from my touch, how to make you beg for my dick, and how to create such desperation in your mind that I’m the only man you will ever think about again.”

She wets her lips and then drags her finger along my hand. “I see. And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Just ask your friend,” I say as I spot Nichole heading toward our table. “It runs in the family.”

I hop off my chair, grab my wallet, and throw some cash down just as Nichole reaches the table. Her lipstick is smeared across her cheeks, her neck is reddened from beard burn, and her hair is sticking out in all different directions. But there’s a satisfied smile.

“God,” Nichole says as she rests her hand on the table. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk home.”

Myla glances back at me, and I just wiggle my brows before walking away, feeling completely and utterly justified. Now that was satisfying.

Chapter Three

MYLA

Present day . . .

“Myla, where are you?” Ryot calls out as the garage door slams behind him.

“Right here,” I say as I poke my head up from the couch.

“Oh.” His eyes scan me, and I can see him processing, trying to figure me out. It’s what he’s done from the very first day I met him. I’m a puzzle he’s constantly trying to solve. Sometimes he figures it out, and sometimes he throws in the towel and gives up. And lately? Lately, I think he’s forgotten I existed. At least in his plans for the future. I don’t think I exist in those. “I need to talk to you.”