#coloring the ladder was its own special kind of hell man. at least most of the rest of the bg was fun

[klesek]

what's it going to be, son? die in the water? or show me what you've got?

meat circus my beloved my beloathed

[latin-dr-robotnik]

What went wrong with Classic Sonic’s music in Sonic Forces? (ft. beevean)

The following is a project I’ve been cooking for some weeks, trying to find out some reasons behind the general lackluster feeling that surrounds Classic Sonic’s music in Sonic Forces. As you may have spotted already, this is not a solo project, since I’ve had the opportunity to talk about this very same topic with @beevean and she raised quite a couple of interesting points that I’m going to bring up as we go through. 

Also, Spanish speakers: you can catch the Spanish version of this post here, it’s probably a more polished experience with additional text.

Long post below, so, bring up a ladder and a boombox, I’ll explain along the way. (there’s also a tl;dr at the bottom if you are that type of person)

Sonic Forces stands as a divisive point in the Sonic fandom, that much we all know, and we are not going to discuss the game’s general quality at all on this post. But we are going to take a solid look at Classic Sonic and, most importantly, its music, since I consider that’s the most clear symptom of a bigger problem with Classic Sonic in general, in this post-Generations Modern Sonic world.

A quick look at Classic Sonic

When Classic Sonic debuted in Sonic Generations (2011) as this new-but-also-old Sonic, gaming as a whole was still being bombarded with this “retro-revival movement” that brought back many classic franchises (like classic Mega Man with MM9 and 10 after a decade since MM8), and SEGA itself was in the middle of that train with the recently released Sonic 4: Episode 1 (2010). While Sonic 4 tried to marry Sonic’s current style with classic level tropes and even Genesis-inspired music in a seamless way (showing Sonic’s physical transition from his Sonic 3 days to Sonic Adventure as a smooth one), this new “Classic Sonic” guy in Generations suffered from a mixed message about his origins: is he Sonic from the past, from an alternate universe, or both? Is his music supposed to sound like arrangements of his classic 16-bits tunes or just modern-sounding remixes like the rest of the soundtrack? The fandom still debates about it to this day.

This all led to the introduction of a character that, although considered a “Sonic” like the other “Modern” one, could not establish his own identity beyond Generations’ anniversary-title plot threads. No unique music style, no unique traits, he was just a simpler Sonic.

Major manifestation of the Classic problem.

Fast-forward some years to November 2017, Sonic Forces’ release date. Besides gameplay, story and character criticisms, the music of Forces turned out to be quite controversial for a part of the fandom. Although I personally consider the Avatar songs as top-tier Sonic music, I share similar concerns as the rest about the rest of the game’s music, specially the Classic Sonic level themes. 

With Forces, it seems the composers managed to solve some of Gens’ Classic Sonic music problems, as this time there was a better and more consistent attempt at making Classic’s music sound more at home with the “Genesis days” tunes, but even then the composers fell into other traps that ended up being more damaging to the final product.

Years later after the game’s release, I finally brought up this very same topic during a conversation with beevean (I encourage you that, if you find the following snippets interesting, read the entire conversation), and she had the following thoughts to share as to why Classic Sonic’s music was so... underwhelming:

the classic music in forces is the weakest part of the ost, some tracks are okay while others suck, and the main reason for this is that they hired the wrong people for the job

Okay, that wasn’t a fair cut on my part. She talks a lot more about each and every aspect behind the music, and about the people that composed it, she had the following to say:

Okay, about Forces’ music. First of all, the Classic tracks were handled by two people: Tomoya Ohtani, who also composed pretty much 90% of the OST and has been working solo since 2013 (relevant later), and Naofumi Hataya, one of the two geniuses behind Sonic 2 8-bit’s and Sonic CD’s OSTs (plus some miscellaneous work in Heroes, Colors, Generations, etc.). If you loved tracks like Sky High, Palmtree Panic or Stardust Speedway, you have to thank him.

This is already a reason as to why the Classic music in Forces doesn’t resemble the music in the Genesis games. While I can understand that it would have been impossible to hire Masato Nakamura again, Jun Senoue would have been good for the job, having composed music for Sonic 3 and most importantly Sonic 3D Blast. But apparently Senoue was MIA until 2019, so who knows.

I’d like to point out that Naofumi Hataya’s involvement will play a bigger role later in this post, as we keep searching for what went wrong and we look for a potential solution when adressing Classic Sonic.

Beevean continued with:

There are mainly two problems here:

1) some of the tracks just don’t fit their stage. I already mentioned that Ghost Town sounds way too happy for a city under attack by giant robots. Death Prison sounds vaguely Egyptian and the difference with the original, bass-heavy composition is staggering. Chemical Flow is the most generic thing and would fit everything and nothing, and again comparing it with the original iconic track is just sad. I think the reason Casino Forest and Iron Fortress are my favorite Classic tracks is that they go very well with their respective stages. This is a problem Adventure 2 had as well, associating a particular style to a particular character, and while I think Forces did it better, for me the priority should be fitting a level.

2) Ohtani was once a very versatile composer (the guy could go in one game from Wave Ocean to Crisis City, for example), but since Lost World, the first game in which he had the responsibility of an entire soundtrack, his style quickly became “anime”. Runners’ tracks? “This sounds like an anime opening!”. How do you recognize his only track in TSR? It’s the one that sounds like an anime opening and uses a synth.

And look, I love Ohtani, he has nothing but my respect, and he made some of my absolute favorite tracks in the series. But I do think they’re making him work too much - he’s the best when he can work with at least another person, and has the chance to span a little. I also think his style is incompatible with the Classic music, which was never anime: even at its mellowest in Sonic 1 it always had a little jazzy/new jack swing touch. Basically the only thing they got right in this game is having a wicked bassline :P

It ain’t *only* the composers’ fault

Following beevean’s words, I’d like to add my own take on the problem. You see, I do agree that the composers maybe weren’t up to the task of nailing the classic Genesis tunes’ vibe (Hataya got real close, though), but at the same time I do think they weren’t properly oriented or didn’t have enough time to keep reiterating on the frameworks they were working with. Like beevean said, some of the tracks improve quite a bit after leaving behind that mixed as hell “almost Genesis but not quite” soundfont.

The composers will work on what they were told to make and I have a strong, albeith unconfirmed, feeling that the Classic Sonic composers where asked to “make it sound retro” by someone higher up on the project management chain, and after checking on their progress, simply said “meh, it’s retro enough, no one will notice”.

The “make it sound retro” argument, in my opinion, opens up a big discussion about Sonic music, because there is no easy way to make it “retro” with Sonic. You just can’t pump out a few nostalgic chiptunes and call it a day. Sonic music may have originated back in the 16-bit days of the Sega Genesis, but his identity is so much more than just that Genesis FM sound. I personally believe, similar to another thing beevean point out, that Forces focused too much on sounding “retro enough” instead of fitting each track better to each level theme or even tap into what really made Sonic appealing on the classic days. 

This last point is something that SEGA struggled a lot during the past decade, they introduced Classic Sonic as an entity separated from the current Sonic, yet they simply don’t give Classic Sonic enough development as it’s own character. He’s there because he’s there and we don’t know what to expect from him beyond “he represents the good old days”. But not even SEGA itself knows what that means.

So, what really makes up Classic Sonic’s identity?

For me this is the true heart of the post. Knowing full well what makes Classic Sonic should be the key to every project that features him. 

There are lots of points to make about Classic Sonic’s identity and how to establish him should he return once again on a 3D Sonic title (not even using the “modern” anymore, and I personally wouldn’t like to see him again on a 3D title for another decade, if ever), but seeing as the main topic of this post has been music, I’m going to focus on what music style makes Classic Sonic shine.

I already said that throwing some generic chiptunes won’t work, but I DO think that Genesis-inspired tunes can still work, should they stick to what made the classics so great.

And what is that? Well, you have several options here: you can choose from more J-Pop and jazzy tunes to some sick R&B and New Jack Swing beats, all the way through to late 80′s Acid House and wacky 90′s Dance music, even cinematic-like scores and ambient sounds.

Personally, I think the heavy R&B (with its fair share of New Jack Swing) influences are a constant throughout Sonic’s first years, and that kind of sound is one that goes well with his cool attitude™. Spring Yard Zone has always been referred to as “16-bit Every Little Step”, while Sonic CD... well, and Sonic 3... well... JAM. Even Masa’s demos of Sonic 2 feature some sick basses that aren’t all that different from what I was thinking (Chemical Plant and Metropolis come to mind). Sonic CD (JP, also the work of Naofumi Hataya and Masafumi Ogata) in particular springs up to my mind as the purest representation on everything that Sonic was about on his old days, but “pure” doesn’t necessarily mean “refined”, so I think the Sonic CD style coupled with some more smooth Pop for emotional moments (straight from Nakamura’s school of smoothness) and harder 90′s raves for boss fights (think how iconic Stardust Speedway Bad Future has become) could make up the perfect blend for Classic Sonic to follow in terms of style points, but also considering the general themes of each zone (Wacky Workbench being this Dance-heavy zone was a stroke of genius if you ask me, the same with Spring Yard being a jazzy urbanscape.)

Sonic is a product of the late 80′s and 90′s pop culture, he has the moves of MC Hammer, Bobby Brown, and of course, Michael Jackson (also his shoes). As such, no generic “retro nostalgic” tune will fit with him, unlike many other gaming franchises. By embracing Classic Sonic’s wacky nature gems like Sonic Mania happened, and just like I pointed it out to beevean, if you were there the week that game was first announced, you probably saw how much people were gushing about Studiopolis Act 1 sounding so much like Sonic CD with that funky beat. People instantly knew that was the Classic Sonic music they wanted to hear.

And just to make this section even better, I recently asked beevean about her thoughts on what makes Classic Sonic’s music identity. I now urge you to go and read her full analysis because it’s so deep yet very accessible, as I’ll be collecting just a few parts of her response for this post. Trust me, that post is so useful, go and reblog it now, I’ll wait here.

About Classic Sonic’s music styles, beevean says:

So… which is the style that fits Classic Sonic better?

The big love letter to the Classic series that is Mania used CD as an inspiration, and while Mania’s OST is excellent and one of my favorites… I don’t automatically associate New Jazz Swing with Classic Sonic. Before Mania, it was only in one game, the odd one in the bunch too.

3D Blast is my favorite Genesis soundtrack, and as I said it combines the best of two worlds (plus it’s just full of bangers), but it influenced the next era more than the Classic one. The same could be said for the American OST of CD - and besides, tracks like this are nothing like Sonic anyway.

Sonic 1 is the first one and all, but that mellow style fits that particular game more than Classic as a whole, I think the closest OST to this style was Advance 1, actually - another slow-paced, simple game.

So the choice is narrowed down to the ultra-popular Sonic 2 and the refined Sonic 3 & Knuckles. And I’ll be honest, while I think S3&K has higher “highs” compared to S2… my brain immediately jumps to the latter. When I think of Classic Sonic, I think of Genesis brass (the real deal, not that fake synth they used in Forces), twang basses, a swingy rhythm (too many to choose lol), and tons of energy.

Only one Classic track in Forces came close to this description. The others sound more like either a pale imitation of Sonic 1 or modern tracks with a bad soundfont, and that’s when they’re not a complete insult (no i won’t link to it you know what i’m talking about :V).

Author’s note: it’s been, like, two months and she still refuses to talk about Faded Hills, lol

Author’s note: sorry, beev.

(TL;DR) Closing thoughts.

So, what did go wrong with Classic Sonic’s music in Sonic Forces?

A lack of definition on what Classic Sonic even is about, carried from Generations, made the task of defining his style more difficult.

The composers weren’t up to the task, or they were simply asked to make Classic Sonic “sound retro”, generic sound be damned. 

This also means management of the project wasn’t that interested in the Classic portion, or they ran out of time to make it better. This is something that the entire game seemed to have a problem with as well.

The music didn’t fit the stages, and even if it did, Classic’s identity was all over the place. He was there just to be there, and his music suffered from that (compare it to Mania).

Tomoya Ohtani (often credited as the maker of the arguably worst tracks of Classic Sonic in the game) has experienced a shift on his musical style over the last few years that led to his tracks start sounding very similar to each other, this, coupled with the fact he was working on the other 2/3rds of the game’s OST, caused his Classic tracks in particular to suffer.

Classic Sonic’s tracks didn’t take from the 90′s Pop and R&B influences that plagued the old games, and as such, the current Classic Sonic doesn’t have an identity as strong as the original 90′s Sonic. Beevean’s take on this point involves Classic Sonic tracks that feature strong, legit Genesis brass, with twang basses, swingy rhythm and tons of energy.

Once again, I’d like to thank beevean for providing such insightful information and opinions (you can clearly see we both tend to have different takes on what made Sonic back in the 90′s, but in the end agreed to a similar set of requirements to make good Classic music, like basslines and lots of energy), which helped this post a lot more than you can imagine. I wanted to post this back in late January, but the extra time allowed me to keep thinking, searching and listening, while also opened the door to ask beev again about her opinions. This is probably the first “big” article I’ve written this year, and I hope to return soon enough with more. 

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations DEDE! You’ve been accepted as KERBEROS.

Dede, your app blew me away! It was really all in the little details that made Lucila Luca feel like a fully fleshed-out character. From what her family thinks she does for a living to how she got involved with the mob, I really got a feel for the things in her life that showed me how much thought you put into this app. You also really showed her voice throughout all of it, so I have no doubt that you’ll bring justice to this firecracker! I really think you put it best when you wrote “What her power can’t make her, she has to make herself - if you can’t be special because of what you can, you have to make who you are stand out,” and stand out she does!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Dede.

PRONOUNS: She/her/hers.

AGE: 18.

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CET (GMT+1); school’s getting much less busy now, so I’ll be able to be on most days.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Luca Mendoza / Kerberos.

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cis female, she/her/hers.

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: 

The power Luca Mendoza was graced with puts her in a specific position. A copycat. Never the original, the first, never unique. Always second fiddle, always mimicking, always in someone’s shadow. All she has, she gets from someone else. What her power can’t make her, she has to make herself - if you can’t be special because of what you can, you have to make who you are stand out. And make herself stand out she does - the human equivalent of a flashbang grenade, louder than those around her, more in your face, a fake explosion scaring spectators with no actual danger present, unbeknownst to them. And then, after this scare, after everyone already thinks themselves safe, there comes the actual strike - precise and deadly. Luca’s a hitman, or rather hitwoman, and she knows what she’s doing. The job itself is very satisfying to her - find target, eliminate them, quick, clean, effective. Visible, simple results. It’s not a profession that makes you liked, it’s not a lifestyle that makes you liked, it’s not an attitude that makes you liked. But does she care that much? As long as there’s fun to be had, the gang ladder to be climbed and attention to be sucked up and to get a high from, the kind of the attention isn’t that important.

But not everything in the Jem Family’s resident hitwoman’s life is so nice and rosy - and what frustrates Luca and keeps fueling the raging, scorching hot fire that she can feel burning inside her at all times is very well shown through her own gang-assigned alias. Kerberos. A three-headed dog guarding the gates of hell. Always serving someone, a master, never coming into his own. Of lesser importance. Stuck in an eternity of inertia, of arrested development. And that’s exactly what her main problem with the Jem life is. She feels as though there’s virtually no opportunities for upward mobility here - she’s stuck and trapped in her position, which although satisfying on its own, is not all it could be when faced with the opportunities given to others in the family. She wants to go up, climb the ladder, become important. Maybe then people will see just how capable she is.

BIO: tw: drugs, alcohol, murder, in no particular order.

She is the bright flash of fireworks but with a bang twice as loud. Oh-so-ordinary Chicago teenager Lucila Prudencia Mendoza is walking up the stairs to the apartment her friend Natalia along with her parents inhabit, having just finished class. She can hear Nat excitedly skipping way ahead, now on another flight of stairs and completely out of sight because of the speed difference. When they finally reach the seventh floor, while a little annoyed, Luci isn’t exhausted - guess three hours a week of soccer practice help. “Now, what did you want to show me?” she asks, significantly less grumpy and even excited now that she’s inside the other girl’s room, feeling the refreshingly cool air gently touching her, so incredibly welcome after the scorching heat of this year’s May. Instead of replying immediately, her friend sits down on the ground and gestures for her to do the same before speaking at last. “You can’t tell anyone about this, promise?” Lucila rolls her eyes. “It can’t be that serious- Okay, okay, I promise”, she corrects herself, seeing Nat’s expression. “Just spit it out, will you?” She expects a reply, but she gets something else- the other raising her hand a bit, pointing it in the opposite direction from Luci, towards the open window. After a second of stillness, just when Lucila’s about to ask what this whole ordeal is about, they appear - small, flashing sparkles, akin to fireworks or sparklers. The girl stares at them in awe for a small while, before they slowly disappear. She turns to her friend. “So… yeah”, Nat speaks, and by doing so frankly destroys the magic of the moment. Luci is touching her friend’s arm, unable to speak, and at the same time has a million questions. How? How long did Natalia know? Could she, Luci, do the same thing too? Still at a loss for words, she decides to answer that last one herself - focusing hard, she feels an itch in her hand, and here they are - sparkles all her own. They both continue sitting there for some time, speechless.

She is the scent of brimstone in the air, a sign the end of the world is to come. Luci has become an adult, Luca, by now - new year, new me, or however the bullshit motivational saying goes. No criminal with any sense of self-respect and/or dignity would ever have others refer to them as Lucila or, even more, Luci, although her parents still insisted on it even after she took the legal steps to change it. Typical. After all, the aforementioned occupational reason could not be presented to them - every, or almost every, family would rather think their daughter’s a pub bartender than that she kills people for money. But after falling into lots of debt with all the wrong people, which was frankly life-destroying, and roughly figuring out the way her mutant powers could be used to replicate the abilities of others she’s familiar with enough, she had little options to choose from. When you owe money to a gang, you don’t just sit on your ass on your mother’s sofa and hope they’ll forget about it. You take measures to make that cash. Measures that can be extremely risky and stupid, like the ones she’s taking right now - climbing a fire exit on the side of the building she’s going to be doing business in tonight. She finally reaches the right window, double-checking the number of floors above her just to be sure. Anyone else would have to smash the glass or pick the lock, but not her, thanks to a friend. She simply slips in through the window like a horror movie spectre, standing behind the man inside. “Good evening, sir”, she says in a happy tone, before raising her hand and pulling the trigger on her pistol.

She is the first bite into a spicy dish, the heat seemingly nonexistent until it hits harshly and painfully. Luca’s slender fingers, adorned with black sloppily painted nails, are rolling a dollar bill she just found in her - emptier and emptier by the second - wallet. Putting it in the proximity of a meticulously prepared, snow white, thin line of cocaine on the bar counter, she snorts with all the professionalism she could possibly have retained, being as intoxicated as she is. Raising her head, she makes eye contact with the bartender and opens her mouth, about to ask for another shot of vodka, when someone - presumably a waiter - taps her on the shoulder. Turning, she sees the waitress she expected, who, in turn rather unexpectedly, is holding some fancy schmancy colorful cocktail in her hand and clearly handing it over to Luca. “Thanks?” she says, accentuating the word like the question it undoubtedly is. “Courtesy of the gentleman in the corner”, the woman replies, pointing to a man sitting alone at a faraway table. Raising her eyebrows, Luca nods with a smirk before sampling the drink. It seems fairly bland and flavorless for a second, before hitting her with an inferno of spicy tastes that makes her eyes water. “What the hell was this supposed to be?” she muses to herself, as the waitress is long gone. Deciding to get up, she walks up to the corner table she was shown before. The man there hasn’t moved, looking at her with a slight smile. “Listen, man, I don’t sleep with people for drinks in general, but if you really wanted to try, at least make it-”she begins and is interrupted by the man’s chuckle. “You misunderstood. Wildly.” Her expression must be outright confused and suspicious, as he continues. “Damien Matthews. I’m here to present an opportunity that I think you might be interested in.” Still wary, she nonetheless slowly drops into the seat opposite him, listening carefully, especially so after she’s assured it’s not a ploy to sell her something like a household appliance she doesn’t need.

The thing that makes you strong will be your undoing - she’ll ensure it.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

Angela. While Luca usually prefers to be frank and straightforward, there are some things she would never admit publicly. Among these is her, to put it in maybe a bit extreme of a way, years-long obsession with Ganymede. The Jem Family underboss is just exactly who Luca wants to be. Well-respected by most, if not all, always counting in decision-making, and above all important. Angela matters, and Luca’s itched to matter for so long. The underboss was, at first, quite the friendly presence to Kerberos, Luca would even consider her a friend to some extent, but over the years her feelings shifted dramatically as she encountered Angela, stable in her apparent weakness, and virtually unmovable, right in the way of her rise to the top among the Jems. If Luca ever manages to surpass Ganymede in power and position, it would be the achievement of her life. Maybe then she could finally take off the Angela dartboard she’s had on her bedroom wall for years, now adorned with thousands of marks left by darts thrown in (frequent in this life of hers) moments of anger and frustration.

Jackson. Less fire and ice, more yin and yang, or perhaps, if you prefer your comparisons pop culture-y, captain Kirk and mister Spock, Kerberos and Janus may be opposites, but instead of clashing, these opposites complete each other. Luca’s life is filled with rage, adrenaline and not the most positive of emotions, and she finds it oh-so-refreshing to be able to get a coffee, to just talk and be listened to, not to be diminished. It’s almost akin to putting one’s forehead up against a cold window during a migraine, the coolness soothingly easing the pain. A conversation with Jackson is just what Luca needs after a hard day of killing, or, to put it more elegantly, eliminating people. Just a nice cup of an iced beverage, a comfortable chair and the amazing feeling of not being judged.

EXTRA: mock blog / pinterest / spotify.

headcanons:

Luca prefers to be referred to as ‘hitwoman’ instead of ‘hitman’ - as she herself says, ‘what women do is already being erased from the world, at least give us proper credit when describing the profession.’ Mutant supremacy ideologies and the fight for women’s equal rights would seem to contradict, but then again, it’s not like Kerberos particularly cares anyways.

She was born under the name Lucila Mendoza, but adopted the form Luca as she considered Lucila to be somewhat infantile for her taste. Barely anyone knows about this fact, the very few exceptions being Damien and her birth family. She’s considering telling someone in the gang - but she doesn’t quite trust them enough yet. It might be a dumb secret, but a symbolic one, too.

She has one tattoo, on the inside of her left thigh, stating her mutant risk level in black uppercase letters - she counts this as her mandatory ID, and enjoys watching the policemen’s facial expressions while she’s in front of them going “oh, of course, officer, let me just pull my pants down, just a second-”.

Luca’s left-handed, but has trained herself to use both her dominant and non-dominant hand with more or less equal skill, making her an adept juggler. It’s not an ability that proves particularly useful in her daily gang life, but has time and time again proved invaluable in entertaining her companions when needed.

ANYTHING ELSE: Nope, I’m good! Hope to soon become a part of this great rp!

[anavoliselenu]

Hiched chapter 6

But why? We are dating, aren’t we? Damn it . . . if I ever want to win her over, I need to figure out what makes her tick. I’m not above asking for help. And who knows a woman better than her best friend?

I already know Camryn works in the marketing department. Tracking down her cubicle is easy from there. When I find it, I see it’s a mess of papers and folders, one of those chaotic systems where I’m sure she’d try to convince me she knows where everything is.

She’s typing away, and when I stroll up, her fingers suddenly stop and her eyes lift to mine.

“How can I help you?”

I almost laugh. She’s so formal. She and Selena are definitely cut from the same cloth; I can see why they’re such good friends.

“I need to talk to you about Selena,” I say, and Camryn’s brow furrows.

It crosses my mind that maybe she won’t want to help me. I decide to lay all my cards on the table and see if my candor will make her bite.

I lower my voice and lean in closer. “You know about the whole marriage contract, right?”

“Yes, and I’m not going to help you try to convince her, if that’s why you’re here. Selena’s a big girl, and she can make up her own mind.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Fine. What do you need? I’m not exactly Team Justin, you know?”

“That’s fine, because we’re both Team Selena.”

She swivels her chair away from the keyboard and faces me. “You have five minutes.”

“Why is Selena so opposed to this? I hate to be so cocksure, but most women drop their panties at my slightest interest.”

“Selena is not most women.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

“So, what seems to be the problem, lover boy?” She shifts her weight in her seat, looking me over with an amused expression. She’s enjoying my desperation way too much. “I never imagined that Justin Tate, the legendary sex god, would have any problem seducing a woman.”

“Sex god, eh?”

She shrugs. “Are the rumors true or not?”

“Depends on which rumors you’re referring to.”

“That you have a magical nine-inch dick that tastes like strawberries?”

I burst out laughing despite myself. We’re in a crowded work area with people sitting well within earshot, and she’s discussing my cock like we’re picking out carpet samples.

“As much as it pains me to say this, let’s get off my dick and onto the topic at hand.”

She squares her shoulders. “Right. Selena.”

“Tell me what she likes. Hobbies. Interests. Things she enjoys.”

Camryn takes a second to think it over. “She works her ass off all week, which I’m sure you know. So if you’re referring to the weekends, she likes watching rom-coms and has a secret romantic side. She buys herself a bouquet of peonies at the farmers’ market every Saturday.”

“That’s good.” I pull out my phone and type peonies into the notes app. “What else? Favorite color? Food?” I already know she likes dirty martinis and red wine, but charming Selena will take a lot more than just liquoring her up.

“Green. Like money.” Camryn grins. Selena always was an overachieving powerhouse. “And she loves tapas.”

“Isn’t that just appetizers for dinner?”

“Basically,” Camryn says with a shrug.

“Got it. Anything else?”

She looks away for a moment. “Well, there is one thing, but I don’t think you’re going to want to hear this.”

“Lay it on me.”

“She has this scrapbook of her dream wedding. She’s been adding to it since she was a little girl.”

“Selena?” My eyes widen. “The same Selena Cane who protested getting married has dreams of a grand wedding?”

“Exactly. She’s always dreamed of a big, beautiful wedding. She’s actually really mushy underneath that hard shell. What her mom and dad shared was special, and she’s ultimately looking for the same thing. The perfect wedding. The perfect husband.”

It all hits me at once. “And this arrangement crushes her lifelong dream.”

“Well, yes.”

Camryn seems oblivious of the huge bombshell she just dropped on me. It doesn’t matter if I know Selena’s favorite color or dinner spot. She wants the one thing I can never give her—a real happily-ever-after.

My heart sinks a little. No matter how well we’re getting along, I’m not foolish enough to think I could fill in for her soul mate. Unless . . . I swallow as a wave of nerves hits. Holy freaking matrimony. Am I ready for that?

“One more thing,” I ask Camryn. “Why doesn’t she ever date?” Not since that douche of an ex in college have I seen Selena with another man.

“Basically? She’s a picky bitch,” Camryn says with a fond smile.

“She’s waiting for her Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.”

“Something like that.”

“Thanks, this has been really helpful.”

“Good luck,” Camryn calls as I head toward my office. She lets the you’re going to need it go unspoken.

Fuck . . . I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Chapter Twelve

Selena

On Justin’s tuxedo-clad arm, I walk into Clair de Lune, a five-star French restaurant overlooking the East River. Escargot, caviar, white tablecloths, hundred-dollar bottles, the whole nine yards.

Even though this event is purely business—a dinner meeting meant to win over a new client—Justin brought me a bouquet of peonies when he came to my office to pick me up. He was polite and attentive, and it almost made me forgive him for getting me riled up the other day.

Who am I kidding? The man riles me up every five minutes.

The hostess guides us to our reserved table, where Miss Estelle Osbourne, the forty-something chief marketing officer of Parrish Footwear, is already seated with a glass of champagne in front of her. She looks regal in her lavender-gray chiffon evening gown, its sheer capped sleeves appliqued with silver lace—a sexy, yet sophisticated touch. I suddenly feel both underdressed and frumpy in my simple knee-length black sheath.

I read Miss Osbourne’s business profile online while studying up on her company for this dinner. After completing her Ivy League education, she landed a job with fashion giant Luxor Brands and has been climbing the corporate ladder ever since. She just took over Parrish’s esteemed head of marketing role last year, and so far she’s doing great things.

Talented, successful, beautiful, with keen business instincts . . . she’s exactly the kind of woman I strive to be. Which only makes the prospect of trying to impress her more nerve-racking.

“She got here early? Now it looks like we’re late,” I hiss under my breath.

“Relax, Snowflake,” Justin murmurs as he pulls out my chair for me.

Easy for him to say. How does he always stay so cool? I’m balanced on a knife’s edge of excitement and anxiety. Getting hold of this new client in the first place was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune. If we manage to charm this woman, her company’s contracts will go a long way toward digging us out of the red. Tate & Cane desperately needs this business dinner to come off without a hitch.

After everyone shakes hands and introduces themselves, Justin and I sit down. The waiter materializes with the wine list and three menus. I order the beef bourguignon and a glass of last year’s Beaujolais nouveau. Bring on the red wine.

The waiter departs and I take a sip of ice water to clear my dry throat. Don’t worry, you’ve got this.

“So, as I was saying earlier on the phone, Tate & Cane is currently implementing a solid plan for—”

“Oh, surely business can wait until after the main course.” Miss Osbourne, or Estelle, as she’s told us to call her, interrupts with a smile that says she’s clearly accustomed to getting her way. “How long have you two been together?”

“Uh . . .”

How the hell do I explain that we’re in the trial phase of an arranged marriage? We only started dating a few days ago, but in a sense, we’re sort of . . . pre-engaged? I should probably just make something up. And I have to do it fast because I’ve already paused for way too long. But I also have to make sure my lie won’t come back to bite us in the ass later.

“For as long as we can remember,” Justin says, smoothly covering the awkward silence. “Our fathers were close friends and business partners, so we spent most of our childhoods together. It was meant to be.”

“How sweet.” Estelle simpers, looking between us with curiosity.

“In fact, that reminds me of a story from when our families summered together . . .”

Oh God, here it comes. Justin deploys one of his secret weapons: a cute anecdote about how he once saved a puppy from drowning in Shinnecock Bay. It’s an old tale, wildly embellished over the years, guaranteed to make women fawn and panties disintegrate.

I start tuning it out in favor of concentrating on the fragrant food that just arrived. I’ll let Justin have his playtime for now. It’s probably a decent strategy to let our prospective client get a few drinks deep before pitching our business anyway.

Eventually, Justin finishes his story amid Estelle’s approving murmurs. I start listening again when he leans slightly toward her, his manner conspiratorial, as if he’s about to say something intimate and profound. But all he asks is, “Tell me . . . would you happen to be named after Estelle Carmen, the Hollywood designer?”

Estelle actually giggles. “You and I both know I’m too old for that to be true. She was only a girl when I was born. But I appreciate the attempt at flattery.”

“Really? I would have sworn otherwise.” He flashes her a thousand-watt grin.

“Stop it,” she says in a coy lilt that tells him to do no such thing. “But I’m surprised you know that name at all. Are you a student of fashion, Mr. Tate?”

“I’m always interested in what beautiful women are wearing . . . or not.”

“You ought to be more careful with that fresh mouth of yours,” she says, scolding him playfully.

What the hell is happening here? Did I suddenly turn invisible to them?

I shoot a glance at our waiter, who’s cleared the main course dishes and asked twice if we’d like dessert. He looks almost as irritated as I feel, which is both reassuring and terrifying.

At least I know I’m not just going crazy here, but I hate that Justin and Estelle’s antics are so visible. With the way they’re carrying on, anyone would assume they were old friends . . . or maybe even a couple. I’m the odd man out. My only companions are an empty wineglass and the first hints of an oncoming headache.

“Sorry about that,” I tell the waiter. “Yes, please go ahead and bring us the dessert menu. And the cocktail menu too. Thank you.” Gotta buy time to get this dinner back on track . . .

I seriously have no idea what’s going on. Justin and I reviewed our game plan at the office just a few hours ago—talk numbers, explain why Estelle should trust her company’s advertising campaigns to Tate & Cane, and get a commitment, even an informal one. But he’s gone totally off script.

They’ve covered a wide range of topics from their favorite sushi bar (they share the same one), to the best Vegas hotels, to last year’s dip in the stock market—which Parrish Footwear weathered quite well, thanks to Estelle’s forward thinking—but nothing to do with securing her business. No hard facts, no persuasive arguments, no recognition of the entire fucking reason we came here tonight.

So far, I haven’t managed to get out a single sentence of the sales pitch I spent three hours preparing. Not to mention that the way he’s flirting with her makes me want to puke. Aren’t we supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Because Justin sure as hell hasn’t been playing the part.

We can’t walk away tonight until we have a firm idea of whether or not Parrish is with us, which means I have a long damn way to go. And the first thing I need to do is have a word with my dear sweet boyfriend. Preferably someplace private, where our client can’t hear me ripping his balls off.

I check my phone, pretending that I heard it ding, then interrupt their lovefest with a plastered-on smile. “Honey, can I steal you away for a moment? My father just texted me with an important question.”

Without waiting for a response, I push out my chair and stand up, grabbing Justin’s hand. I drag him all the way to the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen’s swinging doors. A passing waiter gives us a curious look.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growl, trying to keep my voice low despite burning with rage.

Justin blinks in surprise. Then a smug grin begins to dawn over his face. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of me paying attention to another woman. That’s so cute. Don’t worry, Snowflake. You’re the only girl I have eyes for.”

I correct him with barely restrained fury. “Don’t you dare try to flirt your way out of this one, you self-obsessed ass. I couldn’t give a damn about where your eyes go. I’m pissed because you’re making our relationship look like a joke, and I don’t appreciate being the punch line. You were practically licking the béarnaise sauce off her fingers!”

Another waiter passes by. This one looks amused. I don’t really blame him—we must look ridiculous, a pair of socialites dressed to the nines and feuding outside the kitchen.

I grind my teeth. I’m already humiliated and mad enough that everything just makes me feel worse.

Justin scoffs at me. “Oh, come on. It’s called networking. Greasing the wheels. She knows it’s nothing serious. I’ve done this kind of thing a million times.”

Why am I not surprised? “That hardly makes me feel better. And our waiter seemed confused as to who the couple was here, me and you or you and her.”

“Who gives a shit what he thinks? She’s the one holding the purse strings. She’s who we’re here to impress.”

“I’m asking you to give a shit what I think!”

He blinks. “What? Of course I—”

“No, you clearly don’t, because otherwise you’d be listening good and hard right now.”

He throws up his hands. “Okay, fine. I’m listening. Just explain what the problem is.”

I suck in a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm down enough to put my thoughts in order. “Let me spell it out for you. You’re the one who made such a big deal about putting on a good performance, keeping up appearances, making our relationship look real. And now you’re acting like the same manwhore you’ve always been. Except now, I’m here to catch your collateral damage, and it’s embarrassing. You disrespected me.”

His eyes shoot open wide. “I never meant—”

“It doesn’t matter! Your intent doesn’t change the results. Maybe it never even occurred to you that I’d have a problem with your bullshit. I can give you that benefit of the doubt. But I’m standing here now, telling you how I feel. So, please knock it off.”

He covers his mouth with one hand, pulling down hard, and lets out a loud, harried sigh. “I . . . didn’t look at it like that. I was just trying to woo the client. Like I always do.”

Wow, he actually looks taken aback.

Somewhat shocked, I let my voice soften. “Well, if I’m in your life now, that can’t happen anymore.”

“In my life, huh?” He considers me with an expression I can’t quite read. “So that goes both ways, I guess. I’m in your life too?”

“Seems that way.” I sigh. “We’re stuck together for a good long while, at least.”

Now I can read his face—the first flickers of that familiar sinful smile. He reaches up, and at first I think it’s to cup my chin. But then he just runs his finger down my neck, that long stretch of exposed skin, all the way over the curve of my shoulder. I can’t help my shiver.

“You make it sound like a jail sentence,” he teases.

I smile. Only slightly, but it’s there.

He leans even closer and asks, “Are you sure you weren’t jealous at all?”

My two glasses of wine have lowered my guard. That’s my excuse for why, instead of telling him to shut up, I admit, “Maybe a tiny bit.” Then I regain my senses and add, “But that doesn’t change my original point.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

My cheeks start to warm as he regards me. Why did the jerk even ask, if he was just going to stand there staring?

“What?” I’m starting to get embarrassed again, but it’s different from before—a ticklish, almost excited twist in my stomach, instead of an upset, painful tightening. And the defensive tone of my own voice only intensifies the feeling.

“Nothing. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

I roll my eyes in an attempt to stop staring into his. “Come on, don’t give me that. You know the effect you have on women.”

That grin is full-blown now. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“No. I refuse to play travel agent for your ego trip.”

“If you want, I can take my turn first.” Before I can stop him, Justin starts listing my pros. “You’re the smartest, most diligent person I’ve ever met. Watching you work is fucking hot—in your element, poised and confident, the way your pretty blue eyes flash when you’re about to tear some poor schmuck apart. I can’t help wondering if you’re just as fierce and tireless and creative in bed. You’re honest to a fault . . . is your body honest too? Do you wear pleasure on your sleeve? Or would you try to hold back, make me work for it? Believe me, I’m up to the challenge.”

His words knock me breathless. What the hell just happened? And why does it have to make me tingle in the worst way?

The half praise, half dirty talk strikes a weak point I didn’t even know I had. Or maybe I only feel this way because it’s Justin who’s saying such sweet, filthy things, gazing at me so fervently. His husky voice softens and warms me, and I suddenly feel so exposed. Unshielded. But not in a bad way, not like a naked-at-the-important-meeting nightmare, because I know that Justin would never hurt me. He would never take advantage of my vulnerability.

Or maybe he would, but only in the ways that I secretly want.

Justin takes my hands, turns my palms up in surrender, his thumbs rubbing light circles onto the soft thin skin under my wrists. When I can’t repress the shiver that races through me, he grins like a wolf. Oh, he saw that reaction, all right. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and I both hate it and love it.

“And I’d do just about anything to get my hands on your amazing body,” he continues mercilessly. “I’ve never seen a more perfect woman . . . every inch of you, tight ass and luscious tits and legs just made to wrap around my back. Kissing you the other night wasn’t nearly enough. I’d love to watch your expression change as I pound into you. Watch you give up control, turn off your brain and just feel.”

“Y-you don’t play fair,” I finally manage to stutter.

“Hey, that’s not how this works. Compliments, not insults. Believe me, I already have a pretty good idea of what you think my bad points are.”

“Uh . . .” I swallow. “You’re pretty cool too, but in a different way. Good with people and words and stuff, instead of numbers and strategy.”

“Is that why you’re blushing right now?”

In a way, yes. But his sculpted jaw, full lips, and piercing dark eyes are what make his words truly intoxicating. And the fact that he still hasn’t let go of my hands.

“You take charge, and sometimes I hate that, but sometimes . . . it’s nice to have a break.”

His smile turns mischievous. “Oh? I’ll be sure to make a note of that. Anything else?”

I retreat to safe, familiar ground. Harsh words, something I can deny later as just a joke. “Are you just trying to get me to admit you have a nice ass?”

But when his only response is a silky, dark chuckle, I realize my mistake. He wasn’t fooled at all—why did I ever think he would be?—and now I’ve backed myself into a corner. Literally and figuratively. As I talked, Justin slowly leaned closer, bit by bit, until I can just barely feel the tickle of his breath.

Suddenly, acutely aware of the rising temperature between us, I cut myself off. “Shouldn’t we get back? It’s rude to keep Miss Osbourne waiting.”

Justin’s stare is too intense for me to look away. “The only woman I’m interested in entertaining right now is you.”

I shift a fraction, needing to leave but wanting to stay, and I realize that my panties are soaking wet. Everything I never let myself feel or think about Justin rushes to the surface. My body doesn’t care that he’s a juvenile jerk. I hate that my libido is so totally out of my control. I hate that I’ve always had such a wicked crush on Justin. Fate must be laughing her ass off at me right now.

Justin leans even closer, stopping just short of contact. I can almost feel the brush of his lips against mine, and my stomach clenches with desire.

“Still only first base?” he whispers against my skin. “Or do you want more?”

I don’t answer. I’m not even sure I can speak. I just wet my lips.

That one tiny move is like loosening a coiled spring. Justin lunges forward to devour my mouth. My knees weaken with his expert onslaught. His strong arms wrap around me and his hands are everywhere, igniting my nerves, fingertips grazing what feels like every inch of bare skin. I feel a flash of frustration that my dress is so modest; I want his touch all over me, unrestrained.

He yanks our hips together and I feel his erection press into my belly. Something wild shoots through me, a fierce, territorial satisfaction. That hardness is all for me. Not Estelle, not any of his past conquests. I’m the one who’s making him feel this way right now. Such powerful, primal need aimed squarely at me and only me.

He’s all mine. The unbidden thought strikes deep into an animal part of me I never realized I had.

On fire, I cup his bulge through his pants, wanting to assert control and show off my sexual power. But that was a big mistake . . . emphasis on big. Feeling just how impressive and steely hard he is only makes me even more desperate. I groan and squeeze him in my palm.

“If you don’t stop, we’re going to have a problem,” he growls out.

I giggle, feeling almost tipsy with lust. “You sure it’s our problem and not just yours?”

He abruptly draws back, pulling an involuntary noise of disappointment from my throat. But my fervor spikes again when he takes my hand and hurries me toward the nearby restroom. He pulls me inside and locks the door. I drop my purse in the corner just as he shoves me up against the wall.

Our mouths crash together again, lips and tongue moving like they were made for this. Our making out intensifies as his fingers fumble at the back of my dress. He finds the zipper, tugs it halfway down, then abandons it to push my sleeves down past my shoulders, trapping my upper arms.

I squeal in shock—then quickly clap my hand over my mouth—when he kneels to swirl his tongue around one nipple and pinch the other . . . hard.

“No bra tonight?” he murmurs between licks and suckles and gentle bites. “Naughty girl.”

I want to explain that this dress doesn’t work with a bra. I want to tell him to shut up and fuck me. But all I can do is tremble at the sparks of sensation shooting from my breasts straight to my clit.

“God, these are beautiful,” he says on a groan, taking my nipple in his mouth.

I can only watch, desperate, as he kisses my breasts, and let out helpless moans.

“And so sensitive.” He moves to the other, giving it a wet kiss that ends with an audible sucking sound. He hikes up my skirt and runs his fingers along the center of my panties. “Just as I thought,” he murmurs. “Nice and wet for me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Justin chooses that moment to kiss me again.

Then he lifts the side of my panties and his fingers slide in. No fumbling at all now, no fooling around, no teasing—he knows exactly what I’m dying for. One long finger parts me, petting me, putting just the right amount of pressure on that swollen bud. I mumble some unintelligible groan. Justin’s tongue continues working against mine. Then two deft fingers crook deep inside me and the heel of his hand rubs my aching, swollen clit. Heat surges through my core and I choke out a cry of relief. Yes . . .

Justin growls with possessive satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear, baby. This pussy is mine now, and we both know it. I’m going to take damn good care of my wife . . .”

His dirty talk pisses me off and sets my body on fire all at the same time. I don’t know what to feel. I can’t think at all. I just hang on to Justin, struggling to keep standing while the white-hot pleasure coils tighter and tighter. I bite my lip hard to muffle my moans.

“Fuck . . . Justin . . .” I moan, rolling my hips hard against his hand. I’m so agonizingly close. Just a few more seconds . . .

Someone knocks at the door.

We both freeze in place, me topless and clutching Justin’s shoulders, Justin with his hand up my skirt. The absurdity of the picture suddenly strikes me. I might have laughed if I weren’t so terror-stricken—and teetering on the edge of a mind-blowing climax. Even with the fear of getting caught washing ice through my veins, I’m still burning up.

“If you move your fingers, I’ll kill you,” I whisper frantically to Justin. No way would I be able to keep this orgasm quiet. It’s been six long months in the making. And I want it more than I want my next breath.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?”

Oh my God. That’s Estelle’s voice. Our client is standing less than three feet away, and my stupid sexy boyfriend’s hand is still down my panties.

“It’s Justin and Selena,” Justin calls, pulling off a perfect casual voice. “We just had a few things to talk about.”

“In the bathroom?” she asks with obvious skepticism.

Is she suspicious or just confused? Damn it, I should just throw myself out the window right now.

“Private family matters, you understand. We’ll just be another minute.”

After a heart-stopping pause, I finally hear her footsteps move away.

“Stop touching me,” I hiss under my breath.

Justin gives me a hey, not fair look. “You told me not to move my—”

“You know what I meant, smartass! Now get out of my panties!”

Chuckling, he withdraws. “I think that’s the first time a woman’s ever said that to me.”

“If you want to hear worse, that can be arranged. Now, zip me up.”

After Justin helps me yank my clothes back into place, I check the mirror over the sink. Jesus, I look like a train wreck. Lipstick smeared everywhere, hair rumpled. My appearance practically screams I just humped a guy in the bathroom! What a great bargain . . . all the public embarrassment of sex with none of the “actually getting to have an orgasm” part.

I retrieve my purse from the corner, pull my travel brush through my hair a few times, then start scrubbing at my lips. As I apply a fresh coat of lipstick, I notice that Justin hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s straightened his tie and rebuttoned his jacket, but other than that, he’s just been waiting patiently for me.

He could at least have the decency to look ashamed about tempting me into this mess . . .

“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” I snap at him. One of them was just buried in my you-know-what, after all.

With a wicked grin, he lifts that hand to his nose and makes a show of smelling his fingers, inhaling my scent, and my face flares bright red.

“No way,” he says simply.

I tear my hungry eyes away and huff, “Whatever. Let’s just get back to the table and hope we haven’t already ruined this deal.”

“Uh, sweetheart . . .”

I glance back at him. “What?”

He releases a deep breath slowly through his nose. “If I go back out there like this, I’ll be arrested for indecency.”

I follow his gaze, which has dropped to the front of his slacks.

Holy hell. It looks like he’s smuggling a pineapple in his underwear.

“Get that thing under control.”

He squeezes his eyes closed and takes another deep breath. When his eyes open again, he looks slightly more composed. “Let’s roll.”

As we leave the bathroom, I try to pull myself together. With Estelle in my sights again, I get my head back in work mode.

Sure, Justin may be unfairly attractive—and now I know he’s good with his hands too, on top of being a skilled kisser���but I still need to stay frosty here. He’s an arrogant, cocky, immature playboy who doesn’t take business seriously enough.

So, keep your head in the game, Selena, I remind myself.

But the unsatisfied ache between my thighs is almost too much to bear. This dinner will definitely qualify as the longest evening of my life.

Chapter Thirteen

Justin

“Well, that went well,” I say as I maneuver my sleek black Tesla out of the parking garage. I give the gas pedal a modest tap and we fly off down the street.

I feel ten feet tall, as smug as can be, and I don’t give a shit right now. Not even the way my cock is aching like a motherfucker can ruin my mood.

Selena shoots me a questioning glare, and I know she’s wondering what I’m referring to—the business meeting with the new client that we’ll probably land, or my favorite part, almost getting her off in the bathroom. My body is still primed and ready to deliver.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wash your hands,” she snaps.

“I may never wash this hand again.” I smile and make a lewd gesture with my fingers.

She turns away from me with a huff and looks out her window in silence the rest of the way home.

When we arrive, the penthouse is dark and quiet and my hormones are still raging. Selena sets her purse and cell phone down on the entry table, then turns, putting her back toward me.

“Will you unzip me?”

I drag her zipper down her back, letting my fingers graze her skin, appreciating the twin dimples in the small of her back and the very top of her lacy thong.

Torture. This is pure torture.

Taking a chance, I lean forward and place a soft kiss against the back of her neck. “We could finish what we started at the restaurant.”

Her breathing has grown shallow and I can practically smell her arousal. I know her panties are still soaked. The idea of touching her again has me nearly overcome with desire.

“It’s probably not a good idea. We should keep this strictly professional from now on. We need to focus on the business, don’t you think?”

But she sounds the slightest bit unsure, and that’s all I need. It tells me that it’s only a matter of time until I get what I want. And what I want is her tight cunt wrapped around my cock, where I can pound away for hours. Days, even.

“You were so close back there. I could feel your pussy gripping my fingers, that swollen little clit pulsing in time with every heartbeat. You were about to come,” I whisper.

The heat of my breath sends a rash of goose bumps racing down the back of her neck. I know a woman’s body well, how to read all the signs and signals, and everything about Selena is blaring that she needs to be fucked. Stripped down, laid on the bed, and worshiped like the goddess she is.

“Justin . . .” Her voice is almost a groan, and my cock hardens instantly.

“What do you do for fun, Snowflake? Everything can’t be about work. Sometimes blowing off some steam is a good thing.”

“For everything there is a season.” She straightens her posture. “And this is our season to buckle down and focus on business, not play grab-ass games. I’m sure that’s a foreign concept to you, but—”

“Believe me, I’m dead serious about Tate & Cane. But business is for the workday. After hours is for playtime. And in case you failed to notice . . .” I trail one fingertip down her spine, lingering at the waistband to her panties. “It’s dark outside. And we’re two consenting adults.”

“Two? Try counting again.”

The ice princess takes a step away from me and heads toward the bedroom, where I drink in one last glimpse of her bared back and hips before she shuts the door. I can just imagine her letting the dress slip down her long legs, the fabric pooling around her still-heeled feet, her firm ass covered only with a scrap of lace . . .

God. Fucking. Damn it.

I rake my fingers through my hair and blow out a frustrated sigh. For a second, I don’t know if I’m frustrated because I’m horny and insanely attracted to her, or because she’s making it impossible to win our bet.

No. Fuck that. It’s just because I want her. I want to take her in my arms and understand that we could really have something here. She’s just so damn stubborn. And her secret dream of a romantic wedding—I may not be her first pick, but I want to at least meet her halfway, as more than friends. I’ll just have to find a way to pull this off and keep everyone happy.