Off-Limits

The rooftop bar at the Delacroix Hotel was the kind of place Vantage Creative booked when a campaign landed a client worth showing off for — string lights over dark water views, a DJ who understood the difference between background music and a room that wanted to move, and an open bar that the agency's junior staff treated like a dare. Jake Reyes leaned against the railing with a glass of something amber he'd stopped tasting twenty minutes ago, watching the party the way he watched most parties: like a man reading a room for opportunity. "You're doing the thing," Mason Cole said, appearing at his elbow with two fresh drinks and the particular grin he wore when he already knew the answer to a question he was about to ask. "The scanning thing. Who is it tonight?" "I'm not scanning." "You're scanning." Mason handed him a drink he hadn't asked for and didn't refuse. "Please tell me it's not Priya from Accounts again, because I will lose the office pool if it's Priya again." "There's an office pool?" "There is absolutely an office pool, and you are the reason it exists." Mason clinked his glass against Jake's. "Some men build legacies. You built a betting market." Jake laughed, low and easy, the kind of laugh that had gotten him out of more trouble than it had gotten him into — mostly. He and Mason had been best friends since their second week at the agency, three years ago now, bonded over a shared contempt for their first boss and a shared talent for making Friday nights memorable for reasons that rarely survived retelling in the Monday standup. They worked in different departments — Jake in strategy, Mason in creative — but they moved through the agency like a matched set, and everyone from the interns to the CFO knew it. Across the rooftop, near the bar, a woman in a green dress was laughing at something, head tipped back, throat exposed to the string lights. Jake recognized her immediately — Sasha, from the media buying team, a woman built like a bad decision waiting to happen. The dress was cut low enough that when she laughed, her chest rose and fell in a way that made three different conversations near the bar lose their thread, and it clung everywhere else — the curve of her hips, the swell of her ass when she turned to set her glass down — like it had been poured on rather than put on. It was thin enough, and the lighting behind her forgiving enough, that Jake was fairly sure he could tell exactly how little she was wearing underneath it, and the answer looked like not much at all. She had that kind of mouth that made promises without saying anything, full and glossed and made for exactly the kind of trouble Jake specialized in, and skin that looked soft enough to leave marks on and hold them. Her particular gift was making a man feel like the only interesting person at a party for exactly as long as she wanted him to feel that way — and from thirty feet away, Jake already knew he wanted to find out how that felt up close. "There," Jake said. Mason followed his gaze and let out a low whistle. "Bold. She ran circles around Danny from finance for a month. He still flinches when someone says 'programmatic.'" "I'm not Danny from finance." "No," Mason agreed. "You're worse. You'll actually survive it." Jake didn't answer. He was already moving. • • • He found Sasha near the edge of the roof, away from the speaker where conversation didn't have to be shouted, and it took him four minutes to make her laugh and eleven to make her stop performing for the room and start actually looking at him. Up close she was even more of a problem than she'd been from across the roof — the green silk skimming over the swell of her breasts every time she breathed, the fabric so thin against her hip that his hand, resting there while they talked, could feel the heat of her skin straight through it. That was always the tell, the moment a woman stopped playing to an audience of onlookers and narrowed her whole attention down to just him — like the party had shrunk to the two of them and a view of the river. Her gaze dropped once, slow, taking the measure of him the same way he'd been taking the measure of her, lingering just long enough to make her interest plain before it climbed back to his face, unhurried and entirely unashamed. "You're trouble," she said, not as an accusation. Her fingers had found the lapel of his jacket, toying with it, her nail dragging lightly along the seam. "I've heard that." "I bet you have." She tilted her head, studying him with the frank, assessing look of someone deciding whether an evening was worth the effort. Whatever she found, it seemed to satisfy her. "My place is fifteen minutes from here." "Lead the way." • • • Her apartment smelled like vanilla and clean laundry, and she didn't bother with the lights beyond the entryway lamp, which suited Jake fine — he'd learned a long time ago that confidence read better in half-dark than in fluorescent honesty. She kissed him against her own front door, hard and certain, her hands already working his belt before he'd gotten her zipper past her shoulder blades, and there was nothing slow about any of it. This wasn't the kind of night that asked to be savored. It was the kind that asked to be consumed. He walked her backward toward the bedroom, mouth at her throat, and she gasped when his hand slid up her thigh under the hem of the green dress, fingers finding the lace edge of her underwear and pressing against her through the fabric — already damp, already wanting — until her breath caught and her hips rocked forward, chasing more. "Bed," she managed. "Now." He obliged. The dress came off in the doorway, pooling at her feet, and she stood in front of him in nothing but a scrap of black lace and heels, unbothered by her own nakedness in the way of a woman who'd long since stopped needing permission to want something. Her breasts were as good as the dress had promised, full and soft, and he let himself look — openly, unhurried — before his hands found them, thumbs dragging over her n*****s until they went stiff under his touch and her breath hitched. Jake pulled his shirt over his head and let her push him back onto the mattress, straddling his hips, her hands braced against his chest as she ground down against him, the heat of her sinking through the thin lace and his slacks both, the friction of it dragging a groan out of both of them. She rolled her hips again, slower this time, watching his face as she did it, savoring the effect she had on him. "Slow down," he murmured, flipping her beneath him with the kind of easy strength that made her laugh, breathless and delighted. "We've got all night." He kissed his way down her body — throat, collarbone, the curve of her breast, tongue circling one tight n****e until she arched into his mouth, the soft plane of her stomach — taking his time despite the urgency that had gotten them here, learning the places that made her arch and the ones that made her go still and quiet, holding her breath. He peeled the last scrap of lace down her legs and dropped it off the edge of the bed, and she let her thighs fall open for him without a trace of shyness, already glistening, already aching for it. When he finally settled between her thighs and put his mouth on her, dragging his tongue in one long, slow line from entrance to c**t, she made a sound that was half his name and half something wordless, her hand fisting in his hair, hips rising to meet him. He didn't let her set the pace. He built it — slow, deliberate pressure, the flat of his tongue and then the point of it, two fingers curling inside her to find the spot that made her back bow off the mattress — that had her thighs trembling against his shoulders, then backing off just as she got close, drawing it out until she was cursing at him, breathless and half-laughing and utterly undone, begging him in words that stopped being coherent. Finally he gave her what she'd been asking for, sealing his mouth over her and working her through it without mercy, and felt her come apart under his hands, her whole body drawing tight and then loosening in a long, shuddering wave, her thighs clamped around his ears and a cry tearing out of her that she didn't bother to muffle. She didn't give him long to recover his bearings before she pushed him onto his back, still catching her own breath, and worked his belt open with unsteady but determined hands. "My turn," she murmured, dragging his slacks and boxers down his hips, and then her mouth was on him, hot and wet and unhurried at first, her tongue tracing a slow line up his length before she took him deeper, one hand working what her mouth couldn't reach. Jake's head fell back against the pillow with a low groan, his hand finding her hair, not guiding so much as just needing something to hold onto as she found a rhythm that had him gritting his teeth, hips flexing up to meet her. She kept it up until he was right on the edge, breath ragged, and only then did she pull back, lips glistening, a satisfied, wicked look on her face. "Condom," she gasped, when she'd recovered enough to form words. "Drawer. Now." He found it, rolled it on while she watched with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes, and when he finally pushed into her — slow at first, giving her body a second to stretch and take him — her back arched off the mattress, a sharp cry escaping her that she muffled against his shoulder. She was slick and tight around him, and the first full stroke had them both groaning. They found a rhythm fast after that — nothing tentative about it, her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, her nails dragging red lines down his shoulders that he'd feel in the shower tomorrow and not particularly mind. He f****d her the way the night had gone: hungry, certain, unhurried about none of it, driving into her deep and steady while she moaned his name into his shoulder and clawed at his back, until she came again with a broken sound against his throat, clenching hard around him, and he followed not long after, burying his face in her hair with a low groan, both of them slick with sweat and breathing hard in the dark. Afterward, she curled against his side for exactly as long as decorum required and not a minute longer — she had an early flight, she reminded him, already reaching for her phone — and Jake dressed in the dark, unbothered, and let himself out into a city that was just past 2 a.m. and still humming. • • • • • • While Jake was walking Sasha home, Mason had found his own kind of trouble on the other side of the rooftop. Cassidy had cornered him near the bar an hour into the party, tall and unbothered in a way that always caught Mason off guard — she had a good four inches on most of the room in her heels, tattoos winding up one forearm and disappearing under the sleeve of a top cut low enough that when she reached past him for a napkin, he'd had to consciously remember how to keep talking. She had a laugh that carried, loud and easy, and the kind of confidence that came from a woman who'd stopped bothering to be subtle about what she wanted a long time ago. "You've been staring for twenty minutes," she said, not looking up from her drink. "I've been talking for twenty minutes." "You've been staring while you talk. It's not subtle, Cole." He didn't bother denying it. Her jeans were tight enough that they may as well have been painted on, and every time she shifted her weight onto one hip, it did something to his concentration that made the campaign talk around them sound like white noise. When she finally set her glass down and told him her place was closer than his, he didn't need to be told twice. • • • She lived in a converted loft with exposed brick and a bed that took up half the room, and she didn't bother with preamble — just pulled her top over her head the second the door clicked shut, tattoos trailing over her ribs and down toward the waistband of her jeans, and stood there in nothing but black lace, arms crossed, waiting to see what he'd do about it. Mason crossed the room in three steps and kissed her hard enough to back her into the wall, his hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts through the lace, thumbs finding her n*****s already stiff and dragging a low moan out of her. She was all lean muscle and confidence under his hands, her fingers already working his belt loose, shoving his jeans down his hips with an impatience that made him laugh against her mouth. "Bed," she ordered, echoing a phrase that would've made Jake laugh if he'd been there to hear it, "before I change my mind and do this against the wall instead." He walked her back to the mattress and got the rest of her clothes off on the way, her bra falling somewhere near the dresser, her jeans and the black lace beneath them gone by the time her back hit the sheets. She was long-limbed and lithe, hip bones sharp under his palms, a small tattoo just above her hipbone that he traced with his thumb before following it down with his mouth. She wasn't quiet about what she wanted, which suited him fine — she told him exactly where to put his mouth, exactly how much pressure, gasping out instructions between curses when he got it right, her hand fisting in his hair and guiding him until her thighs were shaking and her back arched clean off the bed, a long, satisfied moan filling the loft as she came apart under his tongue. She recovered fast, pushing him onto his back with a hand flat on his chest, a wicked grin already in place. "Your turn to be quiet for once," she said, and then her mouth was on him before he could respond, no hesitation in it at all — she took him deep, confident and unhurried, using her hand and her tongue together in a way that had him cursing at the ceiling within seconds. Mason's hand found the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, watching her work him with a focus that undid him almost as much as the sensation itself. She kept him right on the edge for what felt like forever, easing off every time his breathing changed, until he was practically begging before she finally let him get close and pulled back, dragging her mouth up his stomach with a satisfied hum. "Condom," she panted, already reaching for the nightstand before he could ask. "Top drawer. Hurry up." He didn't need telling twice. When he finally sank into her, she wrapped those long legs around his waist and pulled him deeper with a groan, her nails scoring lines down his back that he'd feel for days. They moved together hard and fast, no hesitation in either of them, her hips rising to meet every thrust, her moans getting louder and less controlled the closer she got, until she came again with a sharp cry and clenched tight around him, and he followed only a few strokes later, groaning her name into her shoulder, both of them collapsing into the tangled sheets, breathing hard, tattoos and sweat and the city humming faintly through the windows. • • • Mason, it turned out, hadn't gone home either. Jake found him — or rather, found the aftermath of him — the next morning, both of them nursing coffee at the little diner two blocks from the office that had become their unofficial post-mortem spot. "Cassidy from the studio team," Mason said, without being asked, sliding into the booth with the specific soreness of a man who'd had an athletic night. "Don't start the pool without me next time." Jake raised an eyebrow. Cassidy was a tall, tattooed redhead with a laugh that carried across the whole floor and a body she dressed to be noticed in — tight jeans that left nothing to speculation, and a habit of leaning over desks in low-cut tops that had derailed more than one creative review. She was the kind of woman men underestimated right up until she'd taken them apart, in the boardroom and, apparently, in bed. "There's no pool." "There's absolutely a pool." Mason grinned over his mug. "How was Sasha?" "Efficient." "High praise, coming from you." "She's got a flight to catch. I respect the discipline." Mason laughed, shaking his head, stirring sugar into coffee he didn't need sweetened, just something to do with his hands. "You know, one of these days some woman's going to actually get under your skin, and I genuinely don't know what that's going to look like. I don't think you do either." Jake smiled into his cup, easy and unbothered, the smile of a man who had never once considered the possibility seriously enough to worry about it. "Not today," he said. He had no idea how wrong he was about to be proven — or how soon. • • • Chapter Two picks up two weeks later, at a friend-of-a-friend's rooftop birthday party — no Mason in sight — where Jake meets a woman who doesn't play by any of the usual rules.