In this exclusive, sexy excerpt, we’re diving straight into the fire. Mason is completely overwhelmed by having to share space with the man who used to be his biggest adversary—and trust me, he finds a very cathartic and very hot way to deal with all that complicated history and unwanted attraction. Get a fan ready, because this is the moment when the line between hate and something much, much deeper—and dirtier—gets officially blurred.
Around ten, Beau stood and stretched, his sweater riding up just enough that I glimpsed a patch of skin above his belt. I looked away immediately, focusing on my laptop screen.
“I should head out,” he said. “Got a big day tomorrow. Moving into the new place.”
“The condo in Shockoe Bottom?”
“Yeah. Finally escaping my parents’ arctic tundra.” He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. “Thanks for dinner. And for, you know, talking. About genuine stuff.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
He was standing close again—too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the way his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
My gaze dropped to his mouth without permission.
Don’t.
But I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to close the distance between us, to find out if he kissed the way he argued—with everything he had.
“Mason?”
I blinked, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
He studied me for a moment longer, and I had the horrible feeling he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. But he just nodded and headed for the door.
“See you tomorrow, Price.”
“Goodnight, Thatcher.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in the suddenly too-quiet office, my heart pounding like I’d just run a marathon.
This is a problem.
The second my apartment door clicked shut behind me, I shed my jacket like it was on fire. My tie followed, yanked loose with a sharp tug, the silk whispering against my collarbone as it slithered free. The briefcase hit the floor with a thud. I needed a hot shower. Needed to feel myself burn.
The water roared to life, steam billowing up to fog the glass before I’d even stepped in. Scalding. Punishing. A heat that should’ve seared the memory of Beau right out of my skin.
It didn’t.
I braced my forehead against the tile, letting the water sluice down my back, but all I could see was Beau—leaning over my desk, his cuffs rolled up to reveal the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearms. The way his fingers had tapped against the wood, restless, like he was fighting the same pull I was. Curiosity, he’d called it. Like I was some goddamn equation he needed to solve.
A groan clawed up my throat. I turned my face into the spray, but the water couldn’t drown out the sound of his laugh—low, rough, the kind that vibrated straight through my ribs. Or the way his voice had dropped when he’d asked about my mother, like he was peeling back a layer of me no one else got to see. It was almost like he cared.
My fingers curled into a fist against the wall.
“God, I hate him,” I muttered.
Except I didn’t. Not even close.
The soap slipped in my grip, suds sliding down my chest, and my traitorous brain supplied the memory of his sweater riding up—just a flash of pale skin, the shallow dip of his waist, the hint of a scar near his hipbone I’d never get to ask about. My stomach twisted. I wanted to trace it with my tongue. Wanted to hear him gasp.
Fuck.
My cock was already heavy, aching, and when I wrapped my hand around it, it was with furious resignation. Like my body had been waiting all day for this.
The first stroke was punishment.
The last was relief.
Beau’s cologne—bergamot and something smoky, like burnt sugar—flooded my senses. I could taste it, could still feel the ghost of his breath against my jaw when he’d leaned in to argue about the damn case, close enough that I’d had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing him.
My hips jerked forward, water sluicing over my shoulders as I imagined him pressed against my office door, his hands fisted in my shirt, his mouth hot and demanding. Or worse—spread across my desk, his dark eyes locked on mine as he dared me to do something about it.
A broken sound tore from my throat. My free hand slammed against the tile, fingers splaying wide as my orgasm hit me like a wrecking ball—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Beau’s name burned on my lips, swallowed by the roar of the water, and by the shame curling in my gut.
I sagged against the tile, chest heaving, the aftershocks of release doing nothing to quiet the voice in my head:
You’re so fucked.
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Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 