The bass thrummed through the floorboards, a constant, low-frequency heartbeat that vibrated up through the soles of Sienna’s heels and into her bones. The house was a sprawling modern maze of glass and steel, perched precariously on a Hollywood Hills cliffside, and tonight it was filled to bursting with the beautiful, the ambitious, and the beautifully ambitious. Sienna, with her cascade of sun-bleached blonde hair and a dress the color of a midnight ocean, felt like a ghost at the feast.
She clutched a glass of champagne that had long since gone flat, her eyes scanning the crowd for the hundredth time. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and the faint, sweet smoke of something illicit drifting in from the expansive terrace. She wasn’t here for the scene. She was here for him.
Leo.
His name was a silent, familiar prayer on her lips. Leo, with his unruly dark hair that always looked like he’d just run his hands through it, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. He was her brother’s best friend, which meant he’d been a permanent, untouchable fixture in her life for over a decade. She’d been a gangly fifteen-year-old with braces when she’d first felt the jolt of his smile, a full-body shock that had never really subsided. Now, at twenty-six, she was a woman who knew what she wanted, and the wanting had only deepened, curdled into a sharp, persistent ache.
He was across the room, holding court near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glittering carpet of city lights. He was laughing at something, his head thrown back, the long line of his throat exposed. A woman with glossy red hair and a predatory smile had her hand on his arm, her body angled into his like a heat-seeking missile. Sienna’s stomach clenched. This was the part she hated. The endless parade of women who were bold enough, confident enough, to simply walk up and touch him. She had spent years perfecting the art of observing him from a safe distance, cataloging the way he held his drink, the way he tilted his head when he listened, the rare, genuine smile that could light up a room.
Tonight, she had decided, was different. It was a reckless, champagne-fueled decision born of a particularly lonely Tuesday night and a photo of him on her Instagram feed, looking impossibly handsome in a tuxedo at some charity gala. She was tired of being the kid sister, the ghost in the periphery. She was wearing her most lethal dress, a silky, bias-cut number that clung to every curve of her athletic frame, and she’d had her makeup done by a professional. She was armed.
But the armor felt flimsy now, watching the redhead lean in and whisper something in his ear. Sienna took a deep, shaky breath, the flat champagne bubbles stinging her nose. She was about to retreat to the bar when he looked up. His gaze drifted over the crowd, a lazy, bored scan, and then it landed on her. And stopped.
It was as if a spotlight had snapped on, singling her out. The noise of the party seemed to recede, swallowed by the sudden roaring in her ears. He didn’t smile. He just looked, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were trying to solve a puzzle he’d never noticed before. The redhead, sensing his distraction, followed his gaze, her smile faltering.
Sienna felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She forced herself to hold his stare, her heart hammering a frantic, frantic rhythm against her ribs. *Don’t look away,* she commanded herself. *Don’t you dare look away.* After what felt like an eternity, a slow, devastating smile spread across Leo’s face. It wasn’t the easy, charming grin he gave everyone else. This was different. It was private, and it was for her.
He said something to the redhead, a casual dismissal that made her pout, and then he was moving, cutting through the throng of bodies with an easy, predatory grace. The crowd seemed to part for him. Sienna felt frozen in place, a deer caught in the headlights of a very, very fast car. By the time he reached her, she’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Sienna,” he said, and her name on his lips was a low, intimate rumble that she felt deep in her core. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Surprise,” she managed, her voice a little too breathy. She took a sip of the dead champagne just to have something to do.
He plucked the glass from her hand and set it on a nearby side table. “That stuff will kill you. Let’s get you a real drink.” His fingers brushed against hers, a fleeting, electric touch that sent a jolt straight to her sex. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and began to lead her away from the crowd.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Somewhere we can hear ourselves think,” he said, his grip firm and warm.
He led her through the labyrinthine house, past groups of people laughing and drinking, past a couple openly making out against a wall. The music from the main party faded, replaced by the softer, more ambient sounds of the house itself: the hum of the air conditioning, the distant murmur of the city below. He finally pushed open a door to what looked like a study. It was dark, quiet, and smelled of old books and leather. A single lamp on the desk cast a warm, golden glow.
He closed the door behind them, the click of the latch sounding with an air of finality. The silence was heavy, charged with everything that had never been said between them. He released her hand and walked over to a small, well-stocked bar cart in the corner.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, his back to her.
“Surprise me,” she said, her eyes tracing the broad line of his shoulders under his simple black t-shirt.
He poured two glasses of whiskey, neat, and walked back to her, handing her one. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal tumbler. She took a sip, the smoky warmth spreading through her chest, calming her frayed nerves. He stood close, so close she could smell his cologne, a clean, woodsy scent that had haunted her fantasies for years.
“You look… different tonight,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her, from the top of her blonde head, down the slender column of her neck, to the swell of her breasts in the silk dress. “Not like my little sister’s friend.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine. “I haven’t been that for a long time, Leo,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
“No,” he agreed, his eyes darkening as they settled on her mouth. “You haven’t.” He took a step closer, and she instinctively backed up, her hips hitting the edge of the heavy oak desk behind her. He kept advancing until he was standing right in front of her, his body a wall of heat and muscle. He placed his own glass on the desk beside her. He was close enough to kiss, close enough for her to see the flecks of silver in his irises, the dark fan of his lashes.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” he murmured, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
Her breath hitched. “I didn’t think you noticed.”
A low, humorless laugh escaped him. “Sienna, I’ve been noticing you for years.” He reached up and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the sensitive skin of her neck, tracing a slow, deliberate path down to her collarbone. “I remember you at your sixteenth birthday party. You were wearing a yellow dress and you spilled punch all over yourself. You looked so mortified, I wanted to carry you out of there.”
The memory, so specific and so clear, stole her breath. She had been mortified. She’d always assumed he, like everyone else, had been too busy with his cool, older friends to even register her existence. “You remember that?” she whispered, her voice full of wonder.
“I remember everything,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky growl. “I remember thinking even then that you were going to be trouble.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. The sensation was so potent, so erotic, that her legs nearly gave way. “I was right.”
His mouth found hers. It wasn’t a tentative, questioning kiss. It was a claiming, a deep and desperate exploration that stole the air from her lungs. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting of whiskey and something uniquely, devastatingly *him*. She moaned against his mouth, her hands flying up to fist in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He tasted like every forbidden fantasy she’d ever had. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her, teasing her, owning her. His hands roamed her back, pressing her for the first time against the solid, hard length of his body. She could feel the heat of him through their clothes, the firm pressure of his erection against her belly, and it sent a pulse of pure, liquid lust straight to her cunt.
He broke the kiss, both of them panting, his forehead resting against hers. “God, Sienna,” he groaned, his voice ragged. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Why didn’t you?” she gasped, her hands still clutching his shirt.
“You were my best friend’s little sister. It was… complicated.” He kissed her again, softer this time, but no less potent. “But I’m tired of complicated.”
His hands slid down her back, molding the contours of her ass, pulling her impossibly closer. He then moved them to the zipper of her dress at the back, toying with it. “Can I?” he asked, the question a hot whisper against her lips.
She didn’t answer with words. She just gave a slight arch of her back, pressing her breasts more firmly against his chest. It was all the confirmation he needed. He pulled the zipper down, the rasping sound loud in the quiet room. The silk of her dress loosened, and he gently pushed the straps from her shoulders. The fabric slid down her body like a waterfall, pooling in a dark puddle at her feet.
She stood before him in nothing but a scrap of black lace and her heels, suddenly feeling vulnerable but also powerfully, intoxicatingly sexy under the heat of his gaze. His eyes swept over her, a slow, deliberate perusal that left a trail of fire in its wake. “Jesus,” he breathed, his eyes fixed on her breasts, full and high, her nipples pebbled into tight, aching buds. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
He unclasped her bra with an expert flick of his fingers, and it joined her dress on the floor. He cupped a plump, firm breast in his palm, his thumb stroking over the sensitive nipple. She gasped, her back arching into his touch. He lowered his head, his mouth closing over the tight bud, laving it with his tongue, sucking and nibbling until she cried out, her fingers digging into his shoulders. While his mouth worked its magic on one breast, his hand found the other, teasing and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. A sharp, exquisite pleasure-pain shot through her, and she felt a fresh wave of wetness soak her pant
