Max carries me inside the door to the apartment. Can you even call something like this an apartment? It looks like a photo from a fancy interior design magazine. Everything is perfectly in place. But something about it is bothering me and I can't quite focus my brain on it.

"Do you live here?" I ask him, turning my head to look up at that strong jaw.

"No, I just stay here sometimes. When it's more convenient."

When he says that it clicks for me what seemed off. This place is missing that lived-in feel in the air. It's more like what a model home would be in a fancy condo building, showy but impersonal.

"So where is home?"

He gives a short laugh. "I have a number of residences. I'm not sure I'd call any of them home."

That seems sad to me. But I do tend to get overly emotional when I've been drinking, so there's that.

Max walks all the way into the bedroom before he puts me down, standing me by the edge of the bed.

"Do you think you can manage-" he starts, then catches me when my knees buckle.

"Never mind," he says, turning me around to face away from him. "I'm just going to undress you and put you to bed."

When I feel his hand sliding the zipper down the back of my dress, I tremble. I really do want his hands on me. That kiss on the plane promised so much more, and I'm betting Max knows how to deliver.

The only problem is I know he's not going to be delivering anything to me tonight except a good night's sleep. I'm just way too drunk.

He puts the palms of his hands on my shoulders and eases the thick straps of my dress down over my arms. The dress, no longer anchored, slides down my body and pools on the floor. Max turns me around to face him again, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. The lacy silk bra and barely there panties were worth every fancy designer penny I paid for them.

"You don't make this easy, Hadley," he says.

Very slowly, he reaches with one hand and flicks the front fastening of my bra open. It joins the dress on the floor. I feel my nipples pucker, wanting his hands or, better yet, that sensuous mouth to travel over my body. A delicious shiver runs through me until I remember I'm drunk, and we're not having sex tonight.

"You're cold," Max says, and I don't tell him that it's not the AC in his bedroom that my body is responding to.

He leaves me sitting on the side of the bed and strides over to the massive walk-in closet, taking off his dinner jacket on the way. I hear a drawer slide open, and then he's back, lifting me up on my feet again and slipping a t-shirt over my head. It feels soft and silky and looks like the twin of the one he's wearing, except this one is a deep forest green. It falls past my bottom and ends with its hem on my upper thighs, long enough to be a very short dress.

The slight friction of the shirt on my already sensitive nipples is making me even more aroused. There's a throbbing between my legs that's begging to be relieved, and it's all I can do not to reach down and touch myself. But I'd much rather have Max do it.

"Sit," he tells me, reaching behind me to push the luxurious comforter back out of the way. I sit on sheets that I'm sure have a higher thread count than the bedding at a five-star hotel, and Max bends down and slips my high heeled shoes off. I feel slightly dizzy for a moment and grip the edge of the mattress.

"Sorry," I say, "I don't usually drink this much on an empty stomach."

I'm also getting the beginnings of a headache, and I try to will that away.

Max looks at me and frowns as he stands back up again.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Um, lunch. I took a nap and missed dinner when Martina came to pick me up for the club."

He just nods and swings my legs up onto the bed. I fall back onto the mound of pillows, then shift toward the center of the bed to make room for him. But instead of getting in bed with me or stripping off his own clothes, he pulls the cover up over my body and turns, walking toward the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm getting you something to eat."

"But–"

He turns back momentarily and gives me a level gaze. "If you don't get some food in your stomach you are going to be really sick by morning."

Where is he going to get food at this hour? Then I remind myself that Max is ridiculously wealthy and possibly the head of a criminal organization, if I take the rumors Martina shared seriously.

I suppose a man like that gets anything he wants anytime he wants it.

His sheets and comforter are like heaven, and the pillow feels like I'm resting my head on a cloud. I give a contented sigh that comes out almost like a purr, and stretch. If he wants me to eat, I'll eat.

I must have dozed off, because in what seems like seconds later, I feel the bed shift as Max sits down on the side of it.

"Open your eyes, Hadley, and sit up."

Before I even open my eyes, it's my sense of smell that overwhelms me. Not just his alluring cologne, but breakfast food?

I look at Max, and then down at the tray he's holding. There's a plate with a generous mound of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and toast slathered with butter. And two water bottles– icy cold, judging from the condensation on the sides.

I realize I'm not just hungry, I'm starving.

"Best way to minimize a hangover. Number one, hydrate. Number two, diner-style breakfast food."

I push myself upright and he slides the breakfast tray onto my lap.

"Where did you get this?" I ask him, imagining a late-night delivery, and Styrofoam containers and foil wrappers in his kitchen, and Max transferring it all onto a plate. But the eggs are steaming as if they just come from the stove.

"I keep the basics here–eggs, bread, potatoes–so I don't have to send out for breakfast when I stay over."

I pause with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth. "You cooked this? You cooked me breakfast?" A guy I was seeing for awhile in law school used to run out for bagels and coffee in the morning. Nice, but probably more because he was hungry and never had any food in the apartment. No guy has ever cooked for me like this before. And I haven't even slept with Max.

Max, however, is frowning at me.

"Do you think just because I pay people to do things for me, I don't know how to make a simple breakfast?"

"That is not what I meant. What I meant was, this was really kind of you."

His look softens.

I sample a bite of the eggs and a little moan escapes my lips. Then I untwist the top of one of the water bottles and take a long drink.

"Food this good isn't simple," I tell him. "Thank you."

He brushes my hair back from my forehead. "There are quite a few things I want to do with you, Hadley," he says, and there's a gleam in his eyes that tells me something completely different would be going on if I hadn't had way too much to drink this evening. "Taking care of you right now is surprisingly one of them."

There's this vulnerable look on his face for just a moment before confident - even arrogant - Max snaps back into place. But I got a glimpse beneath the surface, and it only makes me want to know more.

He stands up. "I need to check a few emails. Eat all of that and drink both water bottles. I'll be back to get the tray."

The tiniest bit of annoyance creeps through my alcohol-soaked brain and pokes at my gratitude. "You sound like you're used to people following your orders."

I mean it as a joke, sort of, but the look he gives me is serious.

"I am," Max says, and leaves the room.

* * *

When I open my eyes, there's sunlight streaming through the windows. I look over immediately, but I'm alone in the bed, and the space next to me is cold.

Did Max sleep here last night? I'm slightly disoriented as I try to remember.

I do remember all those cranberry vodkas. The obnoxious guy, Dylan, who Max dealt with so effectively. The three shots I did in quick succession, and Martina going back onto the dance floor with Tony. I remember Max bringing me up here, cooking me breakfast. The memory of him sitting on the edge of the bed delivering a tray of food he cooked for me himself makes me go warm all over.

I remember the two water bottles I drank and wonder if those plus the food are why my head is not pounding this morning. I tentatively lift my head from the pillow. Nope, no pain.

What I do feel is the desperate need to pee, likely the result of those water bottles. I get up and walk over to the ensuite bathroom, and just wow. There's a huge walk-in shower - I'd expect that - but also a soaking tub that's plenty big enough for two. And after I pee and go to the sink to wash my hands and splash water on my face, I notice there's a note with my name on it folded on the counter.

I open it and see Max's bold handwriting. I read the note as I walk back into the bedroom.

Good morning, Hadley. I have business out of town. Please make yourself at home. Guest items are in the towel closet. I'm having a change of clothes delivered outside the door for you. Gabe will be by this afternoon to drive you home. Text if you need anything.

He lists Gabe's cell number and his.

And okay, this is pretty awesome considering I didn't even have sex with the guy. He's having clothes delivered? Clearly, he doesn't want me going out through the club in a walk of shame. Even though we didn't sleep together. I mean, who does that?

He could have easily had sex with me last night. I'd have said yes to pretty much anything, but he apparently draws the line at drunken conduct passing for consent. Max is making me feel all gooey, because for all his take-charge attitude and talk of being a crime boss, he's really a nice guy.

But it's the final sentence that has my pulse racing.

Next time I have you in my bed, you won't be drunk. And you won't be sleeping.

Those words sizzle right through me.

I think about taking a shower or maybe a nice hot bath in that decadent tub. There's plenty of time. I glance at my watch. I slept in, but it's only ten. And Gabe won't be here until this afternoon.

I could just grab an Uber now and head out, but what's the hurry? I have this luxurious apartment to myself, and no place else to be. And there's something about being alone in Max's apartment that feels daring.

As if I'm someplace I'm not supposed to be. As if I can find out his secrets.

I wander into the walk-in closet. For someone who doesn't actually live here, Max seems to have clothes for every occasion. There are business suits and crisp button-down shirts, casual clothes like you might wear golfing or on a yacht. Not one but two tuxedos. Several pairs of Italian dress shoes, and a pair of athletic shoes that don't look like they've ever been worn. I run my hand over the lapel of one of his suits and imagine gripping it and yanking him closer, while he pushes me against the wall and shoves my dress up, ripping off my panties. I take a deep breath and step back.

I wish Max was here right now.

But he's not. And I'm standing here in his huge closet trying to resist the temptation to snoop just a little. I mean, it's not like I'd be going through his desk or his wallet or his phone. This is probably where he keeps his socks and underwear.

My fingers hover over the sleek handle of the top drawer set. I take a deep breath and touch the smooth surface, then pull the drawer out slowly, looking over my shoulder guiltily even as I do it.

He wouldn't have surveillance cameras set up in his bedroom. Would he? I imagine myself trying to explain what I was doing going through his stuff, and I almost shut the drawer without looking. But since I already opened it I might as well take just a quick look.

I let my breath out with a laugh. Socks. Really expensive dress socks, and lots of them.

I slide the drawer shut and move on to the next one. I wondered why I didn't see any ties hanging in his closet. They're all here, neatly folded, most of them still packaged or in tissue paper, obviously never worn. I don't know what I expected to find.

Would he really be keeping evidence of criminal enterprises in his sock drawer?

I slide open the next drawer and find . . . boxers. It's his underwear drawer. Not just any boxers. They look like some fancy Italian brand. Definitely not plain cotton. I guess when you've got the kind of money Max apparently does, why not? I reach into the drawer to touch a blue pair with micro stripes when my fingers touch something cold and hard.

I lift the boxers out of the way and then pull my hand out, taking an involuntary step back. I can feel my heart pounding.

I've never seen an actual gun before.

Well, not unless you count seeing them on TV. Is it loaded? More importantly, why would Max have a gun just buried in there with his boxers? Don't people keep them in, you know, gun safes?

Why does Max have a gun in his closet?

My chest tightens. Is it because there could be trouble downstairs in his club? But if something happened in the club, what good would it do him to have a gun sitting in the closet of his upstairs apartment? Besides, he has people like that security guy, Gabe, to take care of any trouble.

I step back to the drawer and carefully rearrange the underwear to cover the gun, just the way I found it. Then I slide the drawer shut again.

There are a lot of bad reasons why a person might have a gun, but I'm trying not to think of those. And I can't even ask Max about it. How would I explain finding it in the first place?

I remind myself it's not unusual here in Florida for people to have guns.

Then I think about the look in Max's eyes when he asked me to point out the guy on the plane who splashed hot coffee on me. And when he faced down that jackass Dylan last night. There's something dangerous about Max, and the fact that he keeps a gun in a drawer in his closet reinforces that.

Who is Max Bennett, and what kind of things is he involved in?

I walk out of his closet and decide to crawl back into bed for another hour. I'm done snooping for now. I'm not sure I want to risk finding anything else.

I retrieve my phone and shoot a quick text to Martina just to make sure she's OK.

She texts back that she's home safe, sleeping in, and will call me later. She says she wants to hear everything, but if she's hoping for something salacious, she's going to be disappointed.

I pick up Max's note and put the contacts into my phone. Then I sink into the covers. There's something that just seems so forbidden about being in the apartment of a mysterious man I only met yesterday, thinking about him while I'm lying here alone in his bed.

I can only imagine what could have happened if I hadn't gotten so damn drunk I was practically falling over. Would Max have brought me up here last night and undressed me, then put those strong capable hands on my body? I imagine myself peeling him out of his t-shirt, tugging it over his head to reveal a lean muscled chest, then running my hands over his skin. I imagine his fingers mercilessly teasing my nipples, tweaking them to hard peaks. His sensuous lips moving to take the place of his hands.

I reach up under my t-shirt - Max's t-shirt - and touch my nipples, pinching them lightly and then harder while I imagine Max doing the same thing. I was naked last night, I remember. Completely naked except for the scrap of silk between my legs, while Max was fully dressed.

The thought of it is unbelievably erotic.

Can I really do this, here, in Max's bed? Do I dare?

What would he think if he knew?

I reach down, shoving my panties down my legs and kicking them free under the covers, so that I can stroke myself while I imagine Max is right here in bed with me. Then I indulge in all kinds of fantasies about the things he might do with me and to me.

If Martina's right about Max and his underworld connections, he's a dangerous man. A man with secrets and hidden guns.

That shouldn't excite me, but it does.

What if he walked back in right now and caught me?

I imagine Max being halfway to the airport, then remembering that he left some important papers behind. He comes back into the apartment, then hears the sounds I'm making in the bedroom. The little gasps and moans while I pleasure myself thinking of him.

What would he do if he walked back in and saw me, wearing his t-shirt pulled up and my breasts exposed, the nipples hard and erect while I use my own fingers to tease them. My panties pushed down and lost in the bed sheets, my hand between my legs, cupping myself while I grind against my fingers.

Would he be angry? Would he narrow his eyes and ask me what the hell do I think I'm doing? The thought that I could be in trouble if he knew what I was doing right now just makes it even hotter.

Would he stand there and watch me? Tell me not to stop?

Or would he come over to the bed, and take charge of my pleasure himself? I imagine him stripping off his own clothes while his eyes focus on my flushed face, and he says it looks like he's going to be a little late for his meeting. Then he grabs my wrists, bracketing them over my head, and tells me he'll be the one touching me now.

I imagine his mouth and his warm breath moving from one bare breast to the other, scraping my nipples with his teeth and laving them with his tongue as he takes each one into his mouth in turn. Nudging my knees apart so he can thrust into me deep and hard and fast, taking me relentlessly higher and higher until I come so hard the world stands still.

The thought of it all has me gasping for breath, straining against my fingers stroking my clit as fast as I can, while I rub my other hand over my hardened nipples underneath the t-shirt of Max's that I'm still wearing and pushed out of the way.

On the plane he said I take what I want, but those words have a different meaning now with the rumors that he's a crime boss and the gun I just found in his drawer.

I'm so close to coming right now that there's no turning back. My phone vibrates next to me on the bed, and I look over and see it light up with Max's name. As if I conjured him up by imagining him here in bed with me.

Oh, God, I can't answer the phone now.

But what will happen if I don't?