“Madison.”

I hear my name but I cannot open my eyes. I try, pushing and pulling with the weak muscles of my eyelids, but there is no movement. Nothing to minimize the blackness, nothing to pull me from this rabbit hole of darkness. But I can hear. I have emerged into awareness with only one sense, and I grab onto it with all of my heart and pull upward, trying to raise myself into life through the elements of sound alone. I had heard my name, had heard Paul say it, crystal clear, his voice thick with emotion. I strain for more, worried he has left, tensing and pushing every muscle I have, trying for movement, trying to reach out with my hands and grab his skin, his shirt, anything.

Then I pause on my journey, all of my efforts freezing, stalled in their worthless attempts, because a second voice has joined the first.

Stewart.

A voice I love, his deep, authoritative tone one that traditionally makes my breath quicken and my knees weak. But here, in this place, it makes my heart drop. His voice should never be heard in tandem with Paul’s, their presences should never be intersected, much least raised in tandem in what sounds to be an argument.

And I know, as my mind closes off—pushes me deeper into the black rabbit hole of oblivion, my subconscious fighting tooth and nail as I am pulled down, down, down... I have failed. All of my attempts, my careful lives of separation...

“Madison.” I hear my name one last time, but it is so faint, I cannot tell which man it comes from.

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

TORRENCE, CA

DANA

I am nosy. A meddler. Mom used to say it would be my downfall. She was probably right. It certainly got me in enough trouble early in life, my matchmaking skills often falling flat, my snooping ending disastrously. As an adult, I should know better. I should keep to myself—keep my curiosity to a minimum.

I haven’t seen Stewart in two years. Ever since we had a big blow up over Thanksgiving dinner, and his inability to have time for anything but work. I now regret that fight. It was valid, and I was in the right, but it wasn’t worth the silence. Silence that stretched a week, then a month, then years, each passing holiday a reminder of my loss. I don’t know if it’s his stubbornness or the fact that his busy schedule has pushed thoughts of me out of mind. I don’t know what’s worse—intentionally being snubbed or being forgotten about.

For me, it was initially stubbornness, our commonalities peaking in that one trait: pride. And since I, after all, was right, there was really no reason for me to break first—to weaken and reach out when he was the one in error. Now, it doesn’t really matter whether I was initially in the right. I just want him back. Sadly, my point has been proven even more by his silence. He doesn’t have time for me. He only has time for work. And for her. That blonde who holds his busy heart in her hands.

I first saw them in the society pages, his hand tight around her waist, her smile bright and natural, affection in her eyes as she beamed at him. His is so rarely photographed, never having the time for the premieres or charity galas that most men of his position flock to like obedient animals. He doesn’t lunch at the Ivy or stroll through Beverly Hills. He takes the elevator down from his condo, walks four buildings west, and rides a different elevator up to his office. Work. Sleep. Repeat. At least that was his life when I knew it. When I had a part, however small, in his heart. Maybe things are different now. Maybe he takes weekends off, has dinner dates, movie nights, and tropical vacations, and takes that ray of California blonde right along with him.

But I doubt it. My online stalking has shown no such habits. Best I can tell, he is the same Stewart—she is the only change.

Whether she is a passing fancy or a long-term possibility, that is yet to be known. I will find out. I moved here, in small part, to become a part of his life again. Whether he wants me to or not. So I’ll find out more about her. I’ll know soon enough how much of a role she plays in his life. I’ll sit back, watch, and gather information. He is certainly too busy to notice my eyes.

HOLLYWOOD, CA

MADISON

I don’t know what it is about a wealthy man that women find appealing, but I, Madison Decater, socialite turned beach bum, am victim to it along with the rest of society. And Stewart wears wealth as well as any man I know.

The backdrop of finery always complemented him, his large frame settling into expensive leather chairs; crystal chandeliers casting dramatic shadows that highlight the beautiful lines of his face, and sparkle the brilliant blue of his eyes. His Patek Philippe watch glints, the edge of it barely visible under the cuff of his dress shirts. His custom suits move easily beneath my fingers, sliding over his broad shoulders, the hard definition of trained muscles rippling under pale skin. His skin never sees the light of day, his hours spent indoors, his workouts done under the muted lights of his penthouse gym and directed by a blonde bombshell named Tiffany. We have f**ked on the rubber floor of that gym, my back bare against the soft floor, his shorts yanked down enough for his c**k to pull out, his intensity extra beautiful under the glow of gentle lights and a sheen of sweat on his bare chest.

Tonight, I only have to step inside, my entrance interrupting a set of pull-ups, his muscles popping as he suspends and lifts himself with easy efficiency. The additional light of the open door causes them both to turn, his eyes locking on mine with laser focus, and he drops lightly to his feet. “Tiffany,” he says between hard breaths. “That’ll be all.”

I drop my bag as she hurries past, barely noticing the sound of her exit, my focus on Stewart, as he strides forward and grips my arms, lifting me easily and silently placing me on the counter, his lips pressing against mine quickly, before interrupting us with the cloth of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. He skips a greeting, focusing on my bare breasts, pressing me backward and taking a hungry mouth to my skin, his hands yanking and pulling on my shorts, sliding them down and off of my legs as his tongue plays a soft rhythm against my nipple.

He moves lower, tasting me, inhaling deeply between my legs. “God Madison, you taste so good.” He groans against my sex, his tongue dipping inside and f**king me thickly, his need pouring through his mouth and his hands, which travel over my body like I am their final meal to feast on. They curl under my body, lifting me, and he carries me to the bench and lays me down, his eyes dark and wild as he stares down at me, pulling down the cloth of his shorts until his c**k pops free.

“This,” he murmurs, “is going to be for me. I promise, I’ll take care of you later.”

I smile, spreading my legs apart and stretching out on the bench. His brand of f**king is relentless, strong f**ks in which he devours my body without restraint. It is what I have come here for, it is what I want. I need the domination, the edge of insanity that he barely holds in check. I need the madness in his eyes, the pure need that breathes through his body, the need that only I can satisfy.

And there, on the leather bench, he rides us both to exhaustion.

I wake in his bed, two sheets between me and the down comforter, the soft voice of Estelle somewhere to my right. I roll over, blinking sleepily as her kind face comes into view.

“Are you ready for breakfast Ms. Madison?”

“What time is it?” I prop myself up, holding the blanket against my bare chest.

“It’s after ten, ma’am. Mr. Brand told me to wake you after-“

I nod, smiling slightly. “Yes. I didn’t mean to sleep this long. What time did he leave?”

“Six-thirty ma’am.”

I look around for my clothes, trying to trace back the moment at which they had become victim to Stewart’s hands. His office. “I asked you a year ago to stop calling me ma’am,” I mumble, a yawn slipping out of my mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.” She frowns regretfully, before starting over. “I’m sorry. I mean Madison. Would you care for breakfast?”

“No, thank you. I’ve got to get going. My clothes from yesterday-”

“Were in the office. They have been gathered and are in the laundry room. I will make sure they are hung in your closet once clean.”

“Perfect. Thank you. Do you mind asking the valet to bring up my car?”

“Certainly. I’ll be close by if you need me.” She smiles brightly before backing into the hall and closing the suite’s doors.

Almost ten. I yawn again, blinking the sleep from my eyes and slide from the bed, walking into the granite-filled bathroom and turning on the steam shower.

VENICE BEACH, CA

I step from the bedroom a half hour later, jeans and a tank top on, my wet hair twisted into a bun. I swing by the kitchen on my way out, waving a goodbye to Estelle and snagging a red apple and bottled water from the fridge.

I hop on Santa Monica Boulevard, moving through lanes of traffic with ease, my car knowing the route as well as my soul, my thoughts wandering as I drive. My Audi was a gift from Stewart, my twenty-ninth birthday present, probably picked out by his assistant. Regardless of who chose the vehicle, I love it. White exterior, blood red leather inside, it is sleek, sexy, and just begs every degenerate in my neighborhood to steal it. I am shocked it has survived for the last five months.

It’s fourteen miles between Stewart’s home and mine, but it might as well be different countries. Stewart lives in the fast-paced world of downtown Hollywood, rarely leaving the blocks of the city unless jetting off for work. He doesn’t own a plane, he doesn’t spend his money on much other than his home, his clothes, and me. He doesn’t have time to spend money, and doesn’t believe in purchasing things just because he can. He works a hundred hours a week, sleeps six hours a night, and f**ks the hell out of me the rest of the time. His needs are minimum: food, sleep, and sex. I take care of one of those. Estelle and his bed take care of the rest.

I get off on Lincoln Boulevard, the road traffic lessening, frustrated drivers continuing their zip along the freeway, anxious to continue their painful life . I wish, for a brief moment, that I had put down the car’s top, needing the wind in my hair and the sound of the surf. Leaving Stewart’s, I sometimes need the wash of fresh air. A strong breeze to release the intensity he carries with him.

I pull off the road, turning down our street and press the garage release button, entering the dark space that is my spot and killing the ignition. I step out in dim light, the overhead burnt out, Paul promising for the last five months to get around to it.

The steps are worn concrete, this townhome complex built before developers knew what they had, before they realized that this close to the beach they shouldn’t build shit housing. Back before property values hit ridiculous figures, and a six-figure income still puts you in the projects, dodging street beggars and used needles. We don’t make six-figures. Paul brings in anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand surfing. And I bring in far less than that, running a bookstore that operates out of a bar on Venice beach. For California standards, it’s practically poverty, but we don’t need much. For Paul and I, we never did. We’re lucky to have this place, my stepfather blessing us with a rent payment low enough to both piss our neighbors off and ensure that we still can cover food and utilities.

Paul and I met two years ago, at the Santa Monica pier, when we were side by side in the singles line for the rollercoaster. We had all of six minutes in line, the shuffle moving quickly, singles getting split up among the empty seats in a bored and orderly fashion.

He flashed a smile at me, and that was really all it took. Broad shoulders, tan skin that peeled a bit on his nose, blue eyes that looked like a f**king turquoise magic marker. He was in board shorts, a tee-shirt, and flip flops with muscular, track-free arms and no hint of tattoos. It was like God plucked an Abercrombie & Fitch model from the sky and injected him with testosterone and sexuality. I smiled back.

We spent those six minutes talking, our words spilling out between laughs and chemistry. I instantly liked him, had one of those at-peace realizations that ‘this is a good guy’. The type so good that women run over him, the type so good that he is often best-friended. But this guy? With his gorgeous looks and the I-will-fuck-you-in-this-line-right-now vibe? No woman was stupid enough to best-friend this man. I wanted him, right there in that line, my panties sticking to me in the best way possible beneath my short cotton skirt.

We reached the front, our moment of separation, but were seated together, two of us in one bench, a ridiculous, never-should-happen moment, and I took the minute before liftoff to reach over, tugging the back of his head, his wide smile and soft lips telling me that I wasn’t crazy, that he wanted this every bit as much as I did. And I knew, in that kiss, in that brief moment of hotness in which our mouths instantly knew every part of the other’s soul, that I would f**k him. The minute, the second, the ride finished. I needed him inside me, needed his hands to grip my waist, his shirt to move off that beautiful chest and my bare br**sts to replace it. I needed every inch of him against and inside of me. Then the bar jerked down, and we separated with a laugh.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Just prepare for screams.” I grinned.

I was, and still am, a dramatic rider. I believe that there’s no point in doing something if you aren’t going to do it with all of your heart. I raised my arms, I screamed bloody murder, and he loved every minute of it. We swept through the loading bay after one cycle, the operator amping the riders up before pushing the button and letting us ride again.

The vibration of the seat underneath me, the closeness of pure sex beside me, the anticipation of what was to come... I attacked him the moment the ride ended, grabbing his hand and tugging him out, the pounding between my legs reaching a fever pitch. I ran, pulling him along with me, our bodies weaving around families, couples, giant stuffed snakes and dollar games of chance.