Once we’re inside, Natalie pulls me close and wraps her arms around my neck. She doesn’t say anything. She just smiles goofily at me. “Hi.”

“Hey there.”

“That was . . .” Her voice trails off. Maybe she can’t find the words, but the rosy glow in her cheeks and the satisfied glint in her blue eyes is enough for me.

“Interesting?” I suggest.

“It was so very interesting.”

“I bet it gets even more interesting.”

We resume our path, then she stops in her tracks, and points. “Look!”

I follow her finger, and a smile spreads as I spot our picture on the screen behind the counter. “So that’s what we would call your O face.”

She swats my shoulder. I grab my wallet from my back pocket, fish out a twenty, and point past the woman at the counter to the screen. “Number sixteen, please,” I say, then wink at Natalie. Her forehead is in her palm. “Sixteen is the sweetest number.”

The cheerful brunette with pigtails and red glasses smiles from the photo counter. “It sure is. And your sweet sixteen will be ready in a jiff. The print takes only forty-five seconds and comes with a lovely cardboard frame. Would you like it laminated too?”

I pretend to consider this. “Hmm. What do you think, Nat? Should we laminate the moment—”

She raises her face. Her eyes are fiery. “No, thank you,” she says to the cheery girl. “A cardboard frame is just fine.”

The girl hands me a bag and two five-by-seven close-ups of Natalie and me screaming as we flew down the tracks. As we wander out, I study them. “I suppose technically we can’t be certain this is the exact moment when you came,” I muse as I show her the picture.

She shoots me a stare. “It’s close enough.”

“Close is only good in horseshoes. Not orgasms. I mean, do we know for certain this is the moment of triumph? Should we do it again to be safe?”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you really need to buy that to mock me?”

I stop her, grabbing her arm. “I never mock orgasms. I take your pleasure seriously.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“Do you want me to throw them out? I will.”

She softens. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“Uh, yeah. I’d say so.” My eyes swing downward, in the direction of my crotch. “You’ve been giving me a hard time for a long while, sweetheart.”

“You are the king of puns.”

“And you are the queen of the rollercoaster O face. But seriously, I won’t show this to anyone if you don’t want me to.”

“Even if I wasn’t about to blast off into the stratosphere of toe-curling bliss, would you honestly show that photo around? We both look like screaming idiots.” She grabs it and holds it up for me, then imitates our expressions—eyes wide, mouths open, shrieking as the coaster flew along the tracks.

I shrug. “Call me crazy, but I like it. I’m going to keep them.”

Then I grab the waistband of her skirt, and tug her back to me as we pass a shoot-’em-up arcade game. “Speaking of toe-curling bliss, I need to tell you that you look hot when you’re coming and you look hot when you’re not coming. So you’re pretty much hot all the time, okay?”

She beams, and the look on her face—utter delight—does funny things to my chest. So does her voice when she answers with a simple, “Thank you.” Then she adds. “I guess this would be a good time to let you know I brought along a gift for you. Only I purchased it before we even left Manhattan.”

Color me intrigued.

She dips her hand into her purse, fishes around, and grabs something that she presses into my hand. The foil wrapper and the rubber ring send a bolt of heat through me.

“You’re presumptuous.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “But am I wrong?”

10

I’m a man with a one-track mind right now.

Since we aren’t staying at this hotel, and since I need this woman like I need my next breath . . . I hunt.

With her hand in mine, I walk purposefully through the arcade, scanning, searching. Maybe there’s a bathroom nearby. Or a quiet nook. Possibly a photo booth. I’ve always thought those are underrated hidden gems perfect for a little public action. And you’d get a souvenir photo strip too.

Then I spot a black velvet curtain near the exit of the arcade that gives me an idea. You never know what lurks behind a curtain.

Possibly, enough privacy.

I lift it, and—luck be a curtain tonight—there’s some kind of storage area behind it. It’s filled with out-of-commission arcade games and pinball machines.

I let the heavy material fall behind us. “You’re not wrong,” I say, and I kiss her again. The vodka tonic is fainter now on her lips, but the aftertaste is there, reminding me that her boldness is fueled by Bacardi and Belvedere.

But that’s okay. If it weren’t for the liquid courage, I wouldn’t be here, either, lifting my sexy-as-fuck assistant onto a broken Metallica pinball machine.

Her hands are up my shirt in seconds. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Yeah?” I ask, inviting more, because her words are the biggest fucking turn-on of my life.

Her fingers play with the grooves in my abs. I shudder as she touches me.

“Sometimes when you come into the office, I check you out,” she says in a low, sexy voice.