Page 1 of Power Play

Prologue

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Present day

Duke’s fingersslip the length of my silk dress up my calves, exposing my skin to the chilly night air. His hands are strong, powerful . . . deliciously warm. The glittering cityscape fades behind the breadth of his shoulders, and I’m left with the shocking realization that . . .

Oh, my god, this is happening.

Me. Duke Harrison. The promise of intimacy in a place that isn’t intimate at all.

I should probably fill you in on a secret: I like sex.

I know what you’re thinking: “Charlie, why in the hell do I need to know what action your lady parts have or have not received? Get back to the sexy times with that Duke guy!”

There’s a catch, though. While I mightlikesex, that doesn’t mean I’m all that good at it. The last time I had the (mis)fortune of getting down and dirty with a guy, he informed me that I was a rigid Ice Queen. Mid-sexy times. (Becausethat’sromantic).

Now, the Ice Queen thing, I get that often. Not sweat off my back.

But therigidpart, that was offensive. I wasn’t being rigid; I just didn’t think hisjab-jab-jabfinger technique was up to par. Okay, Imayhave asked him to ease up a little, because I’m not the sort of woman who just silently takes it till the cows come home. It’s not my fault that he got all high-and-mighty and blamed me for wasting his time.

Not. My. Fault.

It’s called having standards.

Until Duke. If he were to demand, “Panties off, now,” you can bet your derrière that my Target-grade underwear would hit the floor faster than my favorite Dunkin’ Donuts barista makes my iced coffee every morning.

To the regular Average Joe strolling down Boston’s Commonwealth Avenue, my panties wouldn’t leave my hips. But this is Duke Harrison we’re talking about, and I’m currently making out with him on the rooftop of the Omni Parker House, Boston’s fanciest hotel, like we’re nothing more than a horny pair of teenagers. God bless our souls.

That’s what happens when the guy you’ve been lusting after puts his hand between your legs and whispers your name in a husky voice made from silk and unicorns. You lose all mental capacity to think straight.

Although, if we’re being all honest here, I haven’t really been thinking straight since I first met him.

Chapter One

One week earlier. . .

I’m late.

As in, I’m hobbling on one foot in my 600-square foot apartment, trying to yank on my favorite pair of knee-high boots, even as I foam at the mouth courtesy of the toothbrush sticking out of it.

Multi-tasking at its finest, really.

“Charlie, we are going to belate,” my best friend says from her perch on my couch. Jenny Halverton has never been late in her entire life, and I can say this with a good deal of confidence, as we’ve been best friends since the second grade. She weirdly thrives on being the first to arrive, whether it’s for prom (do you know how weird it is to be the first group to show up?), her college graduation (also weird), and her wedding (understandable, except for the fact that she beat the groom by about thirty minutes, which, once again, made it weird for the rest of us).

“I’m hurrying,” I slur around my purple Oral-B toothbrush. My booted foot lands on the hardwood floor with an echoingthud.

My third-floor apartment is small, and I swear the ancient glass-paned windows shake in their tracks when I hook up my other foot and let it land with the same level of force.

As a former hockey player, I’m not the most delicate of creatures, though I’ve certainly spent the last few years attempting to slim down my muscular frame and act a little more feminine.

I’ve succeeded for the most part, aside for my tree-trunk thighs. I’ve accepted that we are now life-long partners, for better or for worse.

Jenny eyes me with barely-concealed disgust when I spit in the kitchen and leave my toothbrush to conduct a balancing act on the lip of the sink. “What?” I snag my coat from where I tossed it over the Formica bar earlier. “You said that we’re in a hurry.”

“It would have taken you an extra five seconds to do that in the bathroom.” Her dark gaze pointedly flicks toward my shoebox of a restroom. “Five seconds,” she repeats for effect.

Rolling my blue eyes to the ceiling, I counter, “It’s taken you five seconds to reprimand me,Mom.Shouldn’t we be leaving?”

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