The elevator doors opened straight into Marcus’s penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the whole city sparkling below us. Soft music played from hidden speakers. The place smelled like expensive cologne and fresh leather. 

Marcus stood there in a black button-down that stretched across his chest. 

Jamal leaned against the kitchen island with a glass of champagne already in his hand. 

Tyrone sat on the long couch, his legs spread wide, smiling like he already knew how the night would end.

Noah’s hand stayed on my lower back as we stepped inside. “You still good, baby?” he whispered.

I nodded, but my heart was hammering. My palms were damp. I wanted this...