Andrea's heels sank into the carpet as she moved past the wet bar, past the ice bucket sweating in the moonlight, past the king bed that loomed like a dare she wasn't sure she'd survive. She could feel his eyes on her back—that slow, sure smile she could hear without turning around, the one that said he'd already won. She kept walking. Kept her hips in that lazy swing she'd been practicing all week. And when she finally stepped into the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind her, she let out a breath that had been living in her chest since the elevator.

"Fuck," she whispered, pressing her palms flat against the cool marble of the counter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Natali sat on the closed toilet lid, one leg crossed over the other, her high ponytail a dark blade against the white tile. She was wearing a slip of emerald silk that ended mid-thigh, and she looked like she'd been waiting there for hours, patient as a spider. The bathtub behind her was full of their implements—rope coiled like a sleeping snake, cuffs lined up in a row, a paddle Andrea had picked out herself and then blushed about for an hour. Natali was holding the flogger, running her thumb over the leather falls the way another woman might pet a cat.

"Well," Natali said, her voice honey-slow. "You're still standing. I call that a win."

Andrea's throat tightened. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—about the things she'd said downstairs, the way Joshua had made her repeat the apology without the performance, the way his eyes had gone soft and serious and she'd hated herself for how much she'd meant it in that moment. The words came out in a rush, all of them at once, and she felt the heat behind her eyes before she could stop it.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, and her voice cracked on the second word. "I'm so fucking sorry you had to hear that. I didn't think—I mean, I knew you were listening, but I didn't think I'd have to—he made me say it, Nat, he made me mean it—"

"Shh."

Natali stood, crossed the two steps between them, and pressed a finger to Andrea's lips. Her nail was painted the same emerald as her slip, and for a second Andrea forgot how to breathe. Then Natali leaned in and kissed her—quick, soft, a peck that landed on the corner of her mouth like a secret—and Andrea felt something in her chest unknot.

"I love you so much," Natali said, cupping Andrea's face in both hands. "And I'm so proud of you. Are you kidding me? I thought the longer he took, the more you'd back out. Because of course I know you didn't want to say any of that to my man." She said it like a joke, but her eyes were serious, warm. "But you did it for me. That means everything."

Andrea sniffed, wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "He made me say it twice. The second time, he said it was 'better when I wasn't performing.'" She shuddered. "It made my skin crawl, Nat. The way he looked at me—like he could see right through the whole act."

"Yeah?" Natali's smile went sharp at the edges. "Let's see how he performs when we make him sing like a choir."

Andrea laughed, watery but real. "That's so fucking hot when you talk like that."

"Focus, babe." Natali tapped her chin, a gentle correction. "We gotta finish."

From the other side of the suite, Joshua's voice carried through the door, smug and amused: "You taking a long time in there? Better not come out in some lingerie!"

Natali rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. Andrea made a face of pure disgust, her lip curling. Lingerie. Like that was the worst thing he could imagine. Like he had any idea what was waiting for him in that bathtub.

"Relax, sis," Natali said, steadying her with both hands on her shoulders. "I can see the fury. We can shut him up later. Let him talk like he owns the room." She leaned in, her lips brushing Andrea's ear. "Tonight we own his dick."

Andrea beamed. "Fuck yes we do."

"Now go out there." Natali pulled back, smoothing the front of Andrea's crop top, adjusting the chunky gold necklace so it sat just right. "Keep seducing. Get him to agree to the blindfold and the cuffs behind his back. When both are on, come find me. I'll walk out."

Andrea caught her wrist. "What if he doesn't go for it?"

Natali's smile was slow, and cruel, and beautiful. "He will. He's a man. He thinks he's already won." She squeezed Andrea's hand once. "Go."

Andrea took a breath, rolled her shoulders, and walked back out into the suite.

Joshua had made himself comfortable. He was leaning against the window frame, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey he'd helped himself to. The moonlight caught the scar across his left knuckle, the watch on his wrist—his father's watch, the one he checked when he was nervous. He wasn't checking it now. He looked like a man who owned the room.

"Everything okay in there?" he asked, and there it was again—that warm, easy charm that made her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure. "I was starting to think you'd climbed out the window."

"Just fixing my makeup." Andrea let her hip hit the edge of the dresser, letting the moonlight catch the skin of her stomach where her crop top rode up. "Didn't want you to see me with raccoon eyes."

"You looked fine." He said it simply, like it was a fact, and she hated how much she believed him. "Come here."

Every instinct screamed at her to stay put. But she was Andrea Salazar, and she'd never backed down from a dare in her life. She pushed off the dresser and walked to him, slow, letting her hips do the talking. When she was close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, she stopped.

"You know," she said, reaching up to trace the collar of his shirt, "I meant what I said downstairs. About the wrists."

His eyes darkened. "Did you."

"Mm." She let her finger trail down his chest, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. "I've got a thing for control. You struck me as a man who likes to give it up."

"You struck me as a woman who likes to talk a big game." He caught her wrist—not hard, just a firm grip that stopped her hand mid-trail. "You gonna back it up?"

There it was. The opening she needed. "I've got a blindfold in the bathroom," she said, her voice dropping to a purr. "And a pair of cuffs. You let me put them on you—just for a minute, just to see how it feels—and I'll show you exactly how much game I've got."

Joshua studied her for a long moment. She could see him weighing it, the pride warring with the curiosity, the part of him that wanted to prove he wasn't afraid of anything. His thumb brushed over her pulse point, and she forced herself not to flinch.

"You think I'm scared of a little silk?" he asked, and his smile was a dare.

"I think you're scared of what happens when you can't see." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "But that's the fun part, isn't it?"

He laughed—a real laugh, low and rough—and she felt it vibrate through his chest. "Fine. Get your toys."

Andrea's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. She walked back to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and met Natali's eyes. Natali was already holding the blindfold and the cuffs, her expression sharp and hungry.

"He said yes," Andrea breathed.

"Of course he did." Natali pressed the items into her hands. "Now go make him pretty."

Andrea walked back into the suite, and Joshua was still standing by the window, watching her with that lazy confidence. She held up the blindfold—black silk, soft as a whisper—and let it catch the moonlight.

"Turn around," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "You first."

"Joshua." She let his name sit in the air between them. "Turn around."

For a long moment, she thought he'd refuse. She could see the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his pride reared up like a horse smelling smoke. But then something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of curiosity, of hunger, of a man who'd never been asked to surrender and wanted to know what it felt like. He turned.

Andrea stepped close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his back. She reached up and pressed the silk against his eyes, tied it snug at the back of his head. He didn't move. Didn't speak. She could feel his breath, slow and even, and she hated how calm he was.

"Now the cuffs," she murmured, and she could hear the smile in her own voice. "Hands behind your back."

He complied, and she clicked the cuffs around his wrists—leather-lined, padded, impossible to escape. She pulled them snug, not tight enough to hurt, tight enough to hold. His shoulders tensed, just barely, and she saw the first crack in his composure.

"Comfortable?" she asked.

"Not even close." But his voice was rougher now, less sure.

"Good." She stepped back, drinking in the sight of him—broad shoulders, bound wrists, blindfolded and helpless in a hotel suite that belonged to her and her best friend. "Stay."

She walked to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and met Natali's eyes. "He's ready."

Natali's smile was a blade. She stepped out of the bathroom in her emerald slip, her heels clicking against the floor—a sound that made Joshua's head turn, his bound body going still. Natali walked past him, slow, letting the click of her heels fill the room, and Andrea watched the realization dawn on his face.

He knew that sound.

"Joshua." Natali's voice was honey and ice. "So much pride and ego to ghost me for weeks over one word." She circled him, her heels clicking a slow rhythm. "The same word used tonight by the same girl. But she says it with sexy eyes and all is forgiven, huh?" She stopped in front of him, close enough to touch. "You fucking pig. I waited four weeks for your dick to get hard and forget in ten minutes."

Joshua's heart sank to his ass. Andrea watched it happen—the way his whole body went rigid, the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands strained against the cuffs. For half a stupid second, he'd really believed Andrea was going to fuck him, that she'd brought in a third. That third was a small woman who'd been eager for him to make her scream just a few days ago, and now she was just as eager to see him do it. Four. Fucking. Weeks. She'd said sorry a dozen times. But as soon as she said sorry with a hint of "you're hot," all was forgiven. Horny lapdog, just like the rest of them.

But dogs could be broken.

"Natali," he said, and his voice was rough, unsteady. "What the hell is this?"

"This," she said, "is what happens when you try to come between me and my best friend." She reached out and ran a finger down his chest, slow, deliberate. "You thought you could waltz in, make her apologize, and walk out with me like nothing happened?"

He stood up in immediate protest, stumbling forward, stammering to find words to explain the ridiculous situation he was now caught in. "Natali, listen—this is insane—you can't just—"

Andrea moved so fast Natali barely caught it. Or maybe she just didn't believe it. Sweet Andrea, not much taller than her, had just full-strength spartan-kicked Joshua in the chest—while wearing her black heels. Joshua made a sound like he got tackled in a football game and went flying onto the floor, unable to catch himself with his hands tied behind his back.

He landed hard, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh. The blindfold had slipped, half-covering one eye, and he stared up at them—two women in the moonlight, one in emerald silk, one in a crop top and heels, both looking down at him like he was exactly what they'd ordered.

"What the fuck," he wheezed.

Andrea cracked her knuckles, a grin spreading across her face. "What do you think of my performance now, MOTHERFUCKER?" She let the words sit there, hanging in the air, to sting worse.

Natali crouched down beside him, her ponytail swinging, and reached out to trace the line of his jaw. He flinched, and she smiled—slow, cruel, beautiful.

"You're going to learn something tonight, Joshua," she said softly. "You're going to learn what happens when you cross me. And you're going to learn it on your knees."

She stood, looked down at him one last time, and walked back toward the bathroom. Andrea watched her go, then looked down at Joshua—bound, blindfolded, flat on his back on the floor of a hotel suite, his pride bleeding out onto the carpet.

"Don't worry," she said, crouching down beside him. "It gets worse."