Chapter Four

      “This is a bad idea,” Liv told her reflection as she stared at her long, shiny hair, which hung past her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes lined with smoky eyeliner that accentuated the corners. She wore her most modest hostess outfit: a just-above-the-knee knit black dress, long-sleeved, with a scoop neckline. But she couldn’t decide on shoes: sky-high silver strappy stilettos, sensible black pumps, or full-on dominatrix lace-up knee-high black stiletto boots?

      “The boots!” cried Jordan, popping her blond head in, her neon green headphones hanging around her neck.

      “Are you trying to get me into trouble?” Liv demanded, hands on hips.

      Jordan shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe if you show him the whips ’n’ chains first, he’ll get all scared and cut the party short.”

      “Oh, great, and then he’ll go back and tell my dad I’m not just into sex toys, but I’m into S&M? That’s all I need.” Liv reached down to the pile of shoes at the bottom of her open closet. “Sensible pumps it is.”

      “You look like you’re going to a funeral.” Jordan leaned against the door frame of Liv’s room as she chomped gum.

      “I am—my funeral if my parents find out what I’m doing.”

      Liv slipped into her second shoe and studied herself in the mirror. She hated the frumpy rounded-toe pumps. She kicked them off and went for the flashy silver strappy stilettos. There, she thought. Not quite dominatrix, but not Sunday school, either.

      “I hate to be the one to bring this up,” Jordan said. “But what happens if he wants a sex party every weekend?”

      “It’s a sex toy party.”

      “Right.” Jordan rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure sex party is going to be more accurate.”

      A small smile tugged at the corners of Liv’s mouth before she wrestled it under control. “It’s going to be purely professional.”

      “Do you need my extra can of pepper spray?” Jordan offered it from the back pocket of her jeans. It was decorated with a pink skull and crossbones.

      “No,” Liv scoffed, and was surprised that she meant it. She trusted Porter. “He’s a nice guy.”

      Jordan let out a disgusted snort. “Right, because all blackmailers are nice guys. It’s just a cheap trick to get into your panties, Liv. Period.”

      “He’s not like that. He’s buying me dinner.” Liv was surprised at how quickly she rose to his defense. She tried to put into words the pull between them, the surprisingly strong current in their first kiss.

      “Dinner? Oh, that changes everything,” Jordan said, skepticism clear in her face. “Well, when he answers the door in a fuzzy leopard-print man-thong holding a strap-on, don’t come crying to me. I’ll say I told you so.”

      * * *

      Liv caught a cab to Porter’s posh Lincoln Park neighborhood, the driver gliding quickly through the darkened streets of Chicago’s North Side. The sidewalks were crowded with people hurrying to dates and dinners, concerts and clubs. She swallowed down the ball of nerves in her throat as the driver stopped in front of Porter’s building—a sleek, three-story luxury brick townhome just south of Diversy. Butterflies zigzagged dangerously in her stomach as she stepped out of the cab, pulling her wheeled suitcase filled with every naughty kind of adult fun imaginable. She tipped the cabbie and then made her way up the walkway to the front door, her stilettos clicking against the concrete.