I lean over, ready to take a long, juicy bite out of the lip that’s been driving me crazy, when she stands. “You’re an asshole,” she whispers, panting. “Take me somewhere. Just for the night. Take me somewhere.”
I peel a hundred-dollar bill from the stack in my pocket and set it on the table, slip my jacket over her shoulders, and usher her out.
FOURTEEN
* * *
WEEKEND
Melanie
We drive to an apartment in a high-end neighborhood so pricey and coveted that everyone where I work would whore themselves out for a decorating gig in this zip code. It’s got a gated entry and high-level security on every entrance and exit. The apartment itself is covered in wall-to-wall windows, with limestone floors and stone fireplaces.
I take in the spacious, mostly empty space with one wide-eyed sweep, jaw hanging. “Did you just get a place in the city?” I hand him his coat, his gaze a delicious, palpable thing on me as I walk inside.
“You like it?” His voice holds no inflection, but something in his eyes tells me he wants me to like it.
I notice that the only furniture is one massive king mattress in the middle of the room, and the sight of those paperwhite sheets and plump pillows gives me tingles. Both of us. In that bed. Touching, kissing, groping.
The windows closest to the bed face toward my building and for a moment I wonder if he’s noticed that, even if somewhat distant, my apartment faces this way.
“It’s such a stunning space but so very empty!” I spread out my arms. “I can already visualize exactly what could go where. Dare I say you came to the right woman?”
“Dare I admit I’m not hiring your design services? I don’t like clutter.” And yet he looks amused by my offer—that almost grin I’ve come to really, really dig hovering on that full, dirty-talking mouth of his.
Oh god, I’m still so turned on by what a sexy asshole he is. He makes me want to slap him and fuck him; no man has ever pushed my buttons like this!
“How’d you know I was a designer?”
Arms crossed, plus that almost grin equals to me almost panting. “You’re not the only one who can work Google.”
“Pandora Googled you, not me.”
“Right,” he agrees.
I laugh because he’s clearly on to me, then admit, “There was nothing on you. Nothing.”
“And there’s quite a bit on you.”
“Well, I can make this place come to life with a flick of my fingers! I’m like a Mary Poppins of decorating!”
“Princess, it’s already alive with you in it.”
Surprised by the compliment, I slide my eyes back to him, and the very way he stands there screams at me that he’s someone, someone strong, someone you don’t mess with, someone you want on your side. His dark clothes can’t hide the muscles beneath, or the grace and virility with which he moves.
I can hardly stand looking at him without launching myself at him like a rocket—a haywire rocket on a permanent, pretty worrisome detour. I restlessly walk around the place, wondering if he’s watching my ass as I move.
I let my hips sway even harder on purpose and head down the hall; he whistles to call me back.
“That room is off-limits.”
“What? What do you mean?” He comes over and sets a hand on the small of my back, the very rough touch filling me with a sense of safety. “Do you realize that telling me that was an invitation to just try to pick this lock and find out?” I ask him.
“You won’t be able to open it. I’ve got a mess of stuff there, nothing for a girl.”
My interest piqued by this, I steer away from his hand and turn back to jiggle the doorknob. The door is steel, almost like a bank vault.
“Melanie,” Greyson warns.
I laugh and back off. “Okay. That’s your man cave, I won’t go in. Don’t look so worried.”
“I’m not worried. You couldn’t open that door with a chainsaw. What concerns me is your determination to do exactly what I told you not to.”
“I’m curious!” I say, laughing again. My laugh, I can’t explain it, but it seems to get to him. He looks hungry to quiet me with his mouth. When he licks his lips and scowls down at my mouth, the sudden memory of his mouth on mine zips through me, of my nipples against his tongue, and a shiver of anticipation bolts down my spine.
“Do you mind if I freshen up?” I blurt out.
“Babe, you’re spring incarnate, but go ahead.”
I shut the bathroom door behind me and lean against the sink. I can hardly breathe, the flutters are everywhere in me, from my head to my toes. He’s a fucking asshole who openly admitted to probably just wanting to use me and I should’ve slapped him but instead, I’m going to fuck him because he makes me mad. Because he’s responsible for an awful, insistent throbbing between my legs. All these weeks wondering what he wants from me, if he was coming tonight.
No matter what he says, he still looks at me the way he does—and the way he looks at me says other things. That he wants me. That he desperately wants, craves, maybe even needs me, like he said in my apartment that day.
I have never worn anything a man has given me. Now my throat is adorned with a line of sparkly white diamonds and I’d never imagined a gesture like this could stimulate my mind, my heart, and my body so much.
He wants to use me for sex tonight? Then I will use him back because it’s killing me. The way he looks at me kills me. The way he smells, walks, the sound of his voice.
Tonight I’m not sleeping home alone no matter what happens.
Quickly, I wash my hands, under my armpits, and then I lift my dress and glance sadly at the bruises on my thighs. I pull out my makeup kit from my clutch bag and start covering the purple stains with my concealer, one by one.
When I’m done, I notice a towel with streaks of red and wonder if he cut himself. Shaving perhaps? A wave of protectiveness takes me over. Is he all right? Of course he is, Melanie. That man is about as penetrable as his steel door.