But he led me through the living room and down a hall to his bedroom.
“Wow,” I breathed when he flicked on the light. A massive sleigh bed dominated the space, the wood dark—which he seemed to prefer—and the linens a soft cream. The rest of the furnishings matched the bed and the accents were brushed gold. It was a warm, masculine space with no art on the walls to detract from the serene night view of Central Park and the magnificent residential buildings on the other side. My side of Manhattan.
“The bathroom’s in here.”
As I took in the vanity, which appeared to have been made out of an antique claw-footed walnut cabinet, he pulled towels out of a companion armoire and set them out for me, moving with that confident sensual grace I admired so much. Seeing him in his home, dressed so casually, touched me. Knowing I was the only woman to have this experience with him affected me even more. I felt like I was seeing him more naked now than I ever had. “Thank you.”
He glanced at me and seemed to understand that I was talking about more than the towels. His stare burned through me. “It feels good to have you here.”
“I have no idea how I ended up like this, with you.” But I really, really liked it.
“Does it matter?” Gideon came to me, tilting my chin up to press a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’ll lay out a T-shirt for you on the bed. Caviar and vodka sound good to you?”
“Well…that’s quite a step up from pizza.”
He smiled. “Petrossian’s Ossetra.”
“I stand corrected.” I smiled back. “Several hundred steps up.”
I showered and dressed in the oversized Cross Industries shirt he laid out for me; then I called Cary to tell him I’d be out all night and give him a brief rundown about the hotel incident.
He whistled. “I’m not even sure what to say about that.”
A speechless Cary Taylor spoke volumes.
I joined Gideon in the living room, and we sat on the floor at the coffee table to eat the prized caviar with mini toast and crème fraiche. We watched a rerun of a New York-set police procedural that just happened to include a scene filmed on the street in front of the Crossfire.
“I think it’d be cool to see a building I owned on TV like that,” I said.
“It’s not bad, if they don’t close off the street for hours to film.”
I bumped shoulders with him. “Pessimist.”
We crawled into Gideon’s bed at ten thirty and watched the last half of a show while curled up together. Sexual tension crackled in the air between us, but he didn’t make any overtures so I didn’t either. I suspected he was still trying to make amends for the hotel, trying to prove that he wanted to spend time with me not “actively fucking.”
It worked. As much as I desired his outrageously sexy body, it felt good just hanging out together.
He slept in the nude, which was fabulous for me to cuddle up against. I tossed one leg over his, wrapped an arm around his waist, and rested my cheek over his heart. I don’t remember the ending of the show, so I suppose I fell asleep before it was over.
When I woke it was still dark in the room and I’d rolled to the far side of my half of the bed. I sat up to see the digital clock face on Gideon’s nightstand and found it was barely three in the morning. I usually slept straight through the night and thought maybe the strange surroundings were keeping me from sleeping deeply; then Gideon moaned and shifted restlessly and I realized what had disturbed me. The sound he made was pained, his subsequent hiss of breath tormented.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered harshly. “Get your fucking hands off of me!”
I froze, my heart racing. His words sliced through the dark, filled with fury.
“You sick bastard.” He writhed, his legs kicking at the covers. His back arched on a groan that sounded perversely erotic. “Don’t. Ah, Christ…It hurts.”