“Me too. Can you afford it?”
He shrugs. “Keep the designs coming, and I’ll buy you a matching one in five years.”
“Ha.” I rest my head against his shoulder. “And leave my apartment? Never.”
I look up at the master bedroom, and imagine him at the window, fresh from a shower, a towel around his waist. I think of that giant kitchen, the tall fireplace, the view. I don’t want a matching one. I want this one, with him in it. I want to swim naked in this pool and roll around in front of that fireplace, and make love in that kitchen.
The wind picks up, sweeping my hair across my face, and I feel, in the strong brush of its breeze, my daydreams scatter.
Him
I don’t understand my cock. When I was younger, I wanted more kink. Something wilder than vanilla, something that led to orgies and threesomes, an audience often present during my fucking. Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-eight, I can only think of one woman. And she’s not the one currently elbow deep in naked men.
I sigh, pushing open the glass sliding door and stepping out onto the Hollywood Hills balcony, resting my hands on the rail and looking down at the circular drive, one littered with expensive vehicles, a suited valet stepping from a Lambo and holding the door open to a couple, one who I saw earlier. From behind me, I hear the familiar shriek of Chelsea’s orgasm, her sixth or seventh of the evening. It’s a sound that should stir my cock, one that should, at the very least, pull my eyes toward the scene. But I don’t care. Or maybe I do care, and that’s the problem. Dating Chelsea has been my first experience with this world from the perspective of a couple and not as a single male. Being single, the situation was simple. I arrived, I pleased, I came, I left. Being emotionally involved with the woman in the threesome, or foursome, was a different scenario entirely. As it turns out, I don’t like to share. There is something about another man putting his hand on my girlfriend that rubs me the wrong way. Chelsea said that makes me a hypocrite, seeing as that was how we met—me fucking her while her then-boyfriend watched. I don’t think it makes me a hypocrite. I think different things turn on different people and, right now? Monogamy is looking pretty damn sexy. I don’t want to deal with internet chatrooms and strangers and illicit meetings in hotel rooms. I want to memorize one woman’s body and every sound and pleasure point she has. I want to please her in every room of my new house, and on every continent. I want to get married. And in all of those visions, Chelsea isn’t present. In all of those thoughts, there is only Kate.
Kate, who is still with that tooth doctor. Kate, who gets flowers every other week, delivered to the damn office. Kate, who left for a weekend in Cabo and came back tan and glowing, her hair still curly from the salt air. It had been the longest weekend of my life, imagining what they were doing, imagining what he was saying to her. Chelsea had been a needed distraction that weekend. Hell, her presence is the only thing keeping me from looking like a lovesick idiot. And she understands, her breezy attitude about Kate almost annoying at times. What woman is okay with her boyfriend being in love with someone else? Maybe it is her generation, a younger attitude that accepts all circumstances. Or maybe she enjoys the expensive dinners and my cock. I turn, my back settling against the balcony rail, and watch her through the open curtains. On her hands and knees, she looks over her shoulder and laughs at something the man behind her says. Reaching forward, she looks up at the cock in front of her, her hand greedy in its grasp of it.
Ten years ago, maybe I’d have fallen in love with her. Now, I only want out. I pull back my sleeve and look at my watch. I’ll give her another half hour of fun. Then, damn the situation, we’re leaving.
chapter 14
Her
“So much for Paris in the springtime.” I flick a piece of bread into the mist and watch a pigeon pounce on it.
“It’s an off day.” Trey sips his coffee and points down the street. “Look, the Eiffel Tower. That’s all you really need to see. Now you can go home happy.”
“Wet and happy,” I grumble, scooting my chair closer to the table, its flimsy umbrella doing little to protect us from the rain. He chuckles and I wave my hand in the air to stop him. “Shush, I heard how it came out. Just get me somewhere warm and I’ll be less grumpy.”
“Fine.” He stands, fishing into his pocket and pulling out some euros. Peeling off a few bills, he tucks them under the coffee cup and holds out his hand. “But we’re going to have to make a run for it.” I slip my hand in his, and he pulls me through the crowded street. My other hand pulls at the hood of my rain jacket, the downpour soaking my jeans, my flats squishing with water by the time he finds an empty alcove for us to duck into.