He proposed two weeks ago, and the day after, he took me to get my labium pierced. The procedure was done by a beautiful woman, of course. Probably one of his old fuck buddies, but I didn’t ask. The past is what the past is. And the future? I’ll deal with that when it comes.
It’s the present that I hug close—his wide shoulders, to be exact, as he sits up and takes my mouth.
His arms are my orbit, encircling my body. His eyes are my center of gravity, righting me in perfect balance. And his fingers are my eight wonders of the world as they sink between my legs and make my vocal chords scream his name in awe.
Then, with the crotch of my leotard shoved to the side, he slides me down his hard cock.
“Danni,” he growls, his fingers burrowing into my hip bones. “You feel so damn good.”
His muscles shake, and I tighten my hold on him, latching our mouths together, our kisses desperate, frenzied, and weighted with torment.
Enduring a year without him will be a special kind of hell. But it has an expiration date.
One year.
It’s just a blip in the span of forever.
“Danni.”
The growl of Trace’s voice snaps me back to the present, and I swallow around the knot in my throat. Stupid girl. This is neither the time nor the place to get bowled over by the past. Especially not after our strange day of errands and kissing and hanging out in his penthouse.
I straighten on the couch and stretch my neck. The movie’s paused, and the intensity of his gaze presses against my skin.
“What’s wrong with you?” His tone is soft, but there’s an edge to it. Concern? Aggravation? Who knows?
“I should go.”
“And miss the best movie ever?”
I swivel to look at him, catching a rare glow of warmth in his blue eyes. “You’re enjoying Dirty Dancing?”
“I am.” He tips his head down, studying me from beneath blond brows. “It has depth. Like you.”
My lips part on a stalled breath. Was that a compliment?
He touches my chin, nudging it upward to close my mouth. Then he presses play on the remote and stretches back on the couch. I mirror his pose, letting my head fall back and tranquility settle in.
Beyond the windows, the sun has fled, leaving smears of deep purple across the sky. It’s getting late, but no part of me wants to move. My eyelids feel heavy, and the couch is so warm and comfy. The breathing heater beside me makes me want to stay forever.
Doesn’t take long before I lose the fight against sleep.
When I wake, the credits roll on the screen, and my cheek rests on soft twill over steel. Not just my cheek. My arms and legs hug a warm pillar of muscle.
I move only my gaze, following the length of our bodies, down, down, to our feet. His are covered in black socks and propped on the arm of the couch. Mine hook around his calves, so pale and small against his dark slacks.
My knee is bent over his thigh, inches from the soft bulge between his legs. My arm drapes across his chest, my other tucked beneath his shoulder. My neck goes taut, but it’s not our positions that alarm me. It’s the knuckle running along my side, over my hip, and back up. Down and up, down and up, he’s stroking me.
And I like it.
I love it.
So fucking much.
I close my eyes and will myself to fall back asleep. I want to stay here, wrapped in this gorgeous paradox of a man, and pretend he wants that, too.
“I know you’re awake.” His voice reverberates in his chest.
Dammit.
I shift against him, rest my chin on his sternum, and fall into the crystal blue of his gaze. “I missed the end of the movie.”
He brushes a stray hair from my face. “I know why you like it so much.”
I beam. “It’s a job requirement.”
He doesn’t move to untangle us, seemingly waiting for me to climb off. I doubt he does much snuggling with women, not even with the ones he doesn’t want to fuck.
Rising on my knees, I instantly miss the warmth of his body. So much so my fingernails stab my palms as I slide off the couch.
Rain spatters the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the black sky rotates with even blacker clouds, veiling the twinkle of the cityscape.
The rain isn’t ideal since the top is down on the Midget, and it’s a bitch to put up. I groan at the task ahead and scan the floor for my flip-flops. When did I take them off?
“I have to put the top up on my—”
“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What? Why not?”
“It’s raining and dark. You’re tired, and I don’t have to be anywhere.”
But where would I sleep? Turning, I scan the warehouse-sized penthouse. The kitchen and dining area opens into the monstrous sitting room. There’s a hall that leads to… A bedroom? Multiple bedrooms?
I head in that direction, veer into the dimly lighted corridor, and poke my head in the first doorway.
A workout room the size of my house stretches toward an exterior glass wall. Beyond the windows is a rooftop pool, the illuminated blue water rippling beneath the rain.
“Rich people,” I mumble, “have all the things.”
“Indeed.” His arrogant self-assertion breathes against my nape.
I continue down the hall, pausing at the only other doorway. His bedroom.
He slips past me and sets the gift bag on a tall bureau. I want to know what’s in that bag, but it came from Marlo. If their relationship is at a gift-giving level, I’d rather not know.
Why does it matter? Trace is a job, not a lover or boyfriend or even a friend.
Except I’m standing on the threshold of his bedroom, thinking about the possibility of sleeping in his huge king-of-the-casino-sized bed.
The exposed brick walls bring the warehouse ambiance into this space, with large picture windows, a private balcony, and a bird’s-eye view of the Mississippi River. The charcoal bedding plays off the elegant use of red in the pinstriped furniture gathered around a fireplace and wall-mounted TV screen. It’s masculine and industrial. Modern and cozy.
“Is this the only bedroom?” I lean a shoulder against the door jamb.
He nods. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“How many women do you say that to?”
His head drops, and his hands fall to his hips, as if he’s annoyed by my question.
I can’t figure him out.
He disappears into a closet and returns a moment later with a white collared shirt. “You can wear this to bed.”
It’s a beautiful herringbone shirt, with a split yoke between the shoulder blades and perfectly aligned white stripes. I can’t imagine what it cost, and he wants me to sleep in it?
I pull the buttons through the holes. “I never agreed to stay.”
He wings up a brow.
Yeah, it was a stupid thing to say. We both know I’m not going anywhere.
“You can dress in the bathroom.” He flicks a finger at the double-wide doorway to the en suite.
“I’m a dancer. We change clothes anywhere and everywhere.”
“Suit yourself.” He steps back into the closet and closes the door partway, blocking my view.
Man, he’s a hard nut to crack.
Speaking of nuts, what am I doing? Should I seduce him? Ignore him? Play with him? Play hard to get with him? I’m so out of practice, I don’t know where to begin. But I do know what I want.
Him.