“Right,” I say, starting to grin.
He turns to leave and the girl takes two quick steps after him. “Have a good day, Mr. Slade!”
He ignores her, pushing back through the doors and heading for the elevator.
“Do you make her call you Mr. Slade, or was that her idea?”
He half-turns to look down at me, quirking an eyebrow in an irritatingly sexy way. “You’re jealous? Of her?”
I laugh a little too loud. “Yeah. Totally. Look. You can fuck whoever you want. You made that perfectly clear ten years ago.”
He says nothing, but tries to guide me into the elevator by the small of my back. I quickly step in, avoiding his touch, though I don’t know how much of that is because I’m furious with him and how much is because I don’t want my bastard emotions to cloud my judgment. Why is it so hard to completely hate him? Even if he wants to play tough guy and act like I have no choice in this, I know I could just walk. He’s not going to throw me over his shoulder and drag me back into his apartment in front of all these people. He’s not going to punish me for disobeying him.
I shift on my feet, pressing my thighs together a little tighter. Thinking about him punishing me is doing all the wrong things to me. I just need to leave. But I can’t. As immature as it is, I know if I leave it will be like admitting defeat, like he won. If I leave, it shows him that I never got over him. It shows that I didn’t take control of my life after he left and I never moved on. Well, screw that.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The dog pants happily, but she’s so overfed she might as well be a zeppelin with four furry legs. “I see the dog doesn’t take fitness as seriously as you do?”
Jesse glares at me with unexpected hurt in his face. “A lot of it is muscle. There’s a ton of protein in the treats I give her.”
“How long does this elevator take?” I snap suddenly.
“A minute and fifteen seconds.”
I roll my eyes. “You would know exactly how long.”
“Paying attention to details is part of what makes me the best. For example, you’re wearing a thong.”
The doors open and he walks down a long hallway covered in matte-finish gray tiles, leaving me standing there, mouthing hanging open while his bulldog stands dutifully beside me. How did he…
I follow him down the hallway, self-consciously pulling at the back of my dress and feeling to see if it’s really so tight that he could see. I know I should feel mortified or violated that he was staring at my ass enough to notice, but I can’t quite push down the thrill of excitement in the flirtation of his words.
The doors to the apartments on his floor are silver and modern, giving the whole hallway an expensive, clean atmosphere. He unlocks his door, using three different keys to open three different locks.
“Three locks?” I ask.
“Like I said. My place is safer.”
He opens the door and I can’t help raising my eyebrows in appreciation when I see his apartment. It’s airy with high ceilings, and the far wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that give a spectacular view of the city and the sparkling ocean behind it. The furniture is modern and sleek, reeking of money and cleanliness. The place is so spotless I’m sure he must have a cleaner, and so tasteful there’s no way he put it all together himself. He strips off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, breath catching in my throat. I can see the smooth crease between his chest muscles.
“Taking a shower. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Make yourself at home. Just don’t leave.”
“What, am I your prisoner now?”
He strips his shirt all the way off and I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. There isn’t an ounce of fat on his body, just slabs of perfectly sculpted muscle. I can’t help letting my eyes wander from his broad shoulders to the perfect line of division between his abs and then to the diagonal cuts of his obliques. I’m fascinated by the way his muscles cord and relax as he slips the shirt off. I would think he was stripping in front of me to show off, but there’s no hint of it in his face, as if he’s completely unaware how mind-numbingly perfect his body is and what seeing it would do to me.
“No,” he says, turning to walk to the shower. “You’re just my guest who can’t leave.”
I watch his chiseled back until he rounds the corner. I finally suck in a breath once he’s gone, only now able to fill my lungs completely. “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath with less conviction than I would like.
I hear the shower start and I realize I’m alone in his place and it would be incredibly easy to snoop around a bit. For what I’m paying him, I deserve to know a little more. At least that’s the shaky line of reasoning that gets my feet moving.
I wander through his kitchen and I’m surprised to see a professional-grade kitchen with gas ranges and a temperature controlled glass case filled with dozens of potted herbs. I purse my lips. He either takes his cooking seriously, or he has someone he pays to do it for him. Probably the latter.
I find his bedroom, which is far enough away from the running shower that I decide to intrude. I’m not sure what I expect to find… panties? Maybe even some floosie he forgot was still sleeping at his place? I try not to imagine how many women he’s had in the luxurious bed that fills the center of his room. I rifle through a dresser at the far end of the room and find socks, underwear, and then a drawer with some bottles of lube and a few sex toys. I blush when I look at them, feeling a mixture of disgust and curiosity.
I lift something heavy that looks vaguely like the top half of an egg, careful to touch as little of it as I can. I turn my head slightly and notice a small button at the base. I press the button and jump back as the thing vibrates like a rocket getting ready to leave orbit. It falls to the ground, buzzing so loud I’m sure he must hear it even inside the shower. I fall to my knees and manage to grab the thing even as it jumps and jolts around from the strong vibration.
What kind of man keeps fucking sex toys in his bedroom drawer? One who knows how to please a woman, whispers a small, lust-filled voice in the back of my mind.
I turn it off and am about to stand when I notice a seam beneath the lowest drawer. There’s a small, almost imperceptible ridge where I can fit my finger. I put the toy back in the drawer above, closing it and focusing on the ridge. I hook my finger in and tug, pulling out a thin drawer. There’s just a single composition book inside. It’s leather-bound and a little battered. I lift it carefully, noticing one of the corners is torn.
I know it’s a complete invasion of privacy, but I’ve already crossed that line, and I only feel twinge of guilt about it before I open the book and read the first page.