I can’t seem to fully stop a giggle as I set it aside. “No, really. You’re hooked on him, Sara. I do think you need to find him. Why wait? You can be waiting forever. Why do we give our power away?” I frown. “I mean, we’re bombarded by all these marketers telling us what to think, how to feel about ourselves, we wait to see what others think about our clothes to determine if we really like them. We wait for an astrologer to tell us the coast is clear to do something we’ve been wanting to do. It’s wrong.”
I chew my nail. My mind wanders back to Christos and I wonder why I had the balls to give Sara this advice when I don’t have any balls of my own, apparently.
I also remember touching Christos’s balls and how much I wanted to go down on him. A pang of unwelcome little feelings strike and I’m not really sure if I’ll be able to push them away, but I try to, especially considering I was talking to Sara about her love life. Not mine.
“Let’s do something we really want to do. Let’s finally do something for ourselves, take our own advice.”
“Okay then.” She makes a phone call. “Hi, I’d like to see if you can do me a favor and check back on the guest list for last year. I need the name of someone.” Her eyes spark up as if the answer delights her. “Really? You’d do that for me? Thank you!” She hangs up. “He’s helping me find him. Your turn.”
“Did you really call?” I ask, doubting that she did.
“Do you want to call back to verify? Come on. Your turn. Go after him, Bryn.”
I bite down on my lip for a moment, then I grab my phone and decide that I don’t want to keep wondering what if anymore. Not when there’s something I can do about it.
So I’ve been thinking about it.
And I’ve decided this is healthy, this is the best scenario possible, neither of us expects more.
So please tell Christos that it’s yes.
Tell Bit for me
I do want more
And she won’t regret it.
But let’s keep it low key please. I don’t want anyone at Christos and Co or your brother to know
I don’t report to my employees or my brother, but I understand your concern. I’ll be discreet as long as you want to keep a lid on it.
I read the message, relieved, when suddenly a new one pops up.
What are you wearing now?
I tingle.
Panties and a T-shirt.
What color panties?
Soft lilac.
Soft lilac. What material are they?
They’re silky. A little sheer.
And under the T-shirt?
Nothing.
What color T-shirt?
I close my eyes.
I just took it off.
Butterflies in my stomach as I read his reply.
Take off the rest.
Put on one of your little dresses
And meet me downstairs in 20 minutes.
I reach for my panties. Bryn, what the hell are you doing?
Honestly, something has just clicked in my mind. The fact that I no longer care. I want him—desperately. And for a long time, Christos has wanted me. I don’t want to deny myself his presence, his laughter, his touch. Fuck what the cosmos says, or if it’s written in the stars, or if its doomed, or if it’s right or not. Life goes by in a blink, and I don’t want to blink one second and once again, find him gone.
We walk along Gramercy Park until it starts to rain. One second we’re dry, the next we’re getting pounded by raindrops. Christos glances around and motions farther down the block, to a tall skyscraper. “Over there.”
He rushes me to a building where the doorman greets him.
“Penthouse still empty?” He runs his hand through his wet hair as I feel water drip down my legs.
“Sir, yes. They’re putting in the finishing touches until they start showing next month.”
“We need shelter for a moment,” he says with a smirk.
The doorman pulls out a double set of keys. “Of course, sir, go right in. I’ll be sure you’re not disturbed.”
He slides a key into the elevator slot, then uses the second one to open the double doors when we reach the top floor.
We walk into a huge, vacant marble-floored penthouse.
“You own this?”
“Yes.”
“The penthouse or the building?” I gaze out at the panoramic views.
Silence.
I turn. “Wow. You amaze me.”
“You’re amazing,” he husks back. He walks forward. “Did you take off what I told you?”
“Yes.” Flushing, I motion to him. “Seems right that you take off something too. It’s only fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.”
He smiles, but when he stares at me for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. He starts to unbutton his wet, white shirt, then he shrugs it off his powerful shoulders.
“Are we even?”
I gulp. “Not even close,” I breathe and hold his wicked—w i c k e d—gaze. His tattoo is shining wetly on his shoulder and bicep, and I get wet in places the sunlight doesn’t touch.
His chest is wet. I try not to notice.
But I notice.
Oh boy.
He is speaking to me.
Did he ask me something?
I can’t hear. A drop of water slides down his abs and falls into his belly button.
His pecs are hard, his muscles so defined I could trace them with a pencil. My tongue could act as a pencil, I suppose.
I want to trace the tattoo with my fingers, his whole body with my fingers.
I lick my lips and he is watching me, speculatively.
I take a step, then a few quicker ones, and then I’m pressing my mouth to his nipple. I lick the drop.
He groans.
A low, pained sound as his hand comes to cup the back of my head.
I bend and lick the other drop, close to his belly button, on his strong, ripped abs, and my tongue dips into his belly button even though there’s not a drop there. When I place my hands on his abs, they feel so hard. They constrict beneath my fingers, and I kiss him on each square. My heart pounds as he holds the back of my head, one hand on my skull, the other curving possessively around my neck—exerting the slightest pressure to keep my face where it is. With my lips on his warm, wet skin. I ease up and meet his gaze.
He pulls me up higher with his hand, looking straight at me with devastatingly tender eyes. His jaw starts working, his lips pressing into a grim line. He fists my hair, starts pulling me up. I go willingly.
Pressing my mouth between his pecs. Then as he pulls me up another inch, he dives down, and the wet raindrops are replaced by his wet mouth.
Something overtakes us. My hands on his wet shoulders, twining first and then gripping the wet muscle, nails in his back as his arms go around me and my legs go around him as he devours my mouth.
Christos grabs my ass and boosts me.
Up higher, so I’m almost higher than he is. I’m canting down my head so he can ravage me and massage my butt. His beautiful erection is almost a table for me to sit on. I feel so tiny even when he has me lifted higher, as if I were a little girl and he wanted to show me the world.
“Aaric,” I breathe. My own driving desire shocks me.
He turns me up against the wall, our mouths fused as he jams a hand between our bodies and touches me there.
I’m not wearing any panties—only his slacks separate us, and as he kisses me and strokes his fingers along my wetness, I groan.
He groans too, more undone than I am.
He tears free and hunches down, and he nuzzles my stomach over my dress.
My breath snags in my throat when he rasps something unintelligible, nudging my dress upward with his nose—then his breath is on the skin beneath my belly button.