“Depends.” She lifts a brow and leans in. “Is it dirty?”
“Very.”
She offers me her hand, and I shake it.
“I haven’t told you the terms yet.”
She kisses me softly and whispers. “Don’t care. If it’s dirty, I can’t lose.”
After hearing that I use escorts both for business and carnal pleasure, she’s still here and looking at me like I’m dessert. So this is what it’s like to feel lucky.
Twenty-Three
Alexander
Jordan and I fall easily into a routine, where I leave early and work all day, and she spends her time job hunting. I get home late, and if she’s awake, we spend a few minutes sharing our days and then sharing our bodies. If she’s asleep, I hit the gym, shower, and then slip into bed beside her.
Tonight will be different.
I’m taking Jordan out on a date. A real date. The first real date I’ve been on in a very long time.
“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?” she asks from her position leaning over the bathroom countertop while she expertly applies mascara to her lashes. I watch each careful stroke and consider bending moment and shear force equations—there is a lot of engineering involved in makeup application.
Her gray eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Why are you looking at me like I’m a calculus problem?”
“You are, actually.”
She puts away the mascara and turns to face me. “What is this look on your face?”
“I’m not used to having a woman in my bathroom, and I’ve never actually watched a woman get ready to go out.” I take her in, from her black heeled boots to her fitted cashmere dress that clings to the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the swells of her breasts. Her hair is pulled back and away from her face, giving me a full view of her neck. Delicate gold earrings dangle from earlobes that I want to pull between my teeth. “I like it.”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m happy I can keep you entertained.” She hooks her hand into the crook of my arm and presses her lips to my cheek. “Now, where are we going?”
“Nice try.” I escort her from the penthouse, and I’m grateful she keeps her hand in my arm as we ride down the elevator and walk through the lobby. She only releases me to climb into the car where Murphy waits at the open back door.
“Ms. Wilder, you look beautiful tonight.” He dips his chin politely and keeps his eyes on her face. Smart man. “Mr. North.”
“Murphy,” I say and linger in front of him while Jordan slides into the backseat. “You look happier than usual.”
He tries to hide his smile and fails. “Funny, I was thinking the same about you.”
In order to keep my face from cracking into a goofy grin, I scowl.
Murphy clears his throat, and his lips twitch. “Sir.” He motions for me to climb inside.
I lose the battle with my expression and feel my lips tilt up on the sides. All right, fine. So, I’m… happy. Yeah. I let the feeling settle in. I could get used to this.
“A Broadway show,” Jordan blurts the second my ass hits the seat.
“No.”
“Dinner and a movie.”
I shake my head and feel my lips tip further. “No.”
She purses her lips, stares out the window, and turns back to me. “A concert!”
“No.”
She drops her head back dramatically and groans.
Her insistence on figuring out the surprise would usually be the type of thing to agitate and frustrate me, but I find myself wanting to lean in. The urge to touch her is overwhelming. I run my hand up her thigh, the cashmere as soft as I know her skin is underneath. Fire sparks in her eyes as she looks at me, and the sexual tension pulls tightly between us.
“Later,” I growl—mostly to myself, as a reminder that she deserves more than a night of naked passion. She deserves a date.
After the night in that she gave me with the fishing and simulated starlit sky, I wanted to return the favor. And learning from her example meant that I needed to plan an evening around her interests, not my own.
Murphy pulls up to a little supper club in Harlem, and I watch Jordan to gauge the moment she figures it out.
Her eyes fix on the neon sign, and she bounces in her seat. “A jazz club?” Her arms are thrown around me, and the force knocks me back. “This is awesome. Thank you.”
The back door opens, and she scrambles out of the car. I take her hand and walk ahead of her, then catch myself and stop. She hates it when I “manhandle” her, so I wait for her to catch up to me and then walk beside her, keeping her pace, to the door. I open it for her, and when the scent of rich meats and aged liquor combines with the gentle swell of a jazz quartet, her face shines like the sun.
“This is incredible.” She careens her neck as she takes in the tan walls and blood-red accent furniture. Black and white photos of jazz legends and their scribbled signatures are framed on the walls, and she stops to study every one of them. “Thelonious Monk, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker—I can’t believe I’ve never been here.”
The hostess takes us to a private booth up front to the left side of the stage. Jordan’s eyes are wide and fixated on the musicians, so much so that she trips on the leg of a nearby chair. I snake my arm around her waist in time to keep her upright, and she chuckles and buries her face in my chest. “That would’ve been embarrassing.”
I want to tell her that I live in a world where a high value is put on perfection. Even in my own life, I expect nothing less from myself. Which is why I find her imperfections refreshing. She says whatever is on her mind—to the degree that she risks my temper. I find this quality as attractive as I do dangerous.
Her glittering eyes fixate on the band, and when our waitress comes to take our drink order, she blinks as if she’s just been zapped back to the real world. I take the liberty of ordering her a glass of wine so that she can go back to watching the band.
I hadn’t realized when I planned this date what a convenience the live music would be. She hasn’t had to fill the silence between us with a million questions about my past, and I’ve had the honor of watching her face light up with pleasure as the music plays.
Our meals arrive just as the band takes a break, and again, I am blessed with the vision of watching a beautiful woman devour a delicious meal, her mouth too full for rapid-fire inquiry.
“You have to taste these scallops,” she says and offers her fork with a generous bite to my lips.
I’m not usually the type of person to share food, to share anything really, but I find myself leaning in while she slips the utensil between my lips. The act seems so simple and yet so intimate. Her eyes lock on mine, and she waits with raised brows for my response.
“Incredible.” I mimic her behavior and offer her a bite of my steak. I bring my fork to her lips and watch her eyes close as she chews. A soft moan rumbles from her lips. “So good.”
We’ve cleaned our plates, which is another thing I’ve noticed Jordan does that most women don’t—she eats all her food. I wonder if that’s a byproduct of her going without food as a child. The waitress removes our dishes and refreshes our drinks.