“When I tell you that you don’t need to worry, I need you to believe it. I need you to trust me.”
She’s silent, and every second that passes feels as if another weight has been added to my chest. It’s obvious I haven’t eased her concerns in the least. She wants a definitive answer and I can’t give her one. I can’t say anything with certainty.
“No more. It’s after six and I promise, I will make time for you at work. As your boss. Right now I only want to be your lover, as you put it.”
It seems for a moment that she’ll say something; her lips part and she inhales, but then her gaze falls and she merely nods. Not looking back at me.
“Thank you for respecting the boundary.”
“I don’t like it,” she whispers, at first looking out the window but then she meets my gaze.
“You look gorgeous squirming, though.” I pick up her hand and kiss the back of it, our fingers laced together. “It would please me if you wouldn’t worry.”
In a breath she laughs, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s heard. “Is that all you need, for me to just not worry?”
Softly, I repeat the reassurance, “You will be all right.”
She’s quick to tell me, “It’s not just me.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m done. I’m done for right now. I won’t bring it up again.”
“I want you to confide in me, I do. I wish I had the answers for you, but I don’t.”
“When you do, will you tell me?” There’s hesitancy in her tone, but also hope.
“The second I know, I will tell you everything.”
Her shoulders drop slightly and she sinks deeper into the seat, not responding other than a nod and a soft, “Thank you.”
A moment passes, and the tension lessens.
“I had a hard day today,” I confide in her, our fingers still intertwined.
“I did too,” she speaks softly. “Fridays are long days, but at least we have the weekend.” Just when I think that’s all she’ll say, she offers, “Can I do anything?”
“Do anything?”
“To make anything better.”
“Not with work—”
“No, with you. Can I …” she trails off and tosses her hand in the air, the one I was holding. “Can I yell at someone, or massage your shoulders? I could …” she pauses and rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, write an angry email or order us takeout for dinner.” In my silence, her tone is laced with exasperation when she says, “I could … I don’t know. What would make it better?”
“You could kiss me.”
“Would that make it better?” she questions, the hint of a smile on her lips.
“Yes. If you kissed me, it would.”
She doesn’t waste a moment, and when she kisses me, her hands wrapped around my face, I can feel her smile.
Suzette
The New York skyline is much different from the windows of Adrian’s penthouse. I’m used to feeling as if it’s towering over me, but in his living room we’re a part of it. In the heart of Tribeca surrounded by historic industrial buildings and new construction that’s all steel and glass.
It’s the epitome of New York.
It almost seems like a movie backdrop is wrapped around the entire room. Floor-to-ceiling windows that with a touch of a button, darken for privacy surround us. Every other day, Adrian introduces me to more wealth than I’ve experienced in the years I’ve planted roots in this city.
Behind me, he busies himself in the foyer answering a call. The design is open concept but so far away, I feel lost in the view. Even his furniture seems to play a part in the city.
It’s the perfect layout for a home with so much luxury. Hardwood floors shine under my feet and the neutral color scheme is fresh and strong. He has high ceilings and windows that kiss those ceilings, and beneath is a living room with sumptuous leather furniture that looks like it cost a mint.
Nothing in his home is out of place. There’s not a single ounce of clutter, which adds to the masculine energy. It even smells like wealth, if ever there was a scent, one so clean it makes me a little jealous. I can imagine the people it would take to make a home look like this. A housekeeper at least, and others to make sure the walls and furniture stay perfect. The view alone is worth millions.
I can hardly keep my mouth closed as he gives me the tour, passing quickly by his bedroom and ending up back in the living room. “I didn’t realize just how wealthy you are.” I swallow thickly, my fingers playing at the hems of my silk sleeves.
The last time I felt awe like this was when I was flying into New York City for the first time. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to live here, in a place I’d dreamed about for so long.
Adrian grins, slipping his arm around my waist. “I’m certainly not the richest man in New York.”
“How very modest of you,” I teasingly respond although my normal bite is lost.
There’s a deep rumble from his chest, a short hum. I’ve noticed him do it a few times now and with it, his hand drops lower, to the side of my hip and his thumb rubs soothing circles there.
It causes a tension, a nervousness inside of me. It’s more serious. Because I crave it. I want more of that masculine hum of satisfaction.
Being in his personal space and seeing his things and furniture is way beyond what I ever thought I’d do with him. I’m nervous to get it right and keep my cool, but I’m a strange mixture of giddy and hot. The more I learn about Adrian, the harder it will be when things end between us. I’m not sure I want things to end between us. Which only adds more to the feeling of not having the upper hand.
I certainly don’t want them to end here, in his beautiful penthouse with all his fancy furniture and Adrian in his suit from the office. Despite working all day it’s still crisp. I’d like for him to take it off, or to play the game we always play … but in his home, we don’t have to rush.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low.
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want a drink?”
I nod. A drink would be good. Something to hold in my hands and busy myself with.
“Let’s step into the kitchen, then.” In Adrian’s kitchen, which is an elegant, masculine space with dark marble countertops and tall reclaimed wood shelves, he takes down two cut glass tumblers. Light bends through them, refracting as he cradles them in his large palms. Even his tumblers reek of wealth “What would you like?” he asks.
“You choose,” I offer, not knowing what’s in his kitchen.
“Whiskey?” he questions. “I have a favorite you may not have tried before.”
“I don’t mind whiskey.”
“Chocolate cream cold brew whiskey,” he speaks clearly, opening cabinets and leaving me alone by the kitchen island, standing quite alone in the expansive space.
Once he has what he needs, the bottles lined up and large spherical ice cubes taking up space in the tumblers, he strips off his jacket so he’s just in his shirt from the office. Like his suit, his dress shirt is still pristine after a day of sitting in meetings and restructuring the company. My mouth waters at the thought of what’s hidden under the belt around his waist and the white shirt above.