We’re on the road within silent minutes, the blood pounding from my building libido the only sound.
“Are you having second thoughts?” He flashes me a look of concern.
It makes me want him more. “I’m right where I want to be.”
His lips tweak in the slightest curve of approval before he concentrates on traffic. We head into the heart of the capital, not far from my hotel, and stop inside another parking lot, this one below a towering apartment complex.
He entwines our fingers as we walk to the elevator, my tongue tingling, my chest throbbing. I wait for him to maul me inside the enclosed space, but there’s no voracious kissing session. He maintains his air of calm, not showing a hint of this obsession he spoke of, and takes me to the top level.
The penthouse.
I’d envisaged we would’ve been all over each other by now. Fingers clawing. Legs tangled.
It’s the opposite. He’s suave with his sickening patience, opening his front door wide to allow me to take the first step into his perfectly appointed space.
I’m not sure what I expected—maybe a bachelor pad with sleazy art or clothes strewn on the floor? But that isn’t what I stand in front of. This place is beautiful, the kitchen before me entirely spotless from the marble counters to the stainless-steel appliances, and all the way down the floor-to-ceiling wine fridge.
“Want another drink?” He closes the door behind me, then strides ahead.
“I’d love one.” I’d love anything that might taper the rabid beat in my chest.
“Do you have a preference?” He opens a cupboard and pauses, waiting for my response.
“I’m easy. You decide.”
He reaches inside for a glass and grins to himself, as if he can’t wait to test just how easy I am with a million X-rated surprises.
I place my cell on the kitchen counter and turn in a slow circle, taking in the home that suits him without flaw. The furniture is commanding and elegant. All polished woods with white coverings, from the lounge setting in the adjoining room to the dining table a yard to my left.
Everything is immaculate. No clutter. Not even dust.
Eclectic art lines the walls. From abstract to surrealism and pop. The different pieces draw attention to what must be expensive taste.
“Your home is beautiful.” I turn back to face him as he makes our drinks.
“Our home,” he corrects without missing a beat.
I chuckle, and slowly sidestep toward the mail farther along the counter. “Are you like this with all your women?”
“All my women?” He pulls out a drawer, the clink of liquor bottles following the movement. “You say that as if I’m not obsessively picky with who gets to share my time.”
“So I should be flattered?”
“Don’t go twisting my words, amore mio. You’re special. I think you know that.”
Arrhythmia takes over, the fractured heartbeats overwhelming me. I focus on the three letters on the bench as he pours alcohol into the glasses, and read the name on the top line of the address.
Matthew Langston.
I let the syllables roll around in my head with slow lethargy and fight the compulsion to say Layla Langston out loud just to hear how it would sound.
I may not have slept with him yet, but this is moving fast.
I’m picturing my life here, in this penthouse, in his world. Away from the drama of my family and the complications that always follow them.
“Here.” He rounds the island counter to hand me what looks like a glass of juice. “A screwdriver.”
“Perfect.” I take a sip and watch him do the same with his scotch.
For a few seconds we simply eye each other between subtle swallows of alcohol. No words. Only blazing attraction.
“I’m going to preface this next question by telling you I’ve never ended a work night on a better note,” he murmurs. “But why are you here, Layla?” He places his glass on the counter and cocks his hip against the marble, his full attention remaining on me.
My throat tightens, not only with the way he reads me, but in contemplation of the truth.
He’s opened the door to his life, allowing me free rein, and I’m still hesitant to unlock mine. Even just a little.
“You owe me a goodbye.” I shrug.
He steps closer, the tips of his shoes nudging mine. “Well, you’re going to be disappointed.” He cages me against the counter, one hand on either side of my waist. “There are no more goodbyes for us.”
I hold in a smirk. “Ever?”
“Ever.” He leans in, but doesn’t touch. I’m almost certain it’s a strategy. To make me want what he holds back. “Is there anything else I can compensate you with?” The question is purred with the most sinister seduction.
He wants me to voice my desires. To ask for sex. “I’m sure we could find a suitable compromise.”
His lips kick with a grin as he glides a gentle hand through my hair. “You captivate me. You’re bold and fearless enough to fly across the country to see me. Yet hesitant and almost unsure when it comes to voicing how much you want to fuck me.”
I suck in a shallow breath.
“You’re a puzzle I need to solve.” He slides his hands over my hips and lifts me onto the counter, just like he did in the hotel bathroom in Denver.
“And once you have me figured out?” I raise a brow. “What then?”
“I don’t think that will happen. This is a rest-of-my-life type of task.”
I laugh, my humor quickly smothered by his mouth swooping down on mine.
He kisses me with severity. With strength and conviction and lust. His lips are so damn commanding. His hands a steel-like grip at my waist.
When he pulls back, I’m panting, struggling to catch my breath… my thoughts.
“You think I’m kidding, amore mio,” he whispers. “But this isn’t a game. You mean something. We’re meant to mean something.”
“What if you’re wrong?” My insecurities voice themselves before I can rein them in. “What then?”
He narrows his eyes, staring at me with fascination. “Then you can walk away without any animosity between us… But that’s a future that isn’t in the cards.”
He makes everything seem so easy. So dreamy. And maybe that’s what our world could be like—all rainbows and unicorns—if I were another person.
“We’re adults, Layla,” he continues. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret your time with me.”
I want him to be right. God, how I want it.
I want to be protected. Not by an overbearing brother, but by an adoring, passionate lover. I want more of this giddy feeling in my stomach. I want freedom and happiness and a fresh slate.
“I think you might be right.” I lock my legs around his, encouraging him to decimate the space between us, the hem of my dress rising to my crotch. “I want this.”
He lowers his hold from the adamant force at my waist to the most delicious hold on my upper thighs. He keeps his hands there, his thumbs mere inches from where my body demands attention as he stares down at me, waiting.
“Do you want me to beg?” I ask.
“No. You never need to beg for anything.” He digs his fingers into my flesh. “My hunger isn’t a charitable donation you ever need to plead for. But I do want more of an assurance that this is what you want, because every other time I’ve had my hands on you it’s felt like shock or intimidation has played a role.”