When we are down one, I can hear her gasp when she sees that this section looks nothing like the office where she usually meets me. This is where my gym is.
“You have a gym.”
“Yes.”
“Do you live here?”
Again, I stop and look at her. “Sometimes, but it’s best that no one knows that. Do you understand?”
She nods her head. “I can’t talk about anything you say to me anyway. You know that.”
“I don’t even want your boss knowing.”
“Okay.” She’s quiet as we continue down another flight. Now, on the second level, she sees the security floor. Well, one of the two.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“This is pretty insane.” She sounds bewildered, and it’s cute.
I shrug.
It is. Jaxson Price built it for me. This shit rivals the security of the Pentagon. Actually, it’s better than theirs. He hacks them weekly for fun.
When we finally make it to the basement, she asks the question I know she’s been dying to ask since she saw the gym.
She’s looking around like a kid in a candy store. “Where do you sleep?”
“There is another level.”
“Where? Your office is the top level . . .” she trails off as I incline my head. “Ohhh, it’s not. There’s another floor?”
“There is. But again . . .” I give her a knowing look.
“Yep. Got it. I’m not dumb.”
“We’re taking the Escalade.” I point at a line of cars in the garage.
This is the one we take on longer trips. It’s larger, more comfortable, and, like the Range Rover, bulletproof.
“You have a lot of cars.”
“I’m a collector.”
“I can see that. Anything else you collect?”
“Souls.”
She laughs a nervous laugh, but I’m not joking. I do. And hers, I’m still debating on.
Opening the door for her, she shuffles in. I sit beside her, and we are off. Heading out of the city and toward Teterboro Airport.
Before long, we pull up to the private hangar that I own. It’s listed under one of the many private corporations, where my name is nowhere on the manifesto. Security is always present here for my plane as well.
Some might think I’m paranoid, but my father’s enemy killed him. In my belief, you can never be too careful. Also, this is why I can’t just kidnap Felix. He’s a paranoid motherfucker as well.
The car rolls to the runway.
“You can drive on the runway?” Shock fills Skye’s voice.
“I can.”
“And if you have luggage? What about TSA? Security? ID?”
I shake my head. “We don’t have to do that.” I put the car in park and round the passenger side, opening her door. “Come on.”
She’s still stuck on her earlier questions as she follows me to my Gulfstream. “Wow. Really?”
“Yes, really. Come on, Skye. Believe it or not, we do have to get going.”
She hesitates, blinking with bafflement, before looking at me. Really looking at me. We’re close together, my body practically caging hers against the railing of the staircase leading to the plane.
Yes, I’m turned on.
And no, I shouldn’t be.
She knows it, too.
A devious glint graces her eyes for half a second before she smooths it over, passing by me—but not before her eyes dip to my slacks, and she asks, “Are you sure you don’t have to use the bathroom first? I know you find it hard to wait . . . ”
She doesn’t stay for an answer, climbing up the steps into the plane. Just as she reaches the threshold, she looks over her shoulder and throws me a wink.
I answer fast before she disappears through the entry. “I can wait. Patience is a virtue, after all. Especially when it comes to inevitable things.”
A choked noise comes from her throat, but she hides it well under a cough. Then she’s gone. Into the plane and out of sight.
I follow her, nodding to the pilot flanked by his co-pilot and the flight attendant along the way. We pass the couch, taking seats opposite one another, separated by a small table between us.
My team shuffles on board next before we prepare for takeoff.
“This is some plane.”
She’s doing her best to hide her reaction, and I bite back the laugh threatening to spill. I can’t laugh in front of my men.
“It gets me from point A to point B safely. That’s all I care about.”
“And a bathroom.”
There’s that grin again. It’s the second attempt at that joke, and I won’t let it go unanswered.
Grabbing her arm, I lead her to the very back of the cabin.
“Where are we going?” She sounds suspicious.
Good. She should be.
“Since you were so concerned about my bathroom habit, I decided to take you.” This time, I’m the one who winks, and her blue eyes go wide.
Throwing the door open, I hear her mumbling, but I don’t stop until we’re both inside the tight cubicle, the door shut behind us.
I stalk toward her, watching as her body edges onto the sink in her effort to back away. She’s trapped, and it’s doing things to me that it shouldn’t.
“Allow me to offer a VIP tour of the bathroom . . . since you’re so concerned.”
“Concerned,” she echoes, glued to my movements. “Yes. Concerned.”
“This is the sink.” I lean over her, wrapping my arm around her to turn the faucet on and off.
It’s an excuse to brush against her, and it works. Her body arches into mine, begging to be touched.
“Nice sink,” she comments.
It’s hard not to laugh. She hasn’t even looked at it. Hasn’t looked at anything but me.
Hunger laced with fear glazes over her eyes. She wants me, and that scares her.
She severs the connection first, spinning to face the mirror. From behind her, I stare at our reflection.
The delicate curve of her neck. Her parted lips. The way her chest heaves.
If I dipped my fingers under her dress, would I find her soaked?
“Tell me, Miss Matthews. Do you often think about me in the restroom? And when you do, do your hands drift between your thighs?”
Her breath catches. “Excuse me?”
“How often do you picture it?” I step closer, gluing our bodies together. “Is it because you want to be here with me?”
In the reflection, her pupils dilate, lips dropping into a small O. She sighs, head leaning back on my shoulder. I don’t think she even realizes it, but she’s turned on. Craving me.
My dick is hard against her ass, ready for this. I slide my palm across her hip.
“I don’t care what you do in the bathroom,” she whispers.
But despite her words, she pushes back into me, grinding her ass against every inch of my hardness. She’s affected by me. She wants me as much as I want her.
“If I slide my fingers inside you, what will I find, Miss Matthews?”
Kicking her legs apart, my hand drifts down the skirt of her dress, slipping under the edge of the cotton inch by inch.
"I bet . . . ” Another inch. Another gasp. “ . . . I’ll find that pussy dripping.”