Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eve
Sleek hardwood floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Soft blue New York sky.
Ian's apartment fits him to a T. From the black leather couch to the flat-screen TV to the neat bookshelf.
A stack of blu-rays.
Paperbacks, old and new.
What does he read? What does he watch? Is he inhaling classic literature or modern genre fiction?
Does he sit on that couch watching restrained British dramas or thoughtless action flicks?
One or the other.
The depths of human experience.
Or easy thrills that distract.
I've never really understood the appeal of easy thrills. In theory, sure, I like thrills as much as the next girl.
An exciting mystery about detectives solving a murder? Sign me up.
But it's only exciting if I buy into the world. If the dialogue is sharp and the plot is coherent and the characters are real.
He presses his palm into my lower back, erasing all my thoughts.
TV. Movies. Books.
Him taking off my clothes.
One of these things is much more interesting than the others.
He closes the door. Clicks the lock. "A drink?" He motions to the kitchen in the massive room. All stainless steel appliances. Nothing out of place.
"Let me guess. Fever Tree and some small-batch gin that costs four hundred dollars a bottle."
"Four hundred? You're going to be disappointed by what's in the fridge."
"Two hundred?"
"Less."
I motion to the small kitchen. It's impossibly neat. Sleek. Simple. Elegant. Like everything in the apartment. Everything he wears. "Can I?"
"I don't usually ask guests to do labor."
"You're not asking."
He nods go on.
I step forward, breaking contact, buying a little bit of sense.
I miss his touch immediately. I don't want sense. I want to dissolve in a puddle of desire.
Only…
He asked for thirty days, yes, but did he really want all thirty?
Or was it some way to dance around what are his true intentions?
Is he going to say goodbye as soon as he punches my v-card?
The logical part of my brain tries to argue. So what if he says goodbye? That goodbye comes with four-hundred grand. That's enough to keep warm at night.
My heart hears none of it.
My body?
It doesn't care about tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.
Only about touching him.
God, I need to touch him.
I move into the kitchen.
It's huge by New York City standards, but that's still pretty small. There are only so many cabinets.
I find the liquor in the one next to the fridge. The cocktail glasses on the shelf below it.
Ice in the freezer. And food too. Ingredients for meals. Not premade dinners or breakfast burritos.
Steaks, bags of shrimp, tightly packed vegetables.
The mint-chip ice cream I love. The non-dairy one.
My chest warms. My stomach gets light. It's here for me. I'm not sure how I know, but I do.
He bought me ice cream. Yes, he sent ice cream to my place, but that was different. This is taking up his space. In his life.
I fill the glasses with ice. Close the freezer. Move to the fridge.
Four packs of Fever Tree. Of course. Two original, one light, one elderflower.
I take two bottles of the original. Mix the ingredients. Cut the limes. Squeeze them into the drinks.
"A mess on your clean counter." I cross the room to Ian. Hand him his drink.
He takes a long sip. Lets out a sigh of pure pleasure. "You mix well."
"Thank you." It is good. The perfect balance of bitter, sweet, sour, alcohol. I never favored gin. But now it tastes like him. Like the promise of everything.
"Did you follow my instructions?"
"These?" I tap my boot against the floor.
"The lingerie."
"Partially." I take a long sip. Still refreshing. Still unable to cool me. "This isn't a bra kind of dress."
"Show me." He sets his drink on the side table. Holds out his hand, asking for mine.
I place the cocktail glass in his palm. "Help me." I turn so my back is to him. Motion to the zipper at my lower back.
His fingers skim my skin. A soft line down my spine. The smooth friction of his wet skin. The coldness of the ice. Warmer and warmer, until it's only heat.
Until I'm only heat.
He traces the dress's edge then he pulls the zipper down. He traces the line back up my spine. Over my neck. All the way to the strap of the dress.
He pushes it off my right shoulder.
Then the left.
It falls at my waist. I start to turn, but he stops me.
"Take it all the way off." His voice drops to a deeper tone. Less softness. More demand.
It makes my knees shake. My hands too. They steady as I bring them to the waistband of the dress.
Slowly, I roll it off my hips.
The chiffon flutters to the ground. I lift my feet so I kick it aside. And then I'm standing in front of Ian—and half the Financial District—in only a black thong and combat boots.
"Gorgeous." His voice is heady. Needy.
I turn to face him.
He looks me up and down slowly. Like he's never seen me before. Like he's never seen a woman before.
His dark eyes fix on mine. "The knickers too." He sits in the lush leather chair. Places his hands on the armrests. Like he has all the time in the world to watch me.
Like he wants to spend all that time watching me.
My breath catches in my throat. His expression is so intense. Like he'll die if he doesn't see me naked.
And there's this ache in my core. I'll die if he doesn't see me naked.
No. He has seen me naked. I was naked in his lap. But not like this. Standing in front of him—in front of this wide, open window—posing for his viewing pleasure.
I push the panties off my hips. Kick them aside.
Take a small step backward. To give him a better view.
He lets out a groan of appreciation. His pupils dilate. His fingers curl into his slacks.
His eyes move over me. Slowly. Impossibly slowly. Taking in every single inch of my skin.
My short hair, my narrow shoulders, my small breasts, my wide hips, my thick thighs.
Down to the boots. Then back up again. Not my figure, but the details. The lyrics on my side. The cherry blossom on my forearm. The sparrow on my shoulder.
The deep berry lipstick. The charcoal line around my eyes. The teal locks falling over my cheeks.
His eyes settle on my lips. "Turn around."
I do it slowly.
My gaze shifts to the window. The sprawling view of the city. The little yellow lights in offices. There's a man working at his desk. A woman reading a book. Another building. Apartments.
Friends at a party.
A couple on the couch.
A woman watching a movie.
No one is looking, but if I can see them—
The thought makes my sex clench. It's so fucking hot, being on display for anyone who cares to glance.
And for him.
My eyes catch something else in the window.
The reflection. The soft glow of the sky falling over my pale skin and dark boots.
Casting highlights on the sleek hardwood floor.
Disappearing into Ian's navy slacks.