Enzo breaks away, supporting his weight above me.
“Chari.”
I can tell he’s going to say something serious, something that ends this moment, and I don’t like it one bit. Despite the fact that I’m literally lying under him after experiencing one hell of an orgasm, from his fingers mind you, I can feel us cooling off.
“I didn’t ask you to stay here for sex.”
Too bad.
“I just”—he groans, and oh, what a sound—“I just had to see you again.”
His words, coupled with the sight of him above me . . . it’s all so surreal.
“I’m glad you emailed me.”
Something glimmers in his eyes. “I am too.” Then he jumps up, pulling me with him. “I have an idea.”
If his idea has anything to do with continuing where we just left off, I’m all in. Tugging me forward, he walks to the door and grabs my bag.
“I’m not sure I like your idea if it involves kicking me out of your apartment,” I quip. Or at least I’m mostly kidding. I’m still curious about how we went from being horizontal to . . . this.
“I’ll take you to your room. Why don’t you change, and I’ll do the same. Meet you in the kitchen for another nightcap?”
For real?
“I’m not sure I can handle another of Tris’s limoncellos.”
“Fair enough. See you in a few minutes,” he says, stopping next to the first door we reach in a hallway that I know most New Yorkers would find absurd. This place is huge. Does he own the whole floor?
I say, “OK,” mostly because I’m not sure what else to say. He clearly doesn’t want to go any further—at least not yet—so get into my bed probably wouldn’t be appropriate. Enzo flips on the light and leaves me in the room. Elegant, just like the rest of the place. Actually, it reminds me of the restaurant we went to tonight. All whites and brown. Impeccably decorated, but obviously not used much.
I change, grateful I took a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt in addition to the brand-new negligee. Might as well freshen up too. A few minutes later, I head back down the hall. He’s back in the kitchen already, somehow more handsome than before.
I’ve seen Enzo in sweats a million times in my life. But for some reason, the abrupt change from the put-together billionaire who strode through that restaurant tonight like he was right at home and the comfortable PA boy that I grew up with is super hot.
“Hey,” he says, the smell of heaven just now reaching my nose.
“Is that coffee?”
“It is. Figured since you were done with the limoncello, I would be too. Besides, I don’t know many other people who can drink coffee after midnight and still go to sleep no problem.”
I laugh, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
“You remembered.”
And it’s true. Enzo and I have that same strange affliction. Caffeine hardly affects us. Although I still feel the lack of it, it doesn’t make me jittery or sleepless. Devon was always jealous of us for that.
“I remember a lot of things,” Enzo says as he hands me a cup of heaven.
“Such as?”
He leans back against the counter opposite the bar where I’m sitting and looks at me so intently I begin to squirm. It should be illegal to look that hot in a hoodie.
“I remember the night you turned twenty-one,” he says.
“Yeah, you said so.” But we both know he’s talking about something other than beer shots now.
“I remember the way you looked at me after a half-dozen shots.”
I take a sip of the coffee, avoiding his gaze. It’s exactly how I like it.
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“Oh, I did.”
When I look up at him, he’s smiling. And my perception of that night slips a little more. I decide to push him a bit.
“So what changed?”
“I was scared then.”
Those words, coming from this supremely confident, successful man, just don’t add up. Or maybe it’s that they don’t compute.
“Scared? Of what?”
“Of screwing up my relationship with Devon. Of hurting you.”
“You’d never hurt me.” The words come out reflexively, before I can think them through, but I know it’s true, like I know one plus one equals two. He just wouldn’t—it’s that simple.
“Not intentionally, no. But you’re not exactly a one-night-stand kind of woman, Char.”
I laugh, and thank him for that.
“Seriously. If you were, I would have taken your hint that night and run with it.”
His words remind me of what happened, or almost happened, on his couch.
“And last weekend?” I take another sip, the surreal haze of the last few hours wearing off. This is actually . . . comfortable. Enzo and I sitting in his kitchen, chatting like old friends.
“I’d have learned in the basement of Tris’s new restaurant that you like to go commando.”
Holy shit, this guy.
“So you’re saying you’d have asked me out sooner?”
“Do you honestly think I would have stopped myself back there”—he nods to the couch—“with any other woman?”
Ah, so that’s it.
“I told you. You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves. I’m not a young girl anymore.”
He makes a sound that forces a smile from me. “No kidding.”
I wanted more. Still do. But now I’m kind of glad he stopped. Sitting here with him, drinking coffee at midnight as the fire roars behind us, the New York skyline spread out in front of us . . .
This just might be my new favorite part of the night.
Well, with one exception.
“I had a good time tonight,” I admit.
“So did I.”
Good. So we aren’t playing games.
“And I’m serious, Char. You have no idea how difficult it was for me not to take you on that couch tonight. How hard it will be not to invite you into my bedroom.”
My core clenches a bit.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he adds, “but we should probably take it slow.”
I’m not one hundred percent on board with his plan, but I suppose there’s some merit to it. If only I knew exactly what it meant. But my pride won’t allow me to ask, and to be honest, I’m nervous about what he might say. What he might reveal.
“Sounds good to me,” I lie. “Nice sweatshirt, by the way.”
Cornell, his undergrad alma mater. “Luckily we’re in two different conferences.”
I realize, belatedly, the joke makes it sound like we’ll be together come football season. Which is ridiculous. This is a first date. An epic first date, sure, but nothing more.
Suddenly, Enzo’s reasoning makes sense to me. His desire to take it slow. We aren’t two strangers with no stake in this thing. I might not know Enzo the billionaire, but I know the guy standing in his kitchen in sweats. And there’s little to dislike about this guy. Given our chemistry, and how this date is going, he’s probably right, maddening as it is.
How can I possibly keep myself from falling for him, hard and fast?
Deep inside, I know it’s already too late.