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“If you have some time this morning, I thought I’d catch you up on where the projects stand.”
“I’m free until ten. Take a seat.” I nod toward the open chair next to Asher.
“Guess that’s my cue.” Asher stands and buttons his suit jacket. “Greatto have you back, buddy.”
I grunt a response as I grab a fresh sheet of paper to take notes on.
The four changes to a five. Quarter to eight, instead of 7:44. I’ve spent all day debating whether to honor the promise I made to Scarlett this morning—that I’d be home by eight. It was an easy one to, especially since she usually works later than I do. I was happy to; wanted to. But a big, petty part of me now wants to show her that I can be indifferent too.
I can put other things first.
Except I can’t, apparently, because I’m standing and grabbing my briefcase and heading for the elevators. All day, I’ve battled the urge to confront her. To show up atHaute’s offices and demand answers. But I didn’t. And now that the chance to get answers about the photos in my briefcase is approaching, I don’t know if I really want them.
The drive to the penthouse takes thirteen minutes. I step out of the elevator at 7:58. There’s commotion in the kitchen, so I head there first. Phillipe is standing in front of the stove, manning three pans at once. “Good evening, Mr. Kensington.”
“Evening, Phillipe. Is Scarlett home?”
“I don’t believe so.”
I glance at the clock. 7:59. “Okay. I’ll wait until she gets home to eat.”
“I’ll make sure everything is ready.”
“Thank you.”
I head upstairs. I’ve slept in Scarlett’s room for the two nights we’ve been back, so I go there first. My only detour is to the library to pour myself a drink.
There’s a loveseat in the corner of her bedroom. I drop my briefcase next to the closet, strip off my suit jacket, loosen my tie, and take a seat. Most of the far wall is glass. The skyline of Manhattan twinkles in the distance, the outlines of buildings lit up like Christmas trees.
I sit and swirl whiskey and stew as minutes tick by.
Scarlett appears in the doorway at 8:47. When she sees me, she smiles. I savor the sight for a second.
“You’re late.”
She kicks her heels off and drops her phone on the dresser. Sighs. “I know.”
I watch the whiskey paint the inside of the glass before it drips down. “We agreed oneight, Scarlett.”
“I know,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been gone for a week and a lot has piled up. It had to get done tonight.”
I learn it’s possible to admire and despise someone all at once.
“Get on the bed.”
She studies me, starting to absorb something has shifted. “I don’t take orders.”
My control is dangerously close to snapping. I want to watch this glass shatter against the wall. I want to yell at her, to ask how she manages to keep doing this. Keep reeling me over and over again. I thought Italy was a turning point.
I down the glass, savoring the smoky burn as it sears a path down my throat. I stand. “Get on the bed, Scarlett.”
Holding my gaze, she reaches behind her dress. I can hear the slide of the zipper as the teeth separate. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in a matching set of black lingerie. My dick twitches.
My control snaps. I advance on her like a predator hunting prey. I attack her lips, kissing her with punishing pressure and plenty of nips. She moans as her nails press into the back of my neck, biting down on my lip and sucking it between her teeth. I haul her up against me, moving toward the bed and dropping her unceremoniously on the mattress.
I yank my tie over my head and undo my pants. “Hands and knees.”
Scarlett hesitates. She knows something is wrong. But she doesn’t ask, just moves into the position I requested. I yank her lacy underwear down and pull out my cock. I’m painfully hard, like I always seem to be around her.
