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I chance a quick look up at Dante, and he’s scowling at his phone.
We can do this all month, I tell myself. We can pretend the other one doesn’t exist, except when he needs arm candy for one of his events. We’re both grown adults. Well, me more than him maybe, I think bitterly.
“I need to head in to the office. If you need anything today, ask the doorman. If you want to go out, my driver is at your disposal. His number’s on the piece of paper on the credenza in the living room.”
“Will you need me to go anywhere with you today?” I ask. See? I’m doing really well at this being professional thing.
Until he looks up and his dark gaze meets mine. I feel the air go out of me, and my stomach flutters.
“No. I won’t be needing you today. Spend the day however you want.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he looks up at me. “So what will you be doing today?”
“Why?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Why, what?”
“Why does it matter to you what I’m doing today?”
His jaw clenches, and he looks back down at his phone. “I’m paying for your time this month. I want to know where you’ll be.”
Of course. He paid for me. He doesn’t actually care. This is good. I need him to keep reminding me of this fact so I don’t get caught up in memories of the way he brought me to orgasm after screaming orgasm.
“I’ll mostly be here, Mr. Knight,” I say coolly. “I may go out to get some fresh air and go for a jog, but other than that, I plan on staying in and reading and possibly napping. I expect that I’ll probably eat once or twice, and I may have to go to the bathroom a time or two—”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
“Just wanted to make sure I was being thorough enough,” I tell him. He gathers his blueprints and papers without a word, tucks them into the large portfolio nearby, and then stalks out the door.
About a minute later, he comes back inside and grabs his car keys off of the island in the kitchen, giving me a little glare before he stalks out again, as if it was all my fault that he forgot them.
Dante Knight seems pretty good at laying on the blame. Unfortunately for him, I’m neither a doormat nor a little wilting flower. I can be his escort and employee this month, but there’s not a chance in hell that I’m going to let myself get caught up in him emotionally in any way. I let it happen last night, and it won’t be happening again. Ever.
Chapter Eight
Dante
It’s been a week. She’s barely talked to me, other than in that cool, distant tone, and every time she calls me “Mr. Knight,” as if she’s just like any of the other various assistants and employees I have, I want to put my fist through the wall. She stays in her end of the penthouse, and I stay in mine. Every once in a while, we cross paths if we both happen to want to eat at the same time. Even so, every time she walks past me, her scent lingers and it takes everything in me not to chase her down and try to get in her panties again.
I wake up every morning with such raging hard ons that it almost hurts. I woke up three times in the past week to find my pajama pants damp.
I haven’t had a fucking wet dream since I was seventeen years old.
I’m jacking off in the shower, and often before I can fall asleep at night. It’s not enough. She’s here, and nothing will ever feel as good as her sweet pussy. I know this, and it drives me nuts. She’s ruined me. I’m a fucking mess, and every time she looks at me, it’s like she sees straight through me.
I walk into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, and she’s there, sitting at the end of the table. She murmurs a “good morning,” but keeps her eyes on her phone. She’s typing quickly, and I wonder who she’s talking to.
Shit. Is there a boyfriend out there somewhere? The thought fills me with rage, but it subsides a moment later when I realize that she’s not the cheating type. I might not know her well, or at all really, but I know that much.
And why the fuck that matters is beyond me.
I wonder, for about the millionth time since the night we slept together, how it is that a woman who looks the way she does, who’s as naturally sensual as she is, was a virgin for so long. Her innocence wasn’t an act, and there’s a sick, primal part of me that revels in the fact that I was the one who claimed her, even though it scares me to death.
Virgins. I swore I’d never let myself get into this situation again. I have to admit, though, that I’m able to breathe a little easier. Her coolness toward me, her lack of any type of emotion at all, other than polite professionalism, is reassuring.
My mind flashes back to when I was Samantha’s age. Twenty-one. I feel the same old shame all over again. I was flush in my wealth and power back then, an asshole who knew he could have just about anything and took what he wanted without giving it a second thought. I’d met this sweet, sexy little thing at the park I often jogged at. She’d spent the better part of a week flirting with me, and when I moved on her, she was thrilled. Willing. Sweet. Seventeen. She was a virgin, and I took her virginity and walked out like it was nothing.
