It’s fuckingaddictive.
I should know, I’m used to the finer things in life. I was raised on them. So being with a man who can meet me where I’m at financially, mentally, and socially? It isn’t gold-digging.
It’s just alignment.
“It’s a gorgeous room you have, Mister S,” I said as we stepped inside.
And it really was.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spread out across the far wall, showing the whole city glittering like a jewelry box cracked open.
The skyline looked close enough to touch.
The suite was all sleek and modern with a plush cream sofa, heavy glass coffee table, art that looked too expensive to understand, and a faint cedarwood scent that made the whole place feel sexy.
“Thank you,” he said, already at home in all this.
“It’s so clean in here, I should take my shoes off,” I teased, reaching for the buckle on my heel.
But his firm hand stopped mine, squeezing slightly. “Don’t. I like the height.”
I arched a brow at the gesture, but my smile betrayed me.
Smooth. Very smooth.
He let go, and without another word, he crossed to the minibar.
His movements were that of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted without rushing. He set two glasses on the counter, poured amber liquid over ice, and stirred with the kind of care that let me know he didn’t do shortcuts.
And that right there was why men like him made sense for me.
He didn’t need to flash, didn’t need to sell himself. His tailored suit already did that, hugging broad shoulders, showing the quiet strength in his frame. His beard was trimmed, peppered with silver that made him look more seasoned than old, and the way he carried himself?
Authority.
Control.
This wasn’t a man chasing his prime but living it.
I wandered the suite while he fixed our drinks, my heels clicking softly on polished hardwood. The bedroom door was cracked, showing crisp white sheets pulled tight, not a wrinkle in sight. The dining area had a fresh arrangement of orchids that were a part of the hotel service no doubt, but it still made me smile.
“You know, I asked my father for the penthouse? He told me it was unavailable, so I’m guessing you’re the room thief.”
“Mhm,” he grunted, not even looking up from the bottle he was pouring.
I rolled my eyes.
Figures.
The downside of rich older men? They could be cold. Detached. Mean even. Always so damn focused that your words were background noise to their own thoughts. My dad was the same and Mister S—well, he looked the type.
Maybe it’s best to shut up. Like he asked.
I leaned against the back of the sofa, watching him. He handed me a glass, and his eyes lingered just long enough. I really shouldn’t drink from strangers…but ahh, fuck it.
“Gimme yours instead.”
He offered his glass and didn’t even hesitate, I like that.
