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“All of you is cold.”
“A little.”
I wondered how it would happen. Where would he take me? Did I need to be more forward? I’d been forward the last time, bold. I watched him closely for cues about how he wanted me to be.
He kept his hand on mine, his warm fingers against my skin. “Listen,” he said. “You’re soaked and freezing. Why don’t you come and dry off in my apartment for a little while before I send you home?”
And there it was. My cue.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to.”
Twenty-Five
Aidan
* * *
She was perfect. She was always perfect, whether she was Rachel or Samantha or anyone else. Tonight she’d left off the bold eye makeup and was a beautiful waif, a pretty art student stranded in the rain. And she was going to be mine.
I left my hand on hers for the rest of the ride, and we didn’t speak. When we got to the Upper East Side she put my hand on her knee, just under the hem of her dress, and left it there. I could feel the warm pulse of her skin against mine.
I brought her to my penthouse—it was part of the reason I’d sent her here earlier this week. I’d wanted her to know this was where I lived, that when we did this I was bringing her to my home. She’d also know not to let on. So did I.
I led her out of the car. My driver, Edward, had basic instructions. He didn’t ask questions, which I approved of. Since I never had women at my apartment, this wasn’t a familiar routine, but he was a professional and he played along in silence. I paid him well, and I silently promised him a bonus.
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest while we were in the elevator, hugging herself. She looked damp and messy and completely exquisite. She also looked every bit the art student, and not like the polished professional I saw every day. As for me, tonight I was playing someone almost uncomfortably close to myself. I didn’t want to examine too closely why that was. I could have pretended to be anyone, yet I’d chosen a man who dealt in real estate and lived in my apartment. If I was going to nitpick that, I’d think that maybe I wanted this woman for myself, the game be damned. So I didn’t nitpick it.
Rachel walked into my apartment and looked around, wide-eyed, looking convincingly like she’d never seen the place before. “This is amazing,” she said.
“Feel free to tidy up,” I said. “There are clean towels in the bathroom. I’ll get us a drink.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the tap running. I knew I’d surprised her when I showed up with that umbrella, and I congratulated myself for it. She had no idea I’d been at the art show, watching out of her line of sight. I didn’t want to be seen talking to her and leaving with her when there was a chance someone could recognize me. When she looked like she was about to leave, I’d made my play. It was a gamble that might not have worked, but I’d been lucky.
I took off my wet shoes and socks in the bedroom and changed into worn jeans and an old NYU T-shirt. I’d never been to NYU, but William had. He was a smart man who had earned his way in the world, not a former fucked-up teenager who had lucked into millions of dollars and a career. When I played a role, I always left that fucked-up teenager behind.
Rachel was still in the bathroom, so I walked barefoot into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. I carried them to the main room and sat on the sofa, waiting.
She took her time, and when she came out, I saw why. She was dried off now, her hair down. She was also naked, wearing nothing but one of my large, white towels wrapped around herself.
She stepped into the main room, her cheeks flushing. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a heated towel rack in the bathroom. I put my clothes on it.”
I looked at her lean legs, her perfect shoulders. “I don’t mind.” I put my glass down and leaned forward. “Come here.”
She shifted, but she was watching me, her gaze hungry. “I realize we don’t know each other, but—”
“Come here.”
She stepped forward. It was a scene out of a fantasy, watching her come closer. Something that would never happen with an actual stranger in real life. For me, it could only happen with Samantha.
But no, she wasn’t Samantha. I needed to think of her as Rachel. I had to remind myself of that.
I held out my hand, and she took it. I tugged her gently, and she came. Thunder rolled out the window, moving away now. With a sigh, she straddled my lap and lowered herself onto it.
She was warm, damp, perfect woman. I remembered the dip of her clavicle from last time, the intoxicating smell of her skin. She was bare under the towel, her pussy bare against my jeans. She settled further, gripping my hips with her knees.
I reached my hand to the back of her head, pulled her down gently, and kissed her.
I remembered this, too. Samantha—Rachel—had a soft mouth and a flavor so intense it made me ache. She opened her mouth and I licked inside, tasting her, exploring her. She squirmed against me, impatient and needy. I’d kept her in suspense. I’d made her wait, and she was more than ready.
