Page 45 of Dirty Work

I mean it. The sex—no, lovemaking—is great, but this is pretty great, too. Just being together. Skin to skin. Our chests rising and falling in unison. His heart beat slowing to a steady rhythm under my cheek.

After about five minutes, I feel his hand snake between us and move down my belly, toward my clit.

“So soon?” I ask, sucking in a ragged breath as he finds his target. “Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?”

He rocks his hips, pressing his resurgent cock against my stomach and showing me exactly how up he is.

“Challenge accepted.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jake

IWAKETHEnext morning with Ainsley wrapped around me like boa constrictor. Par for the course these days. What’s new is the bed we’re occupying.

Mine.

I wait for the panic to set in. Bringing her here last night was a spur of the moment decision. I don’t usually have women in my master suite. With enough spare bedrooms to accommodate the Knicks’ starting front court lineup, keeping my personal space just that—personal—has never been a problem.

The realization dawns that I could have done the same thing last night. Taken Ainsley to any of those other spare bedrooms. Or just shoved the hideous plastic alien off her bed and taken her right then and there.

But I didn’t. I brought her here because I wanted her here. It might have seemed spur of the moment, but my subconscious was telling me something.

It was telling me that this woman is different. Special. Someone I want in my life—and my bed—for more than a night or a week.

Instead of panic, a tidal wave of calm floods through me. Her, me, together like this—it feels right. More right than anything’s felt in longer that I can remember.

I brush her hair off her neck and leave a trail of kisses down her spine. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Unlike my cock, which is wide awake and raring to go.

But as good as a slow, sweet session of morning sex sounds right about now, that’s not what Ainsley needs. She needs to know how I feel about her. And what better way to start than by showing her, not telling her.

It’s like that old saying. Actions speak louder than words. And I want my actions to scream. I don’t want Ainsley to have any doubt about what I’m saying.

As carefully as I can, I slide out of bed, doing my best not to disturb her. I hold my breath as her eyelids flutter open, but they drift shut just as quickly and she rolls over, back in dreamland.

Although if her dreams are anything like mine—and Christ, I hope they are—she’ll wake up horny as hell with her hand down her pants.

Figuratively speaking, of course. Because when we sleep together, clothing is less than optional. It’s forbidden.

Remembering that Ainsley’s naked under my expensive sheets makes it that much harder to leave her, but somehow I manage to throw on a pair of boxer briefs and get my ass out the door. I pad barefoot into the kitchen and practically trip over Roscoe, who’s lying in front of his food bowl looking mournful. I give him a quick scoop of kibble and some fresh water so he’ll stop mooning like a sick calf and yank open the subzero fridge.

My initial plan was to start my actions-speak-louder campaign by cooking her breakfast—you know, the whole way-to-the-heart-is-through-the stomach thing. But one look inside my empty refrigerator—my housekeeper’s on vacation, and Ainsley and I have been too busy fucking like sailors on shore leave and ordering takeout to food shop—kills that not-so-brilliant idea.

Good thing I can think fast on my feet, a skill I’ve honed at Top Shelf. You can’t own a business and not have to make split-second decisions when things don’t go according to plan.

I close the fridge and do a quick pivot to the counter, where my cell phone’s charging. I can call Bubby’s and have sourdough pancakes, cheddar grits and crab cakes Benedict at our door in less than an hour.

But when I power up my phone, the damn thing goes crazy with email, text messages and voicemail alerts, most of them from Connor and Alex, my contact in Miami. My heart drops to my stomach as I click on the most recent voicemail and hear a clearly panic-stricken Connor.

“Hey, man. I don’t know where the fuck you are or what the fuck you’re doing, but you need to call Alex ASAP. He’s been trying to get in touch with you. The landlord on that property you’ve been looking at in South Beach is ready to pull the trigger, but he wants an answer by end of day or he’ll go to the next highest bidder. And when you’re done with Alex, call me, asshole. As your friend, not your business partner. It’s not like you to fall off the face of the earth like this. I’m worried about you.”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

I don’t even bother to listen to the rest of the voicemails or read any of the text messages. Instead, I hit Alex’s number on my speed dial.

“Finally,” he says when he picks up, not even waiting for me to identify myself. “Where the fuck have you been?”

I skip the niceties and cut right to the chase. “Is it too late? Did we lose the property in South Beach?”