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Would he want me like this if he knew I was at the gallery party by coincidence rather than invitation? Would he treat me differently if I told him I was a failing artist and struggling bartender? That I had no money and nowhere to go before I’d suddenly gotten the chance to live in his fancy building for a little while?
What would he think if he knew all of my other secrets? The ugly ones. The dangerous ones. The ones I’ve never let see the light of day.
He doesn’t know any of that. And he won’t.
One night of this scorching desire—that’s the only thing I’m sure of right now. It’s enough for me, but I can’t find my voice to answer his question. The words won’t come. Not when he’s caressing the tender inside of my thigh, turning the throbbing ache of my clit into an agonizing need for release.
“I can feel your heat,” he says, his words inflaming me even more. “My fingers are on fire and I haven’t even touched you the way I really want to. Christ, woman. You’ll burn me up when I get inside you.”
I let out a strangled moan, and he seems to take that for his cue to kiss me again. His free hand cups my nape as he draws me to him and our mouths come together. Twice already tonight he’s given me a taste of his kiss—the first one explosive and consuming, the second swift and carnal.
But this kiss is something new. It’s unrushed and deep, a languorous melding of his lips over mine. This slow, masterful kiss seduces me even more than the ones that came before it. He’s tasting, testing . . . and it nearly unravels me right where I sit.
On a low curse, he pulls back only far enough to separate our mouths. We’re both breathing erratically now. I can feel the drum of his heartbeat beneath the hand I have pressed against his chest. He lowers his head to mine, resting our foreheads lightly together. His blue eyes are dark but smoldering as they hold my gaze. “Are you ready, Avery?”
I swallow and try to find my voice. “Yes.”
God, yes. I’m on the verge of combusting.
He gets out of the car in fluid motion, then walks around to open my door before I have the chance to do it for myself. It’s gentlemanly and proper, and I feel a blush creep into my cheeks in response. Which is ridiculous considering where this night began and where we both know it will end.
“Thanks,” I murmur, accepting his hand as he helps me climb out.
We head inside the building, then into one of the elevator cars waiting at the garage level. Nick types a code on the numbered panel, then we begin our smooth ascent. I’m anxious now, conscious of his distance as he leans back against the wall of the elevator, facing me. Studying me.
I can see the hunger in his hooded gaze. Lower still, I can see the evidence of his desire in the immense bulge in his tailored pants. My entire body responds to that heat, my skin tightening, breasts tingling with my arousal. I want to kiss him again. I want his hands on me, right here in the elevator. I just want . . . him.
When I don’t think I can take another second of the torturous waiting, a soft chime announces we’ve arrived. I see the letters PH on the digital display, but that doesn’t prepare me for the jaw-dropping apartment that we step into as we exit the elevator.
Subdued lighting barely illuminates the mirrorlike marble floors of the foyer and the clean, masculine lines of his furnishings. The penthouse is open-concept and spacious, a mixture of gleaming metals, rich, exotic woods, and crisp white furniture. He’s got the same massive windows that Claire has in her fifth-floor apartment, except there are more of them up here. With glass on three sides of the enormous living room, the view from the penthouse nothing short of spectacular.
“Come in.” Nick’s fingers brush mine in a gesture for me to follow him inside.
I trail along at his side, awestruck by everything in my line of sight—including the incredibly sexy man leading me into his domain. He takes my jacket and purse, setting both on one of the trio of sofas that outfit an elegant U-shaped conversation area that overlooks Central Park in one direction and, on the other, most of Manhattan and beyond.
I can’t keep my gaze from straying to the constellation of city lights spread out before me as far as my eyes can see. Hundreds of tall buildings glitter and twinkle in the dark beside the iconic landmarks of New York’s skyline and the pair of rivers running parallel on either side of the tower-spiked slice of land.
I stare out with delight at the illuminated Art Deco spire of the Chrysler Building, my favorite of them all. To the right, the tall needle of the Empire State Building is unmistakable. Both of the goliath skyscrapers seem dwarfed from this penthouse view.
I’m gaping in amazement and there’s nothing I can do about it. “My God. What does someone have to do to get a view like this?”
He chuckles. “Write a really big check.”
“I can imagine,” I say. But truly, I can’t imagine how much an apartment like this penthouse, in this exclusive building, with this incredible view, must cost. Many multiple millions. Probably close to a hundred of them if I had to guess.
I glance back to find him still standing near the sofa, his attention fixed on me. “What do you do for a living?” I ask. “Or did you inherit this seat at the top of the world?” I try to make a joke of it, but I’m genuinely curious. “Please tell me you’re not one of those insufferable trust fund brats.”
“No trust fund,” he says, the seriousness of his expression at war with the lightness of his tone. “My business interests are varied. Investments and corporate finance, mainly. Real estate, on occasion. Art, when it suits me.”
I nod as if I understand completely, then avert my gaze before he can guess just how far out of my depth I am right now.
“What about you, Avery?”
“Oh, I . . . I’m in public relations.” It’s somewhat true, considering my work behind the bar at Vendange is nothing but dealing with the public and keeping them happy.
Nick doesn’t question me any further, even though I can feel his eyes on me, studying me.
A small twinge of guilt rides me as I stare out at the glittering lights. This would be the time to confess that virtually nothing I’ve told him about myself tonight is true. But I rationalize that my little lies have all been harmless enough. They’re self-protective . . . and, yes, admittedly, they are selfish too.
