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Slowly, so slowly, he lingers on the generous curves of my breasts, my nipped-in, corseted waist, my hips and lower, so heat flushes my cheeks and I’m grateful for the face mask I wear.
Lower, lower, over my legs, until, at my ankles, he grins. ‘Nice shoes.’
I lift a foot, to dislodge one, but he shakes his head, his eyes flying to mine. ‘Leave them on. For now.’
My pulse races. Anyone who knows me—who knows me as I really am—knows I’m not one to be told what to do. But for some reason, the idea of momentarily relinquishing control is kind of empowering and very appealing. I do as he says, leaving the shoes in place. He lifts a finger and bends it, signalling silently for me to join him.
I walk across to him with what I hope passes for a seductive stroll, a feline smile on my lips the closer I get. Here, just a foot or so away from him, I breathe in and taste the masculine fragrance he wears—woody and alpine and intoxicatingly sensual. His shirt is crisp white and at the cuffs he wears shining black cufflinks, which I have every reason to suspect are diamonds.
When someone applies to join The Billionaires’ Club, we run a detailed background check to maintain our exclusivity and privacy. I mean, membership comes with an annual fee of a million dollars, plus the buy-in, so I know the members can get their hands on serious cash, but we need to know more than that. Criminal records, credit history, scandals, everything.
So I know Nicholas Rothsmore’s background, probably better than most who just presume he’s a playboy bachelor living off his family’s considerable wealth. Sure, he was born with the proverbial silver spoon but he’s also smart as all get out and a crazy hard worker. Five years ago he arrived in New York to take over his family’s American branch of the Rothsmore Group and in that time he’s trebled their revenue and expanded beyond a blue-chip investment portfolio to a remarkable presence in the tech world.
Even without his family, he’s a formidable and impressive entrepreneur. Then again, his silver-spoon start in life probably didn’t hurt.
‘Your eyes,’ he murmurs, scanning my face thoughtfully, and my heart rate kicks up a gear, so that I doubt my veins are going to be able to hold the blood in place. ‘They’re so...’
Instinctively, I blink, shuttering my eyes from him. They’re a very dark blue, the colour of the sky at dusk, and I know it’s unusual. I don’t want him to recognise me. ‘No cheating,’ I say, taking the champagne flute he offers, lifting it to my lips. ‘This is secret.’
‘Right.’ His grin is pure devilish heat and his expression is one of amusement. ‘Well, Miss Anonymous, what’s your thing?’
‘My thing?’
‘Yeah. What are you into?’
I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t have a lot of spare time. I guess, reading...’
‘Fascinating.’ His laugh is a slow vibration that travels around the room before landing at the base of my spine, sending little shards of awareness through my nerve endings. ‘But I meant, in bed.’ He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his fingers lifting to curl the edges of the wig, teasing the flossy pink strands between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Right.’ I slap my forehead exaggeratedly and my smile holds a silent apology. So much for acting as if I do this all the time. ‘I’m...a little out of practice.’
‘Are you?’ His gaze flicks to my cleavage again, lingering there for so long a faint murmur escapes my lips. Heat travels along my body as though he’s touched me.
All I can do is nod.
‘Why is that?’
We’d agreed not to discuss anything personal. I think of how to answer in a way that won’t give me away. ‘I’ve been single awhile.’
His smile is just a lazy flicker of those sculpted lips, framed by a squared jaw and a brush of stubble. I like the stubble. I itch to feel it and rather than denying myself that impulse, I surrender to it, lifting my hand to his face so I can run my fingertips over his jaw.
It shouldn’t be so sensual, but just the act of touching him like this is so illicit and sinful that I make a low, husky sound, my body trembling with the first flush of desire.
‘So you are nervous?’ He comes closer, so our bodies brush, and then he moves behind me, so close I can feel his nearness, his warmth, even though he doesn’t quite touch me.
He dips his head forward, something I only realise when I feel his breath on my shoulder, warm and smelling of champagne.
My knees tremble.
‘Look.’ He lifts his hands to my shoulders and angles me slightly so I can see us in the mirror. The sight of myself in this costume—so different from my usual appearance—and Nicholas Rothsmore at my back, his long, tanned fingers curved over my pale shoulders, fills me with a need that demands indulgence.
‘Tonight, we’re just two people.’ He speaks slowly, the words buzzing right against my ear. ‘Who came here to fuck.’
I swallow, my throat moving convulsively. His coarse description sends a frisson of awareness down my back, because he’s right. This is physical, primal, animalistic. ‘Right.’ I went into the forum looking for this. I don’t know why I’m panicking at the eleventh hour. I draw in a deep breath and smile slowly, calming my nerves.
‘That’s what you want?’
‘Count on it.’
