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She felt a shield of wariness at the judgment she perceived in his question.
“Yes.” She resisted the urge to cross her arms. “As do you, I presume.”
His shrug was confident, almost arrogant. “At one time in my life.”
“Good,” she murmured. “I’m glad we both know what we want then.”
Her assessment was not entirely accurate; he couldn’t have said for certain just what she wanted. Something about her didn’t make sense. Layth had known women who were fast and easy. In his twenties, he’d made an art form of the casual hook up. He was a playboy prince – all the money of royalty with no expectation of respectability nor decorum. He’d been free to build his property empire and seduce whichever beautiful woman took his fancy. From Rome to Nice to Sydney to Manhattan, he’d had his pick of gorgeous lovers.
But Cassie had an edge to her. A hardness that she was hiding behind casual jokes and business-like discussions regarding sexual attraction.
He pushed aside his fascination. He didn’t, and ultimately couldn’t, care.
She was right. This was about sex.
Great sex.
His smile lifted as he felt a stirring of desire despite the fact he’d just satiated his needs in her body.
“Do you drink champagne?”
“Do I seem like the kind of girl who would say no to bubbles?”
“You seem like the kind of girl who wouldn’t say no to much,” he drawled, but he softened it by bringing his lips back to hers.
Her indignation was swallowed by the kiss. She sighed against his mouth and her hands lifted to his chest. “Do you workout obsessively?” She blurted, breaking the kiss so she could look at him properly. He was a wall of muscle. And for a woman who’d dated her fair share of athletes, it was still an impressive physique.
“No.”
He pulled a pair of black boxer shorts on. She couldn’t fathom if she was disappointed or relieved. He was, if possible, more distractingly handsome with the scrap of black fabric, as it only served to draw attention to his flawless figure. Those toned legs, all muscle and sinew … she had to close her eyes to stop from making a groaning sound.
She reached for her dress but he shook his head. “You stay like that.”
“Er, no,” she murmured huskily, her eyes flashing a warning he didn’t heed.
“But you are so beautiful. And I like to look.”
“You like to do more than look,” she pointed out tartly, following him into the lounge area of the suite, “or we’d still be at the bar.”
“And is that what you would have preferred?”
She shook her head from side to side, not bothering to hide her desire. “No.”
He turned his back to her on the pretence of lifting a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon from the fridge. It opened with a satisfying popping noise. As it bubbled dangerously close to frothing over, he half-filled two glasses.
“Thank you,” she murmured, sipping it instantly. The bubbles danced in her mouth, sending little splashes of happiness through her system.
“My pleasure.” His dark eyes glowed.
There was a pale grey blanket thrown carelessly over the edge of the sofa. She wasn’t cold, but she was starting to feel ridiculous being c
ompletely naked. She wrapped it around her shoulders, her cornflour blue eyes daring him to argue with her about it.
She settled herself onto a stool, careful to keep the blanket in place, then sipped her champagne. It was delicious.
“So you’re some kind of CEO, right?” She asked, running her finger around the rim of her glass.
His eyes were hooded. “ What makes you say that?”
