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“I’m a little sick of the three-piece suit thing anyway,” he confides, standing with me still in his arms like I weigh nothing. Stepping out of the pants around his ankles as he takes us both to the bathroom.
“Don’t you ever get tired of it all?” I ask once we’re both under the giant shower head, an open shower, and a bathroom. Steve Carter-sized, like everything else.
I mistake his silence for maybe being a little offended by my question, but lathering some shampoo into my hair as he turns me to face away from him, he hums in agreement.
“I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, Holly,” he says in a low voice. His huge hands massaging my scalp firmly but gently enough to send shivers up and down my spine.
His fresh arousal is already pressing into my back, but I know now it’s just a Steve thing. Whenever he’s near me, anywhere near naked, his flag pole is always flying at full mast.
“I’m not sick of what I do,” he continues. “More like I feel I’ve missed out on a lot of what really matters,” he says thoughtfully, moving my head gently under the warm water to rinse my hair.
I swear the man could’ve been a hairdresser in another life.
And a masseur. And a chef and a million other things he’s so damned good at without even trying.
Once we’re done, and I finally discover the secret of his scent that he produces from a mirrored cabinet, he dries me off and asks whether I think he should shave.
I reach up and run a thumb across his day-old stubble, recalling the effect it has on me.
Already feeling it tingling between my thighs.
“I think you can leave it for another day,” I advise him with a coy smile.
He uses his scent sparingly, and once I can see it’s a custom fragrance made in Paris by a house I know is for non-retail buyers, I kiss goodbye to my idea for a Christmas present for him.
The man really does have it all.
How can I compete with that? Especially without a dime to my name.
“I’ll let you change,” he says, moving his eyes up and down my body as I notice his own arousal looking more intense than just a few minutes ago.
“Otherwise, we’ll never get outta here,” he adds with a little smile.
Leaving each other just long enough to change, I’m taken aback when I come back out into his office and see him in denim jeans and a crisp white T-shirt that hugs his muscular frame as he pulls a plain gray sweater over it.
I’m wearing jeans, a sweater, and sneakers, not heels this time.
Something I don’t think I could ever get the hang of anyway, no matter how hard I try.
He smiles as his eyes move over me, becoming a question mark when he notices my gaze.
“What’s the matter?’ he asks, looking a little embarrassed, running his hands up and down his front, glancing down at his jeans.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” I tell him honestly, eager to rush over and hold onto him, feel his huge body holding mine again.
I don’t say it, but I think I like Steve Carter better in plain old jeans and a T-shirt.
Even if they’re still four hundred dollars apiece.
I like him better in his birthday suit over anything else, but casual just makes him less… foreboding. Makes him look more human, if that makes sense, because the man’s so damned good-looking when he wears three thousand dollar suits, he looks like something from a magazine cover.
Something I suspect has already happened, but I don’t usually read business magazines.
“Let’s go,” he finally says. “I’m starving.”
Grabbing his coat and my old puffy jacket that he seems to like seeing on me. He keeps my hand in his all the way to the elevator as it drops silently down forty stories, making my stomach lurch once it stops smoothly.
When the doors open, I’m surprised when I see the building’s foyer instead of the underground parking lot.
