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It takes a little more than half an hour to get to his place in Tribeca. No traffic.
The building he lives in is exclusive and gorgeous. All windows and mirrored glass. With the help of two men who work in the building—who address Bancroft as Mr. Mills—we get all of my belongings into the service elevator. When I attempt to follow my things, Bancroft puts a hand on my shoulder. My nipples react immediately. They’re so slutty when a hot guy is around.
“They’ll bring everything up, we’ll take the other elevator,” he says.
The other elevator has a black marble floor and mirrored walls, which allows me an incredible view of Bancroft from all angles. The socks are still really distracting.
When we reach the penthouse floor Bancroft ushers me out. The hallway is wide, walls painted champagne, and more black marble leads us down the hall. The doors are spread far apart and I assume it’s because these condos are much larger than my little apartment.
At the end of the hall Bancroft keys in a code, opens the door with a somewhat nervous smile, and ushers me inside.
I step past him into the foyer and come to a halt. My apartment could fit into this space ten times over. Bancroft crashes into me from behind. I stumble forward and his arm, his thick, well-defined, muscular arm, wraps around my waist, preventing me from face planting into the gorgeous, gleaming hardwood floors.
His hard chest presses against my back for a few brief seconds. I’m almost positive I can feel the ridges in his abs. Too bad this didn’t happen when he had his shirt off. It’s also too bad my shirt is on, along with the rest of our clothes. Sadly, he’s quick to set me back on my feet. “Whoa. Sorry about that.”
“My fault.” I take a few more steps inside. “This is really nice.”
“It’s all right,” he mumbles.
“I think it’s a little better than all right.”
Bancroft’s condo is huge. This is the kind of place I should be accustomed to, but having lived in my apartment for the past five years, I’ve grown used to small spaces and crappy appliances that don’t work well.
To the left is a kitchen. A big, beautiful kitchen full of shiny, stainless steel and granite countertops. To the right is a hallway with a set of double doors at the end. Directly in front of me are floor-to-ceiling windows providing a gorgeous view of the East River, rather than a view of a brick wall—which was what I had.
The living room boasts a huge leather couch and a massive chair covered in a funky pattern that doesn’t seem to match Bancroft’s personality at all. Although I don’t really know him well enough to make an astute, informed opinion yet.
I kick off my shoes and head straight for that chair, flopping down in it. The space is so open. It’s not particularly warm or welcoming. There aren’t any knickknacks or little things that tell me anything about who Bancroft is as a person.
Across from the chair I’ve thrown myself in is a floor-to-ceiling wall unit, and that’s really saying something since it appears I’m looking at twelve-foot ceilings. A gigantic TV takes up the middle of the wall unit. Square shelves hold a variety of neatly stacked books. A rugby-playing reader, now that’s sexy.
I glance past the wall unit. “Holy crap! Do you have a home gym?” I bounce out of the chair and rush across the open space, barely containing the urge to do a few spins on the way, because I have the room.
On the other side of the wall unit are a series of workout machines. There’s a treadmill, a recumbent bike, a Pilates machine, and a variety of weights, as well as a bench for lifting.
“Wow, no wonder you look like this.” I motion to his athletic form, then to the elaborate home gym setup. “Do you use this every day?”
He runs a palm over his chest. “I try to.”
“This is fantastic.” My gym is probably a half-an-hour from here and that’s on a good day when the subways are running properly. It’s a busy gym, so sometimes it’s hard to access the equipment I want. Bancroft’s treadmill is set up so it overlooks the river as well. The view is spectacular.
Opposite the gym is an office, a very neat office with a very nice desktop computer and a monitor large enough to watch movies on. To the left of the office, against the wall is a terrarium. “Oh! Is this where Tiny lives?”
“It is.”
I tiptoe over, I’m not sure exactly why. It’s not as if I’m going to frighten her and she’s going to come flying out of her glass enclosure. I drop down into a crouch so I’m at eye level with the terrarium. Long, fuzzy legs appear over a small stone as she comes into view. “Holy crap. She’s huge,” I whisper.
Bancroft’s reflection appears in the glass. My stomach tightens as he drops down in a crouch behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder. My gaze locks onto his mouth, which moves in close to my ear. His breath is warm when it breaks across my neck. For a second I think maybe I’m going to get to feel those lips on my skin again.
Until he whispers, “She can smell your fear.” Then he makes this weird noise that reminds me of horror movies. I shudder and he laughs, pushing up to stand. “Relax. She’s really harmless.” Bancroft lifts the lid off the tank.
If I turn my head to the left I’ll be looking at his junk. It’s a real challenge not to follow through on that. Instead I stay where I am as he slips his hand in and taps Tiny on the butt, making her scamper forward.
She’s a gigantic spider, her legs spanning Bancroft’s massive palm. God, his hands are huge. I wonder if the rest of his assets match.
I give in and side eye him. He’s wearing basketball shorts, which are loose, so I’m unable to confirm or deny whether his unit size is directly related to his hand size. And he’s still wearing those damn socks.
“Would you like to hold her?” Bancroft asks.
“What? Oh. I don’t know about that.” I scramble back a bit and land on my ass.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll be right here to save you from her if she gets aggressive.” He lowers himself to the floor and crosses his legs, like we’re getting ready for storytime in kindergarten. Except it’s not storytime. He’s holding a giant spider. After a few seconds of hesitation, I mirror his pose.
He crooks his free finger. “Come a little closer.”
God. Why am I turning everything he says into something dirty? If he wasn’t holding that spider, the thought of climbing into his lap, right after I take off all my clothes, would seem rather appealing. God. I really need to get a handle on where my mind keeps going whenever I’m close enough to touch him.
I scoot a couple of inches closer. He rolls his eyes and slides forward until his knees hit mine. Well, my knees actually hit the middle of his shin, but now our bodies are touching. Not particularly exciting parts, but my nipples don’t seem to understand that with the way they’ve perked right up.
Of course, then he has to go and hold up his spider hand and all the perking is overshadowed by the fuzzy, eight-legged beast staring at me with all eight of her eyes. “Give me your hand.”
At my reluctance, he grabs my right hand, which I immediately ball into a fist. “She’s not going to launch herself at you and even if she bit you, she’s not poisonous. How are you going to take care of her if you can’t even touch her?”
He has a point. I unfurl my fingers and his thumb smooths over my palm. For someone as big as he is, he sure is gentle. And all my important, sensitive parts are responding to that touch as if they’re going to be on the receiving end of it as well. I mentally tell my hormones to back off, which isn’t all that difficult when he scoots Tiny from his palm onto mine.
