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What am I doing?
The elevator door closes, and we’re standing in a soft ambient light, rising to what I know is the luxurious penthouse owned by Connor Barrett. The man himself is across from me, eyeing me, like I’m his prey. He slides his hands into his pant pockets, his jacket draped over his arm, and watches me.
That’s all he seems to do.
Watch me.
“Not one for conversation, huh?” I ask because direct is my middle name.
Unperturbed, he replies, “It’s usually unnecessary.”
Jesus, he’s arrogant.
And correct. Connor Barrett is wealthy beyond imagination, even compared to my family. Gorgeous women would rip their panties off and beg to be with him.
I’m not going to be one of them.
If he wants me, he will have to work a bit harder.
Says the girl who got out of the car and all but said, “yes, please fuck me.”
Don’t judge. He’s utterly gorgeous. There’s a darkness about him, but he also has that Superman jaw, moody eyes, and a lazy scruff that makes you want to slide your fingers over it.
I want to touch him.
Desperately.
The need is growing the more I’m near him. My panties are wet, my nipples hard as fuck and pressing painfully against my bra. My core is throbbing, and I swear not even my fingers would relieve me at this point.
I want to slide my fingers into the curl of hair flicking along his collar and slam my mouth over his. I want him to ravage me. I want his cock inside me as I scream...and then run away as fast as I can.
But I really shouldn’t.
I need to grab his laundry and get the hell out of here.
There is a chance they followed me, and then I’d have to explain what I was doing in Connor Barrett’s penthouse at eleven o’clock at night.
I hope I haven’t put him in danger.
He might be rich and powerful, but when you’re dealing with a family who lives outside of society’s rules, no one is safe.
I don’t want a man’s blood on my hands.
Also, more selfishly, I don’t want to taste heaven before I go back to hell. A night with Connor would be incredible, but the memories would taunt me for the rest of my life.
“How old are you?” he suddenly asks.
“Twenty-four,” I reply. “Old enough to pick up dry cleaning.”
Connor smirks, and the elevator doors open.
He moves closer to me as I step out and take in the gorgeous view of his forty-fifth-floor penthouse. It overlooks a section of Central Park—a similar view to one of my father’s homes.
Connor walks past me, his eyes dipping to take in my reaction. I catch myself, knowing I should be far more impressed than I am.
“Wow, what a view,” I lie.
