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“You’re—Oh God— welcome.” I slip a finger into her, thrusting slowly in and out of her.
“Now I’d like you to fill in some blanks for me too. I would have given anything to witness your transformation into this awesome curator who is now the toast of all of Manhattan.”
“I’m hardly that. Ahh! Jordan—” Her hips move against me, seeking more friction.
“Yes, you are. You’re so fucking good, Bree it turns me the hell on thinking about how good you are.”
“You’re biased.” She reaches for my hard cock. "Jordan, I need you."
“I'm here,” I start to stand, pulling her up with me.
“Where are we going?”
“Shower. You can talk to me while I show you how very biased I am.”
“Jordan, it’s not even morning yet.”
“You’ll enjoy your sleep more afterward trust me.”
“Alright then, please show me.”
Chapter 19
Sabrina
It’s Friday, almost three weeks since the Sunday night Jordan and I unofficially started seeing each other again and I'm no closer to being as open with my feelings as he is, but he doesn't seem bothered.
Jordan went out of town again and was due to return yesterday but he was tied up in meetings and couldn’t get in until this morning. He's had to go from the airport straight to work. The man is no doubt exhausted and jetlagged.
I can't tell him he's working too hard because I'm doing the exact same thing, burning the candle at both ends with having two exhibitions scheduled only a week apart, one for Century and the other, my second private exhibition.
The second exhibition came quicker than I initially planned. I knew matching up to the Empire experience would be hard so I'd told Ethan we would be using a museum or art gallery for the next exhibition and planned it for a few months' time.
But a few nights later, over dinner, Jordan casually asked me if I though the Havan Museum rooftop garden would be a good fit for my theme. He had art pieces, and so did Grant and Christina. Add in a few more artists and we had more than enough. I was speechless. The Havan is the largest museum in Manhattan and in a matter of a couple of weeks, I was ready to host another exhibition.
I park my car in one of Jordan's parking spaces and head toward the private elevator to his penthouse, fishing out the glossy access card he'd given me since the first night. I'd decided to finish early from work today and drove two hours to Manhattan to surprise him by waiting for him in his home.
I've missed him so much, which reminds me of how we were eight years ago when it felt physically painful to be apart from each other. A bolt of panic hits me as I realize I have come full circle and indeed right back where I started. Crazy in love with Jordan Farrington. Again.
I push the disturbing thought away from my mind as the private elevator ascends.
The moment I step off into the large foyer I realize the penthouse isn’t empty. There’s sensual music playing and a half-empty bottle of wine with a full glass on the coffee table.
Is he back early then? The air smells wrong. It’s cloying with the scent of a woman’s perfume.
“Jordan?” My stomach tightens with dread. I already know this can't be good.
A beautiful woman appears in the hallway tucked behind the alcove leading to Jordan's bedroom. She approaches me slowly, her walk sensual. She’s bare from the thigh down. I recognize Jordan’s T-shirt. The one he was wearing the night before he left town. What the hell? Did she take it out of the laundry and put it on? It's probably because of the T-shirt but I can smell Jordan all over her and it makes me sick. I get the urge to claw it off of her. Her dark hair is in a top bun. The shirt is big on her, hitting her mid-thigh.
She says nothing, taking in my shock with a smirk. She picks up her wine glass and drinks.
“Who are you?” I manage beyond my suddenly parched throat. But I already know. Just how much of an idiot am I that I keep trusting this guy?
She chuckles. “I should be asking you. But I suppose I can guess. You’re one of his side pieces, and from how traumatized you look right now, you’ve been stupid enough to fall for him.”
She has a slight European accent. Polish? And why do I give a flying fuck where she's from?
“Poor darling,” she continues, “thought you could handle him did you?” Her laughter grates on my nerves. “Jordan Farrington is damaged. He looks like an angel, fucks like a demon, and eats girls like you for breakfast.”
