Half an hour later, I’m still blinking at Dave’s email, my eyes darting over the zeros again and again like some paranoid accountant. No matter how many times I read it, it still says full asking price.
I’ve already tried, and failed, to cyber-stalk this mysterious company intending to purchase my apartment for no good reason. Now all that’s left to do is pray to the gods of real estate that this deal goes through quickly and without any snags.
Because with all the recent madness swarming around my life, it feels as though I’m a mere puppet in the hands of some higher power orchestrating my good days and bad ones for their own shits and giggles.
My phone springs to life, an unknown number setting my heart pounding against my ribs.
Because I already know who it is. Women’s intuition.
“Lucy.” JP’s voice seeps like aural Viagra down the phone.
“H-hi,” I squeak, realizing too late that I sound more like a schoolgirl than a woman of the world. I cough delicately, hoping to scrape together some scrap of sultry sophistication.
“I’m curious to know what you’re up to.”
I’d been knee-deep in bathroom grime; a task I’d abandoned midway when Dave called. But that’s not exactly sexy banter material.
“Just unwinding a bit,” I lie smoothly, getting to my feet to pace the kitchen. “What about you?”
“Thinking about you.”
Oh, sweet mother of all… My pulse stutters, then picks up speed like an out-of-control vibrator. Pull yourself together, woman. Surely, you can manage some semblance of flirtation?
“I’d expect a billionaire casino mogul to have better things to do on Saturday,” I quip playfully.
“Not this one.”
“You might want to consider taking up a hobby. Knitting or something.”
He chuckles huskily. “No need. I already know what I enjoy,” he drawls, the hint of sexual undertones enough to stir my ovaries into a frenzy.
Silence hangs between us for a beat too long because my flirt game stinks.
I let out a snort that was supposed to be a sexy sound.
“I want to see you,” he says, having the good manners to ignore my snort. “I’d like to take you out tonight. Or rather, I want to bring you in.”
I stop pacing to lean against the wall. Holy shit, he’s asking me on a date.
“I don’t understand.”
“Allow me the pleasure of cooking for you.”
“You cook?”
“You sound shocked. I assure you; I have a few tricks up my culinary sleeve.”
A flicker of caution flutters in my stomach. Don’t get excited, it whispers. An emotional attachment could be a slippery slope.
“Lucy,” he draws out my name like a dirty sexy promise. “Did I lose you?”
“N-no,” I stutter, suddenly breathless.
“And?”
“And…” And you’re all I thought about last night, but I don’t know what this is or where I stand and I’m too chicken-shit to ask, and I’m absolutely terrified of getting hurt. “I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“You must have more enticing options for a Saturday night than playing chef for me?”
“What kind of question is that? No, Lucy. Absolutely not.”
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. What the hell am I doing? But how does any sane woman refuse an invitation like that?
“Okay, I can expect you tonight?”
“Suppose I can pencil you in,” I quip, finally finding my voice.
He lets out a low laugh again. “Good girl,” he purrs, a single phrase that has me sliding slowly down the wall. “I’ll send a car for you at seven. I’m looking forward to it.”
The line goes dead, the arrogant bastard disconnecting before I can utter another word. Just as well. My tongue has apparently swallowed itself.
I slide the rest of the way down the wall, landing in a heap on my ass.
Lucy
How do you dress for a night in with a billionaire?
No clue. As it’s apparently a home-cooked meal, I suspect he’d prefer something more Girl next door than Dominatrix mistress. So I spend the next few hours crafting an outfit that says “I’m chill but also up for anything, maybe even anal.”
Right on cue, a car sent by JP arrives to whisk me away.
Nerves humming like a live wire, I tap lightly on his apartment door.
The door swings open, and I’m suddenly grappling with the urge to either dissolve into a puddle at his feet or race back to the elevator.
Tonight, he’s dressed down in black sweatpants and a simple gray T-shirt, his feet tantalizingly bare.
That panty-dropping grin makes me shiver. In the six years of working at Quinn & Wolfe, I’ve never seen the man crack a smile. Now it’s directed at me, dark and hungry.
My heart’s a mess.
Do not overthink this.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, yourself. You’re stunning,” he drawls, a hint of a growl underlying his words. His gaze languidly appraises my ensemble-a blue dress designed with a theme of “boho sexy casual chic” in mind-leaving me feeling utterly exposed.
I’m blushing, and barely through his front door.
Little does he know what’s under this innocent frock. I might be dressed for a casual dinner, but underneath, it’s all Agent Provocateur. I am plucked, preened, primped, and primed for whatever’s to come. So hairless that my clit is rubbing against my underwear, raring to go.
He opens the door wider to let me in, but just as I’m about to slip past him, his hand lightly skims over my hip, halting my steps. Electricity zings up my spine from his touch.
“You’re forgetting something.”
My mind spins, then it hits me. Mortified, I slap a hand over my mouth. “I’m such a disgrace of a guest. I didn’t bring any wine! Just because you’re a billionaire doesn’t mean I should abandon my manners.” How embarrassing.
“No, darling, not that.” A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. “This.”
Then, faster than my poor brain can compute, he yanks me into his steely embrace, landing a kiss on my lips so possessive, it robs me of breath. Oh, Jesus. We’re getting down to the dirty already.
The man’s kisses are lethal. My knees buckle under the onslaught of sensations but he holds me up effortlessly.
“Mmm, I’ve been wanting to do that all damn day,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Hmmm,” I manage back. I really need to brush up on my sexy talk. Maybe even enroll in a course.