She leans in over the table, and her scent wafts around me, sweet and fresh, like honey mixed with spring flowers.
How long has it been since you got to meet someone who isn’t judging you on your past?
Fuck that.
How long since you got laid?
“What’s it like to be on TV?” She’s wrapped up in her pasta, her movements graceful, yet she’s consuming every bite. She gets another piece of bread.
Anxiousness tugs at me. I don’t like lying to her. “All eyes are waiting for me to make a mistake, and after the week I’ve had, my career might just be over.” It’s the truth.
Her hand that’s resting on the table reaches out and touches mine briefly before pulling back. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.”
When she moved, the candlelight accentuated the sheer quality of her shirt, and I freeze at the color underneath, something pink and sexy. Heat, hot and searing, flashes straight to my dick.
I’m caught up in wondering how she’d feel underneath me, those legs tight around my waist, her full breasts against my bare chest, those little heels digging into my back—
Just stop, Jack.
I grow silent, frowning, my head going back to the long line of faceless women who’ve drifted in and out of my life. Elena isn’t my type. She’s nursing a broken heart, and she’s . . . nice. But damn, this knot of worry and tension in my chest is killing me.
My fingers tap the table; I watch her as she eats the last piece of bread. I’m wired, my eyes moving from her to the people in the restaurant as I finish my drink, wondering when someone’s going to come over and ask for an autograph or tell me I’m an asshole, and shit, I don’t want her to know what people really think of me . . .
She studies me. “You’re quiet.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I frown. I don’t know how to explain what a tough week it’s been without revealing who I am.
Which I should! Right now.
“I’m normally quiet.”
“I’m not. I talk way too much.”
“I see.”
Tell her, Jack. Tell her you aren’t her date.
She grabs her drink off the table and chugs it down. With a sigh, she folds her napkin in elegant movements and then stands, a look of accomplishment on her face, as if she’s just completed a hard project.
I straighten in my chair.
She’s leaving?
After digging around in her purse, she pulls out a wad of twenties and places them on the table.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She grimaces. “Heading home. Thank you for a lovely meal. This should cover my part. It was . . . great to meet you. Maybe I’ll even decide to watch the news.” She fidgets, her heels already pointing in the direction of the door.
“Wait, Elena.” I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say when I stand. She’s so small next to me, her frame about five-five in heels. My eyes go from the top of her head to her feet; that black skirt clings to her delectable hourglass figure, full and curvy and lush—one I didn’t notice before. Damn.
“Don’t go,” I murmur.
Abort, abort, my common sense yells, but I shove it down. I don’t know how the rest of my life is going to play out, and part of me . . . wants to just push it all away and forget about it—with her.
“Come on. This has been terrible.” She exhales. “I was late. You didn’t text me back. My ex showed up. It feels . . . off.”
“I admit, my social skills suck.” I pick up her money and stuff it back in her hands, our fingers brushing. “Why don’t we both get out of here and go somewhere else?”
Here I go, being impulsive.
“Where?” An uncertain expression crosses her face.
I could say another bar, maybe for a nightcap or dessert, but there’ll be people who know me; there’s only a handful of places where I feel comfortable, and this is one of them. Since Sophia’s book came out a year ago, I don’t get out much anymore. I’ve battened down the hatches and retreated inside myself, trying to protect my reputation as much as I can.
“My place. It’s not far from here.”
I take a step forward and tuck her hand through the crook of my arm. “Besides, your ex is here, and don’t you want to walk out of here with me by your side?”
“He really didn’t like you at all.” She stares at the floor, then back at me. “But I don’t go home with men I don’t know.”
“Elena . . .” My voice trails off.
“Yes?”
“What if I told you that c-l-i-t-s are my specialty.”
She laughs, color flaming on her cheeks, her head dipping. “I never should have told you that.”
“Every word we use has meaning and purpose—and you said it. Why do you think that is?”
She bites her lip, and there we are, standing face to face, staring at each other for a little too long, and people are staring and probably snapping pics with their phones.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. What else do you have planned tonight? Crying into your ice cream over your ex?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m better than ice cream.”
“Obviously you haven’t had Ben & Jerry’s Rocky Road.”
“Obviously you haven’t met me before.” I reach out and briefly touch her plump bottom lip, grazing my thumb across her silky skin, my cock swelling inside my slacks.
Her eyes close, and her throat moves as she swallows, her mouth slightly parted. “Um . . . I don’t know.”
“Elena, are you going to make me beg for it?” My eyes are hot, this need for her rising and growing every moment we stand here looking at each other.
Please say yes.
Chapter 5
ELENA
I look around the room, a penthouse on the top floor inside the Breton Hotel, a posh place near the restaurant. I glance over at Greg, who’s at the minibar, making us drinks. I don’t need another drink, obviously, because I’ve had enough already, and I’m buzzing, and What the hell am I doing?
I was ready to cut the date off early because he grew quiet on me, and I knew I was rambling too much about exotic pigs, stray cats, and Preston. Jeez. I need a dating class.
But was it ever worth it to walk out of Milano’s on his arm, with Preston and Giselle gaping at me. Greg tossed his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close to him as we waltzed past them. Then he phoned a town car he said he had on call and whisked us over to the hotel.
The ride over was quiet. He kept darting me little glances, his eyes on my face, but when I’d look back, he’d drop his eyes and stare straight ahead. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and I chalked it up to him being as nervous as I was.
We walked inside the lobby, and he whispered for me to ignore anyone I might see. There wasn’t anyone around, except for the security guard who stood sentinel outside the double doors of the penthouse the elevator took us to on the twentieth floor.
His back is to me, and my gaze eats up those impossibly broad shoulders, the way his mahogany-colored hair has highlights, as if he spends a lot of time outdoors. He’s wearing expensive gray slacks that have to be tailor made, the fabric clinging to his powerful thighs, tapering down to a narrow leg opening.
He slides around the bar, adding tonic to my gin, the movement lithe and precise, like a tiger in the jungle. Greg may walk and talk like a man, but he’s pure animal underneath.
I lick my lips, one side of me ready to bolt, but the other side has had a slow flame burning inside my body since the moment he stood up to Preston, using that low husky voice of his—
He turns, and I start.
He walks—no, stalks—toward me.
You don’t even know him and . . .
I need this, I counter. Plus, he’s Topher Approved. I’ve been sitting on my butt at home for months, and I need something, just something, to knock me out of this funk and get me on with my life.
You are only confined by the rules you set for yourself. Live your life, Nana says in my head. She told me that when I dropped the bomb on my family that I wasn’t going to medical school. She wanted me to be true to myself. I think she would have approved of the weatherman.
He hands me my drink and takes a sip of his, his eyes at half mast, a hint of wildness there. I suck down my G and T, holding his gaze. I want to be wild. I want to be wild with him.
No you don’t, the rational side of me counters.
“Is this where you live?” I set my glass down on the table. Dumb question, Elena.
He pauses for a moment. “I own an apartment nearby, but the penthouse is close to work.”
A restaurant and two residences? Greg is wealthy.