“Me too, Clay. Me too,” she whispered, letting go of the game, of the banter, of the way they teased each other because right now, she was starting to see stars, beautiful, silvery stars, as the world slipped away, and he filled her, taking charge of her body, sending her over the edge. Her belly tightened. “Oh God,” she cried out.
“Yeah, just like that. Come for me now, come so fucking hard for me so I can feel you all over,” he said, holding onto her as she shattered into the beautiful bliss of another orgasm, the pleasure riding through her, stretching and reaching into the far corners of her body and mind.
Then, as she was catching her breath, she felt her spine scrape the wall as he surged into her once more, the look on his face, the growl in his throat making it clear that he’d joined her, and that they’d come undone together.
She was willing to admit it. She had apartment envy, and she had it bad. He had not one, but two sets of stairs. Which meant he had three floors: the loft level up top, then a living room level in between, then the kitchen and dining-room floor.
She trailed her fingers along the granite counter in his kitchen, lined with dark oak stools. “And this is where you cook all your gourmet meals?” She eyed the gleaming stovetop that looked as if it had never been used.
“You think I don’t cook?” Clay handed her a glass of Belvedere, then poured another for himself.
“Do you cook?”
“I can cook. I don’t usually though.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I cook, I want to cook for someone,” he said. Pots and pans hung on hooks on the exposed brick walls of the kitchen.
“And there’s no one to cook for?”
“Not lately,” he said, and then gestured to the stairs. “Let me show you the balcony.”
They left the kitchen area and he led her up six steps to the sliding glass doors in the living room that opened to a balcony; a gorgeous, drool-worthy balcony.
Her jaw threatened to drop but she knew better than to gawk outwardly. Inside, though, she was ogling the spaciousness. This wasn’t one of those New York balconies you had to wedge yourself onto sideways and then lean over to catch a sliver of a view. No, the man had a balcony big enough for hosting a summer barbecue, for throwing a party, for strutting around and doing a dance.
“Yeah, it’s not too shabby at all,” she said dryly as she peered over the edge of the brick railing, looking down at the cars streaming through the West Village, their taillights streaking six stories below. She drank in the view—it seemed all of New York City was visible from her vantage point, and the city was prettier when you watched it from above, when the noises were muted, and the sidewalk smells weren’t invading your nostrils. The distance was a protective layer from the soot and scents and madness. She could see clear across to Broadway as it sliced Manhattan diagonally, then down to Tribeca, and over to the Hudson River, glittering, like a sleek ribbon against the night.
She shivered once; the temperature had dipped some and while it wasn’t chilly yet, she was only wearing Clay’s white button-down shirt.
“You’re cold,” he said softly, wrapping his strong arms around her, pulling her close, her back to his naked chest. She glanced down at his bicep, and traced the lines of his ink. Passion, he’d told her. That’s what his tribal tattoo stood for, and it suited what she knew of him so far.
“Not anymore.” She smiled, and leaned her head back to look up at him. He brushed his lips against her forehead, and her heart fluttered. Actually fluttered, like a damn bird trying to escape. She was ready to swat it, but she decided to enjoy the moment instead. “I like your arms around me,” she whispered, stripping away her usual sarcasm.
“The feeling is completely mutual,” he said, reaching for her hand and sliding his fingers through hers.
“And I also like this view. It’s amazing.”
“It’s not too bad,” he said.
She elbowed him playfully. “Not too bad? This is magnificent, and I don’t care if that makes me seem all wide-eyed. But it’s true. Your apartment is gorgeous,” she said. She was a sucker for all the exposed red brick, and the warmth it brought to his place. “It’s funny, because I’d have pegged you as having some leather or chrome or steel furniture, all black and white and sleek.”
“You are confusing me with someone who has issues with his masculinity,” he said, holding her tighter, bending his head to her neck to plant a quick kiss.
“You’re saying a man who has black leather and chrome in his apartment is compensating for his small size?”
He laughed, a deep rumbly chuckle. “Don’t you think?”
She nodded. She liked that his home was warm and lived in. Yes, it was a man’s home, but it wasn’t the home of a man who was trying too hard. He even had a few plants on the balcony, and Julia didn’t have a green thumb herself, but still, there was something nice about this New York lawyer taking the time to have plants. “I can’t stand that whole I’m a man, I need my place to scream mannish. It’s sort of like driving a red Corvette.”
“You might notice I don’t have a red Corvette. Nor do I need one.”
“You definitely do not need one,” she said, trailing her fingers down his chest, between his pecs, and across the ridges of his abs. “And your plants are adorable.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe if you behave all night I’ll tell you their names.”
“You do not name your plants,” she said, giving him a serious look.
“You’re right.” He laced his fingers through hers, guiding her back through the sliding glass doors. “I don’t name my plants.”
They returned to the living room with its dark-brown sofa, and a sturdy coffee table that boasted a couple of books, some magazines, and a few framed photos. There was a picture of Clay in a tux standing next to another man, a handsome one too.
“Where was that taken?”
“Tony Awards a few years ago. That’s Davis. He’s a friend and a client. That was taken the night he won his first Tony. Bastard has a lot of them. Three now,” he said, shaking his head, but clearly proud of the accomplishment.
“And this?” She pointed to a shot of him next to a man who had similar features—square jaw, deep-brown eyes, broad, sturdy shoulders.
“Younger brother, Brent.”
“Where’s he?” Before he could answer she held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me more.”
He furrowed his brows. “Why?”
“Because I’m famished.”
“And that means you can’t talk or listen?”
“It means I am saving that conversation so we can have it over food,” she said playfully, as she started to unbutton his shirt.
“You’re afraid we’re going to run out of things to talk about so you want to make sure to hoard a topic for food?”
She wagged a finger at him. “No. I simply want to eat. Now, are you going to cook for me or take me out?”
“There’s this thing called takeout. Want Chinese?”
She flinched inside at the mention. The last thing in the world she wanted was Chinese food. She hated that Charlie and his games had ruined that cuisine for her. Sometimes, she just wanted a carton of cold sesame noodles, but they reminded her of all the bullshit she still had to deal with till she was even with Charlie. If she’d ever be even with that fucker. Some days, freedom felt a lifetime away. Charlie had her in chains, and even though she hadn’t asked for his permission to go away for the weekend, he knew she was gone. She was keenly aware that this was only a temporary leave from the jail she was in back home.
The jail no one knew about. She refused to tell a soul—it was too shameful what had happened that made Charlie turn her into his property. But she also kept her mouth shut because she didn’t want those men to sink their claws into the people she loved. She protected her sister, her friends, even her hairdresser with her silence.
But she didn’t want Charlie infecting her time away. She shoved all thoughts of debts an
d guns and knives back into a dark corner of her mind.
“Clay,” she said, in a chiding tone. “I can get good Chinese like that—” She snapped her fingers “—in San Francisco. I want something that tastes like New York.” The lie rolled off her tongue seamlessly, but he didn’t need to know why she wasn’t taking him up on his offer for Chinese. “I want to go out. To some place filled with brooding New Yorkers rather than San Francisco hipsters. Something that makes me feel like I’m in the West Village.”
“My mistake. I assumed you getting naked meant you wanted to eat in,” he said, eyeing her up and down as she unbuttoned the shirt.
“I’m not getting naked,” she said. “I’m changing into my clothes.”
He reached for her, gripping her wrist in his hand. “Don’t.”
“Don’t change?”
He shook his head. “Wear my shirt.”
“I don’t even have a bra on,” she pointed out, as if his idea was ludicrous.
“I know,” he said, his lips curving up. “I like that.”
“You like me all free-range?”
“You have beautiful breasts. I want to be tortured knowing they are just one layer away from me, and covered only by something I was wearing an hour ago,” he said, trailing his fingers along the edge of the shirt, barely touching her exposed chest. A shiver ran down her spine.
“And what about my bottom half? You want me to strut around naked from the waist down?”
“I want you to put that skirt back on. Do not put on underwear. Just your heels, your skirt and my shirt,” he said in a firm voice. He held her gaze, his eyes darker than usual, waiting for her answer.
“Are you giving me an order?” she asked, pushing her fingers through her hair that was still messy from sex. But she’d never minded sex hair. As far as she was concerned, it was a look that should be listed on the menu at all blowout salons. Updo, blown straight, or sex hair? I’ll take the sex hair, thank you very much.
“I’m giving you a request. One that I very much want you to fulfill,” he said, grabbing her hand and bringing her palm to his lips. He kissed her, his tongue soft and wet against her skin. She’d never expected being kissed on her palm would be so erotic, but it was, because everything about Clay was charged with his smoldering virility, like a trailing scent of lingering sexiness that surrounded him. She was familiar with the term “sex-on-a-stick,” but that didn’t even begin to describe this man. He was so much more than that. He was masterful, and he touched her in ways that felt unreal. As if it weren’t possible to truly feel that good. But, this was no mere dream. It was an intoxicating sliver of reality.
“What if I want to wear underwear?” she said, challenging him because it was fun, because she could, and because he wasn’t going to pull a knife on her if she did. Here, she could be herself without fear of retaliation with a weapon. What a relief that was.
“Then I will take it off at the table. So as far as I can see, you can leave your panties here, or I can remove them from you at the restaurant. That clear?”
She nodded. “Commando it is then. And I am going to make you so crazy with wanting me that you might regret telling me to go naked.”
“Impossible. I’d never regret you naked.”
On the way out, she grabbed her clutch purse—a sleek little number from Coach that she’d snagged second-hand—and her phone. The message light flashed.
“Damn,” she muttered, when she saw the text from McKenna. Are you alive??? Or are you otherwise occupied? I need to know if I should call the cops or congratulate you.
Julia grinned at the note. Clay raised his eyebrows in question.
“My sister,” she explained, tapping a quick reply. “I told her I’d text her when I landed. She worries about me.”
“So much that it brings out that naughty grin on your face?” he asked, swiping his thumb across her lips, and it was both sexy, but also skeptical. As if he didn’t quite believe her.
But this time she was telling the truth.
Chapter Four
The Red Line gave new meaning to the word Lilliputian. The restaurant was one long narrow hallway, as if it had been wedged in between the shops on each side. There was a long bar, and a few tables, and they sat at the far end near the restrooms. Clay had been here a few times; it was a popular neighborhood place on a cobblestoned street in the Village, and typified what he loved about this eclectic neighborhood—it was thoroughly New York, but it had an individual feel to it, from the black-and-white pictures of steam engines on the walls, to the dark-red counter, to the hip-hop playing faintly overhead, R. Kelly’s “Ignition.”
Julia had finished texting with her sister, and he was glad of that. He had nothing against cell phones, but the sight of one in a woman’s hands while he was with her didn’t sit well with him, and he had his ex, Sabrina, to thank for that. She’d kept her twitchy little fingers far too busy on the touch screen of her phone, then lied, lied and lied some more about what she’d been doing. She’d been involved in some bad shit, and had dragged him deep down into her troubles, too. It had taken him longer than he’d wanted to untangle himself from those tall tales Sabrina had spun, and the damage she’d done to him. Since then, he’d vowed to stay away from that kind of woman.
Julia’s phone was tucked away in her purse again, where it belonged. They’d placed their order and she was nibbling on appetizers. She plucked an olive from a small plate, bit it away from the seed sexily, and then said, “Do you realize I don’t even know where you’re from?”
“Do you want to know where I’m from?”
“Obviously. I want to get to know you better. Much better,” she said.
“And I want you to get to know me much better. Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, taking a drink of his scotch.
“Chicago.”
He shook his head. “Try again.”
“Ooh. Is this another game? You like games, don’t you? First Mad Libs. Now I get to guess where you’re from. What do I win if I’m right?”
He leaned in close to her, swept her hair from her ear, and spoke in a low rumble. “You can pick the next position. But I know you won’t win.”
“So you’re saying you’re setting me up to fail so you can choose how to take me?”
“You think I’d choose badly? You think I’d pick a position you wouldn’t like?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, and she seemed to let down her guard for a second or two. “I like everything you do.”
He couldn’t resist her, especially not when she dropped the snark, though he loved that about her too. But when she revealed her vulnerable side, he found himself wanting to be even closer to her.
“I like doing everything to you,” he said, looking her in the eyes then brushing his thumb gently over her cheek before he kissed her softly, drawing out the sexiest little whimper from her gorgeous lips.
She reached for his collar gently, holding on as she kissed back, and it was a kiss that held the promise of so much more. So much of their contact was hard and rough, and they both liked it that way, but this was tender and sweet, and he wanted this side of her too. Judging from how she kissed him, she wanted it too.
Soon, she broke the kiss, and brushed one hand against the other in a most business-like gesture. “Now that that’s settled, let the games begin.” She studied his face curiously. “California?” She shook her head before he could answer. “No, you’re not happy enough to be from California.”
“I’m very happy,” he said defensively.
“Sure, but California people smile all the time. There’s this thing called sunshine that makes us all dopey and cheerful.”
“Then how do we account for your sarcasm, Miss California?”
“I’m an outlier,” she said, as a waiter brought them water glasses.
“Water for both of you. And the kitchen is working on your orders. They should be out in about five minutes.”
“Thank you very much,” Clay sa
id, then returned his attention to the beautiful woman by his side who wore no underwear. “I’m not from California.”
“Arizona? Nah. Somehow I don’t think they make them so kinky in Arizona.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “You never know. Arizona could be an incredibly kinky state. There could be entire colonies of kink in Phoenix.”
“If there are colonies, perhaps we should go exploring. But no, you’re not from Arizona, and you’re not from Oregon or Washington either. You’d be crunchy, or have more of a penchant for plaid if either were the case.”
“I enjoy your process of elimination,” he said, leaning casually back in his bar chair, crossing his arms. No one ever guessed where he was from, because it was the kind of place people weren’t usually from.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then pointed at him. “And you’re not from Boston because you don’t have an accent, and that’s also why you’re not from the south. Or Texas, even though you feel very Texas,” she said, placing her palm against his shirt, spreading her fingers across his chest, tapping lightly with her fingertips. He was hard instantly from her touch. Damn this woman; everything she did was a direct line to his dick.
“So, is there a guess coming, Julia?”
She shrugged happily, held her hands out in an I give up admission. “Salt Lake City,” she said with a smirk, and he laughed at her guess, so intentionally wrong.
“Vegas, baby.”
Her features registered no reaction at first. She was simply silent. Then she laughed, maybe in disbelief. “No one is from Vegas. Vegas is where you go. Not where you’re from.”
“Born and raised there.”
She held her hand as low to the ground as she could from where she sat. “Like, back when you were little?”
He nodded again. “All the way through high school too. Happy to show you my diploma if you need more verification. Lettered in Varsity Football at Desert Hills High on the outskirts of town. Lived there till I moved east for college.”
Girl Meets Billionaire Page 127
