Temptations: A Limited Edition Contemporary Romance Collection

by Blue Saffire

  That’s what the executive suite at the Hawthorne is for. It’s opulent enough that they don’t feel like what’s happening is some cheap, one-night stand, but impersonal enough to remind them that, cheap or not, a one night stand is exactly what it is.

  So, when Angus asked me if he should deliver the cake to my residence, the proper response would have been, No, to the Hawthorne, please.

  The proper response was not, and will never be, Yes.

  Why would he even ask me that? He knows better.

  Better question: why did I say yes?

  Because despite the dress and the fact that I found her in a nightclub, nothing about this girl screams one-night stand. Because for whatever reason, this girl entices me to break the rules without so much as a second thought. Even now, when I know that the smartest course of action would be to change direction, take her to the Hawthorne, set a clear boundary between what this is and what it isn’t, I don’t.

  I take her home.

  When we pull up to the curb in front of my building, she makes a noise in the back of her throat, one that has me looking at her from across the center console. “Change your mind?” I say, doing my best to push against the disappointment the possibility elicits. It happens. Women get cold feet. Change their minds. Decide that a night of sex with a total stranger isn’t what they want, after all.

  It’s just never happened to me.

  “No,” she says, in that way of hers. Firm. Direct. “I know someone who lives here.”

  Before I can ask who or how, her door is opened and I watch her slip from the car, moments before my own door opens. I leave it running and get out.

  “Shall I be back at regular time, then?” Angus says to me, totally unconcerned with the fact that we’re blocking midtown traffic.

  Regular time is 5 AM. I’m usually up at three, worked out, showered and pacing the sidewalk outside my building by 4:45. Behind my desk by 6 AM, I hit the ground running and don’t stop until after the night janitor comes in to empty my trash.

  I look at my watch. It’s 1AM. “I’ll call when I’m ready,” I say, pretending it’s the late hour that has me adjusting my schedule and not the gorgeous woman waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  Another rule broken.

  “Very good, sir.” Ever the sphinx, Angus inclines his head in deference without so much as a twitch of his lips.

  I circle around the front of the car while Angus slips into the driver’s seat, shooting into traffic like a bullet before my feet even hit the sidewalk.

  Argenta is talking with Teddy the doorman, his usual stoic expression disrupted by an unfamiliar smile that fades as I approach, making me feel like I’m interrupting something.

  Missing something.

  “Later, Ted-o,” she says to the doorman when I press my hand to the small of her back to steer her through the door he’s holding open.

  “Happy birthday, miss,” he says, tapping his fingers on the brim of his cap. “Sir.”

  I lift my chin in acknowledgment before following Argenta into the lobby. She doesn’t hesitate, her heels clicking across the marble floor, hips swaying with each confident footfall, toward the bank of elevators, stopping in front of the private car equipped with a keypad.

  She taps in a code and the doors slide open.

  I can feel my face fold into a scowl. “What did you say your last name was?”

  She steps in and turns, tilting her head to look at me. “I didn’t,” she says, serving my earlier words back to me with a slight smile.

  Following her into the elevator, I wait for the doors to slide closed before I turn to look at her. She’s standing next to me, hands folded demurely in front of her, which is funny because I’d bet my life this woman doesn’t have a deferring bone in her entire body. “You called my doorman Ted-o.”

  She looks up at me with those wide, gray eyes. “I did.”

  I lean into her. “Let yourself into my elevator.”

  “I did that too.” She nods, the tip of her tongue brushing along her lower lip.

  My physical response is immediate. In an instant, I’m so hard it hurts. “Explain.” I growl the word, already sure I’m not going to like the answer.

  She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t seem intimidated by my size or proximity. “I told you I know someone who lives here,” she reminds me, a slim dark brow arching at my tone. “And to be fair, this isn’t your elevator. You share it with the rest of the top 10.”

  The top 10.

  This building has ninety-six floors. The lower eighty-six are split into two apartments per floor, while the top ten are one residence per floor, served by a private elevator.

  I lean in front of her to key in my personal code and the elevator begins its climb to the top. Running through my mental directory, I think about my neighbors. There’s a former president and his sweet Texan of a wife. A flighty French actress, a few years past her prime. A retired boxer. The spoiled son of some Sheikh who splits his time between here and his daddy’s super yacht in Dubai.

  The thought of her in a bikini, sunning herself and drinking champagne on that little dickhead’s boat makes me a little mental. If there’s an explanation for what I do and say next, that’s it.

  I completely lose my fucking mind.

  I move closer. So close I can feel the heat of her on my skin. “Do you have a boyfriend?” I say before I can stop myself.

  That eyebrow again, half annoyed, half amused. “No.” She gives me some side-eye. “Do you?” Her sassy little mouth might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard and right now I can think of about fifty different things I’d like to do to it.

  Shaking my head, I move closer, letting her feel the rigid length of my arousal press against her belly. I know exactly when she feels it, the effect she has on me, because she lets out a soft gasp that seems to flutter in her throat.

  Gaze zeroed in on her mouth, I watch that wicked little tongue of hers push past slightly parted lips, licking them like her mouth has suddenly gone dry.

  I lift a hand, sliding my fingers through her hair to cradle the back of her head so I can tilt her mouth up to meet mine, the other sliding around to mold itself around her gorgeous, round ass, pulling her even closer. “How about a sugar daddy?” I say it just so she’ll give me more of that brow action.

  “No.” The word is little more than a breath, the feel of it across my mouth, her lips whispering against mine, urging me to taste what she tastes. Lick where she’s licked.

  Do you want one?

  Thankfully, that’s a question I manage to keep to myself. Instead of breaking another rule I lean down to skim my tongue along her pouty lower lip.

  She moans softly at the contact, her long lashes fluttering against her cheekbones as her eyes slip closed. I kiss her, sliding my tongue past parted lips, stroking and caressing her mouth until her hands are fisted in my shirt, and her knees are weak and I’m about five seconds away from jerking the skirt of her little red dress over her luscious hips.

  The elevator gives a slight jerk and its doors slide open. It takes some effort but I lift my head. “Good,” I tell her, the corners of my mouth shifting into a smile. “Now that that’s settled, let’s eat some cake.”

  7

  Silver

  A few things come to mind as I’m standing here, trying to catch my breath and will my knees to firm up past the consistency of jello.

  Holy shit.

  This is not some college boy, looking for a drunken fumble. This is a man. A man who absolutely knows what’s he’s doing.

  I’m in way over my head.

  I want to do that again.

  He leaves me in the elevator, dazed and shaking, disappearing into the dark cavern beyond it. A few moments later, I hear the deep, rich tone of his voice. “Lights.”

  Light blooms, revealing a huge open space. Bare Edison bulbs, hundreds of them, hanging from the raised ceiling on pendulums, the glow of them reflected by pristine dark wood floors. Bare, floor-to-ceiling w
indows that frame a familiar panoramic view of New York’s skyline.

  That’s it.

  No furniture. No rugs. No curtains. No signs of life.

  “This cake isn’t going to eat itself,” he says, his voice so close I feel my breath catch in my throat.

  Get a grip, Silver.

  I reach down, pulling off one ridiculously high heel and then the other. Letting them dangle from my fingers, I force myself out of the elevator.

  Tobias is standing to my right, in what would be considered the kitchen. A long length of butcher-block counter, stained as dark as the floor. Stainless-steel appliances. Glass front, sub-zero fridge. He’s standing in front of a stainless-steel island on giant castors, flipping through a stack of mail. Next to the mail is a white cake box, tied with a signature red ribbon.

  The irony that his manservant procured my birthday cake from my father’s restaurant and that Tobias’ penthouse is three floors above my mother’s is almost too much.

  “Cozy.”

  He looks up at me when I say it, shooting me a quick smirk. “Thanks, I decorated it myself,” he says, letting his gaze rake over me, his eyebrow lifting when he gets to the shoes in my hand.

  “I didn’t want to ruin your floor,” I explain, setting them down, just outside the elevator. When I straighten and turn, I find him watching me.

  “Still want to get out of that dress?” he asks, gaze dark and hooded, tone heavy with promise.

  “Yes, please.” The words tumble out, fast and eager, the desperation I hear in them heating my cheeks.

  He gives me a lopsided grin, letting his gaze slide back to the stack of mail in front of him. “Bedroom is over there,” he says, jerking his chin. “Help yourself to whatever.”

  Knocked off balance, I let my gaze follow the movement of his chin. Tucked into the far corner of the enormous space is a separate room, cordoned off by rice paper panels, hanging from tracks set into the ceiling.

  I pad my way across the room, marveling in how different his place is than my mother’s. Black granite floors. White walls. White furniture. White rugs. Nothing but the occasional splash of red. When I came to visit as a child, I was made to sit in one spot, the nanny hired for the occasion cleaning my hands and face regularly to ensure I didn’t soil the aesthetic. Even with no furniture, Tobias’ place is a million times more welcoming than Solange’s ever was.

  One of the panels is slightly cracked. I slide it further on its track and step through, shutting it behind me. There’re no Edison bulbs in here but the glow of them pushed through the delicate paper panels, lighting the space enough to see by.

  An enormous, low slung bed—neatly made—flanked by a pair of squat, round tables, topped with lamps. A stack of books, nearly as tall as I am. A freestanding clothes rack that holds a parade of dry cleaning bags and a tall chest of drawers.

  Bingo.

  I hesitate, feeling like I’m snooping. Reminding myself I have permission, I pull the top-drawer open. Black Socks. Black boxer briefs. I almost shut the drawer when something catches my eye. Pulling it open even further, I reach into the back of the drawer and pull out a pair of red silk boxer shorts. Not something a man would buy for himself. Something a woman would buy for him.

  Something shifts around in my chest. Something hard and tight. Something I’ve never felt before.

  Stuffing them back into the drawer, I feel my fingers brush against something slick and cool, tucked behind the boxers. A photograph.

  Knowing I shouldn’t because now, I really am snooping, I pull it to the front of the drawer. As soon as I do, the photo in my hand splits in two.

  The first photo is of a group of boys, four of them—all different ages and sizes but none older than mid-teens—standing in front of a large building. It has the clinical feel of an institution. Like a hospital or school. The four of them are standing in a line, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders while they grin into the camera.

  I recognize two of them right away. Gray, the man I met tonight, and Tobias. It makes sense. When I met Gray, I could tell that they knew each other. They were close. I have ten brothers and sisters, some of us closer than others. If there’s one thing I understand, it’s family.

  The other two, a lanky boy with dark, unruly hair and thick-rimmed glasses and a blond with sparkly, almost impossibly blue eyes, stand on either side of them. The blond could be the man I saw Tobias with tonight but to be honest, I really wasn’t paying attention to him.

  Reluctantly, I shuffle the pictures, pulling the one in back to the front. This one is older, faded. A smiling woman with dark hair, crouched down, her arms wrapped around a little boy who couldn’t be older than four or five. Again, I recognize Tobias right away. The woman, same eyes and mouth, must be his mother.

  Feeling like an intruder, I put the pictures back where I found them, closing the drawer gently. Reaching for the next, I find a stack of neatly folded shirts and sweaters. Pulling one off the top, I toss it onto the bed.

  Reaching down, I catch the hem of my dress and draw it up over my head, breathing a sigh of relief when I’m finally free of it. Throwing it on the floor, I resist the urge to kick it across the room. Next time I see Delilah, I’m going to strangle her with it.

  Picking up the sweater I pulled out of the drawer I push my arms through the sleeves. Dropping it over my head, the soft, dark cashmere knit falls to my knees.

  I’m still not wearing panties.

  Considering my options, I jerk open the top drawer and pull out the only suitable replacement I found. The red silk boxers. Disgruntled, I step into them, rolling the waistband a few times to keep them up. Sweeping my hair up, I twist it into a rope, coiling it around itself before tucking the tail of it into its center, creating a loose, sloppy bun.

  Suddenly nervous, I square my shoulders. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly, trying to push myself out of the room.

  “I wasn’t kidding about this cake,” he calls out. “It really isn’t going to eat itself.”

  Something about his tone—easy, confident—puts me at ease. Makes me smile. Makes it possible for me to slide the panel open and push myself out of the room.

  He’s still in the kitchen, or where the kitchen table would be if he had one. Standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands dug into his pockets, staring out across the skyline.

  “Sorry,” I say, as soon as I’m close enough to say it without feeling like I have to shout. “The dress put up a fight.”

  He turns away from the window, letting his gaze sweep over me. “I’m glad it lost,” he says, flashing me a grin so wicked I feel it in my knees. Before I can react, he speaks again. “Open your present. I’m dying to see what I got you.”

  Looking down I see the white cake box, with its red ribbon. Next to it is another box. This one is square and thin. Trademark Tiffany blue, tied with a silk white bow.

  I feel him brush past me and my gaze darts up to find him leaning against the counter, watching me.

  Picking up the box, I tug on the ribbon and it slips loose in my hand. Lifting the lid, I let out a small gasp, my gaze darting up to look at him. His shoulders are stiff, expression guarded. He expects me to gush and squeal and throw myself at him. I have a feeling that’s exactly what he doesn’t want.

  Instead of gushing, I tell him the truth. “It’s beautiful,” I say, lifting the bangle from its nest of white satin. Heavy, platinum, studded with diamonds. I slip it on. “Thank you.”

  He relaxes. Gives me another smile. “Angus will be pleased that you’re pleased,” he says, lifting a pair of forks, offering me one. “Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff.”

  8

  Tobias

  I’m not sure what happening here. Normally I’d have her on her knees by now. Fucking her against every flat and stable surface I can find. Which considering I’ve lived here for three years and have yet to so much as buy a lamp, are in definite short supply.

  But under
normal circumstances I wouldn’t have brought her home. I wouldn’t have bought her a birthday cake and offered her a change of clothes.

  When I saw the Tiffany blue box sitting next to the cake, I almost tossed it in the trash. For fuck’s sake—what’s Angus trying to do to me? Not that I don’t buy gifts for women—I do—but not for ones I’ve just met and never for special occasions. You start buying birthday gifts and Christmas presents, the next thing you know they’re asking you to drive to the Hamptons for Thanksgiving to meet their parents or some shit.

  I don’t do birthdays.

  I don’t do holidays.

  I don’t do parents.

  But here I am, watching her open a gift I didn’t even pick out, for an occasion I’m still not even sure is real, with the sort of anticipation I haven’t felt in years. I mean, come on—what are the odds that the random woman I picked up at a nightclub shares my birthday? My skepticism does nothing to dampen the pleasure I feel when she opens the box and her breath catches in her throat. I’m waiting for the gush. Bracing myself for the fawning and squealing. The speculation. The what does this mean?

  The expectation of more.

  But it never comes. She smiles and thanks me, slipping the bracelet onto her arm. That’s it.

  Now, she’s sitting on my kitchen island, silky black hair piled on top of her head. Smooth, bare legs swinging, one of my sweaters hiked high on her thighs.

  She sinks her fork into the half-eaten cake between us. Lifting the bite to her lips, she slowly slides the fork between them, her eyes closing when the chocolate hits her tongue, a little sigh of satisfaction as she savors the flavor and texture of it.

  I’ve never considered myself a fetish guy. Never been into feet or spanking or handcuffs. Never get turned on by anything considered nonsexual or even kinky.

  Watching her eat changes my mind.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she says, cocking head slightly.

  I look up at her and nod, expecting her to ask what I do for a living. Where I got my money. Who I am. “Shoot.”