Dmitri laughed. Thomas took the photo. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mila smiling.
Damn, he wanted to kiss her.
“Thank you, Mr. St. Clair.” Dmitri beamed, first at Thomas and then at the image on his phone. “Thank you.”
“All good, Dee.” He instigated another fist bump. “Take care.”
He watched the boy hurry back to an older woman who looked exactly like him, the woman giving first Dmitri and then Thomas a warm smile.
“That was a nice thing to do.” Mila joined him, her sudden closeness making his breath catch. “Not your usual style when it comes to fans, though. You usually act like the wise-ass when approached by a fan. Sometimes so much so the fan doesn’t know what to make of you. Or if they should be laughing, or worried.”
“No,” he said, unzipping his coverall. “Not my usual style. You seem to be turning me into a softy.”
“So my muse influence affects your personality as well?” She arched an eyebrow. “Who knew I was this powerful? And to think I’ve been wasting all my time just being a…”
She trailed off, her cheeks growing pink.
A what? What was she? And what did she need the money for?
“What do you do for a living, Mila? When you’re not being my muse?”
She folded the supplied coverall neatly and tucked it over her arm. “Would you like to drive to lunch? Or maybe it might be better if we call it a day and you got to writing?”
Another question about herself she wouldn’t answer. Damn it.
“Lunch.” He wasn’t ready to say good-bye, especially not if he couldn’t see her for the week. True, the words were beginning to itch deep in his head, little whispers of sentences, of possibilities…but the thought of not seeing Mila, hearing her voice… No, he wasn’t ready for that yet. He shoved his hand into his hip pocket, withdrew his car keys, and tossed them to her. “You can drive.”
…
They talked for a while as she drove to the Thai restaurant Thomas entered into the GPS. Random things, random topics. It surprised her to discover his favorite author was Aldus Huxley. Equally surprising was how much she enjoyed listening to him talk about the author’s work. There was no denying Thomas had a deep and sophisticated understanding and love of the written word and storytelling. If he ever decided to stop writing, he’d have no trouble becoming the most popular—and sexually desired—professor of English Literature at any given university.
She’d have no problems attending one of those lectures. Listening to him talk, about anything, was becoming more appealing than she would have thought.
A tickle of disquiet unfurled through her at the notion. Being sexually attracted to him was one thing, being interested in him was another. Hopefully, spending the next week in class being Miss Elderkin rather than Mila, doing playground duty, marking work, and planning lessons would dissipate her unexpected reaction to him.
Stomach knotting, she shot him a quick look and bit back a soft laugh.
He sat in the passenger seat, notepad open on his bent leg, his focus on the paper as he wrote.
Writing.
She smiled, warmth flowing through her. He was writing. Fast and damn near furious. If she uttered his name, would he notice?
Would he notice if she changed direction?
The sound of the page turning filled the car’s interior. Mila flicked him another glance. Still writing, now muttering, scanning the page, pen tracking the words he’d written.
“Thomas?”
He hummed without lifting his head, pen once again forming words. “Give me a sec, babe.”
Babe. Goddamn it, why the hell did her body have to go and react to that?
And why did she like seeing him writing so damn much? Like a part of her world was suddenly wonderful?
“You know what?” she murmured, checking her mirrors. “I think…”
Instead of finishing, she deactivated the GPS, turned onto the next street, and headed back toward Manhattan.
Thomas hummed again, more distracted than before. She tried to be insulted but failed. There was nothing to be insulted about. She was sitting next to one of the greatest writers in the world, who until just recently had been fighting writer’s block. And now he was writing.
Because of her.
A smile curled her lips, and she stole another glance at him.
The pen damn near danced over the page.
Good. This was good.
“Do you mind if I listen to some music?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and gentle.
“Sure.” He nodded without looking up from his notepad.
She couldn’t help but smile wider. What were the chances he had no clue what she’d just asked?
A wave of delight rushed through her when Twenty-One Pilots began to play from his connected iPod.
“You have good taste, St. Clair,” she murmured, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel as she drove. “I’ll give you that.”
Pulling to a halt outside his brownstone many minutes and Twenty-One Pilot songs later, she turned off the engine.
He continued to write for a few moments before he raised his head and blinked around himself. “We’re here already?”
She chuckled. “We are.”
“At my place?” He frowned out the window, pen still poised over his pad. “What happened to lunch?”
“I’ll fix you something. What you need to do is go inside and continue writing.”
His frown deepened. For a heartbeat. And then, before she knew what he was doing, he leaned across the center console, cupped the side of her face in one palm and brushed his lips over hers. “You are amazing. Will you marry me?”
She snorted. It was that, or blush like crazy and surrender. “Get out of the car, St. Clair. You’ve got words to write.”
He grinned, closed his notepad, and hurried out of the car.
Following him into his home, she drew a slow breath. He radiated a charged energy, like he was running on high voltage. It was both fascinating and disarming to watch. Was this what he was like all the time when he was in writing mode?
“I’ll just…” He slowed his stride through the foyer, giving her a distracted smile, turning the notepad over and over in his hands. Reaper scurried and sprinted to him, barking with excitement.
He bent and patted his dog, jiggling his notepad in his free hand.
She pointed to the stairs he’d run up the night before when struck with sudden inspiration. “Go. I’ll bring you up a sandwich.”
He bounced on his toes, as if not sure what to do. His gaze dropped to her mouth, his chest swelling with a shaky breath, even as he continued to play with the notepad.
She scowled at him. “Go.”
“I’m gone.” He turned and hurried up the stairs. Reaper followed, tail a blur.
Letting out her own shaky breath, she placed her handbag on a nearby hall table and then went looking for his kitchen.
Whoa, he had an impressive home. The living room and its understated, minimal style she knew quite well, but the rest of the house was a mystery to her. How many floors did it have? From its facade, four. How much money did he make to be able to afford a four-story brownstone opposite Central Park?
After discovering the only other things on the first floor were a formal dining room and what looked like a small butler’s kitchen, she headed up the stairs.
“Wow.” She stopped on the top landing, taking in the massive family room and, beyond that, the most state-of-the-art kitchen she’d ever seen.
On the walls of the family room were framed posters of some of his book covers, along with a few framed movie posters. Not just movies based on his books, but classic films. Jaws. Citizen Kane. Nightmare on Elm Street.
She chuckled. Talk about an eclectic collection.
Making her way toward the kitchen, she trailed her fingers over the back of the light-grey leather sofa in the family room. Books were scattered over a large, low coffee table. In amongst them, she
spied a Stephen King book, two Aldus Huxley books, and a collection of poems by Samuel Coleridge. Beside the books was a coffee mug with World’s Best Pain in the Ass printed on it, a couple of bottles of water at various levels of consumption, and an unopened protein bar.
In the far corner of the family room was a skeleton, the kind found in most medical schools, wearing a baseball cap embroidered with Thomas St. Clair. Scary Mother Fucker. Between the skeleton’s teeth was a thick cigar, and in one bony hand was a feathered quill.
Mila smiled. Someone had a quirky sense of humor.
At the skeleton’s feet, was a large oval basket strewn with what looked like a few blankets. Reaper’s bed. Complete with a chew toy that, from where she stood, looked like a mangled Barbie doll’s head.
“Definitely a quirky sense of humor,” she murmured.
On the wall next to the skeleton was a large-screen television, beneath which sat a neat collection of DVDs.
Detouring from her path to the kitchen, she checked out the titles.
Okay, so Thomas was a Jason Bourne fan.
She smiled again. Understandable. Who didn’t like the Jason Bourne movies?
Warm approval bloomed in her chest, and she let out a sigh. Why did she feel like she’d made a mistake coming into his home like this? Seeing a side of him she hadn’t yet experienced?
“Lunch. Make him a sandwich and get out of here.”
She hurried to the kitchen.
His cupboards and refrigerator were fully stocked, the food and supplies within far healthier than she expected. Of course, it made sense. How else did he keep such an incredible physique? There was probably a personal gym on one of the floors as well. Between writing and…and…whatever he did when he wasn’t writing, he most likely worked out.
When he wasn’t writing? Dating movie stars and models, playing the fool, and generally being the most extroverted writer she knew of.
And now…spending time with her. Kissing her. Telling her he wanted her…
Her heart kicked up a notch. “Sandwich.”
Five minutes later, she headed up to the third floor carrying a tray loaded with a turkey salad and cranberry on whole-wheat sandwich, a glass of apple juice, and a bottle of water.
The sound of keys striking in rapid fire wafted from her right. Pulling a steadying breath, she walked toward it, stepping into what was clearly Thomas’s study.
It was massive. White-painted walls were adorned with framed quotes from various literature masterpieces. To Kill A Mockingbird, Fahrenheit 451, Of Mice and Men. She smiled at the quote from the Steinbeck classic, Thomas and his high school English teacher’s interaction at dinner coming back to her.
The keys continued to click, drawing her attention from the famous quotes.
Thomas’s desk was situated in front of the large bay window. Mila paused for a second. His shoulders were so broad, his back tapered, his hips lean. At some point since climbing the stairs, he’d discarded his shoes. For some reason, the sight of his bare toes sent a little thrill through her. How many people on the earth had seen Thomas St. Clair’s toes?
And how weird was it that she felt excited she had?
Get out of here. Before it’s too late.
Gripping the tray tighter, she crossed the floor to his desk, passing an exercise bike, a bar fridge, and an old cracked-leather sofa that looked like it belonged in a completely different house. Reaper—curled up in a ball on the sofa—lifted his head and watched her walk past.
She smiled at him, pausing long enough to balance the tray on her knee, break off a tiny bit of turkey, and toss it to him.
He gobbled it down, tail wagging.
Continuing to Thomas’s desk, her heart beat faster.
Thomas didn’t stop writing when she placed the tray on his desk beside him.
She refused to look at the words on his computer monitor, not wanting to invade what he might consider his privacy. She didn’t like it when people read over her shoulder, so why should she read over his, even if the urge to read his words, to read what millions of his fans were impatiently waiting for, heated her blood.
“Don’t forget to eat,” she said with a quick smile at his profile.
He hummed, fingers almost a blur over the keyboard. “I won’t.”
She took no offense at his distracted acknowledgment. Instead, she let out a soft chuckle and turned away. She’d see him in a few days. Maybe, if she got ahead of grading and planning, she would surprise him with a visit later in the week. Although, based on his conversation with whoever Shelby was, he did seem to have issues with people popping in.
Maybe she’d call him first?
How? You don’t have his number.
Her chest clenched. It was for the better that she didn’t have it. This way, their relationship would stay strictly professional.
Huh. As if what they were doing was in any way professional?
She’d reached the door when his voice stopped her. “Mila?”
“St. Clair?”
He straightened from the chair and crossed to where she stood. Could he hear her pulse pounding?
Did he know how much he messed with her head? God, she hoped not. And if he did, what did she do?
He stopped in front of her, so close the subtle scent of his cologne teased her. “Thank you.”
She gave him a small smile. “It’s okay. What’s a muse for if not to stimulate the creative—”
He snaked his arm around her waist and hauled her to his body, his gaze locked on her face as he lowered his head closer to hers. “I told myself I wouldn’t touch you again until you begged me to. I told myself you had the next move. But…”
“But?” Her voice scratched at her dry throat in a husky rasp. Fire licked through her veins, hungry and excited and scared. God, he scared her. His effect on her, his power over her desire, her arousal…
His nostrils flared. His pupils dilated. His arm pressed her harder to his body. “But when it comes to you, I’m not that strong.”
He kissed her.
Chapter Ten
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. All he’d meant to do was thank her for fixing him lunch, for understanding that he needed to get the words down, and ask her again for her phone number.
That’s all. Simple, platonic intentions.
And then she’d smiled, just a simple smile, and desire had roared through him, a carnal beast he couldn’t deny or restrain, and he was lost.
He yanked her closer to him, sweeping his tongue into her mouth, against hers.
She moaned, burying her hands into his hair, her kiss as hungry as his.
He drove her backward, pressing her to the wall as he snared her wrists and pinned her hands above her head with one hand.
She whimpered, rolling her hips, grinding her heat to his trapped erection.
Hell, he was so hard it hurt. Exquisite agony.
Returning her hungry sound with his own, he dragged his free hand down her arm, her rib cage, her hip, and up to her breast. Her warmth branded his palm. Her breath filled his mouth. He sought out her nipple, stroked his thumb over its pebbled tip as he continued to worship her lips.
Christ, he could kiss her until the end of time.
Until words faded and there was nothing but sensation and pleasure.
She moaned again, arching into his hand. “Thomas…” Her ragged breath flayed his control. “Th-Thomas…this isn’t…isn’t getting your work…”
She was right, damn it. But he didn’t care. Didn’t give a flying fuck. They were together, in the privacy of his home, away from cameras and fans. The words didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was surrendering to the sexual energy between them, there from the second he’d opened his door to her—Reaper in her arms—looking like every sexual fantasy he’d ever had.
He explored her mouth, her throat, her chin. Her soft gasps and cries flooded his cock with hot, eager blood, and incapable of doing otherwise, he ground his hips to hers.
More
exquisite agony filled his groin. More raw need consumed him.
It wasn’t enough. He wanted…
Raking his hand down Mila’s torso, he shoved it under the hem of her shirt and reclaimed her breast, the lace of her bra a delicious, abrasive caress against his palm.
“Oh God,” she groaned.
He kneaded the heavy curve of perfect flesh, biting on her earlobe as he did.
She gasped again, bucking into him. “Thomas…”
Head swimming, body on fire, he pulled aside her bra and captured her lips once more with his.
Distant noise scraped at his pleasure-fogged brain, but he ignored it.
Mila. Only Mila. Her soft, warm curves and flesh, her sweet taste, her uninhibited response to his touch, his kiss. That’s all there was. Nothing else.
Christ, her skin was so smooth, like satin. Her nipple nudged the center of his palm, and he dragged his thumb over its tip, reveling in the low groan of approval she made, even as she deepened their kiss.
More. He wanted more.
He wanted her skin in his mouth. He wanted her nipple between his teeth. He wanted her folds parting around his tongue…
“Mila…” He ground out against the side of her neck, gripping her hip. “I want…fuck, I need…”
Reaper bounded up off the floor, yapping at them, front paws scratching at his leg.
“Reap.” He jerked backward, heart thumping hard in his chest. “Reap, st—”
The doorbell chimed.
Reaper bolted from the room, barking.
“I’ve got to…” Mila slipped away from him, glasses askew on her face, eyes refusing to meet his. “I have to leave. Now.”
“Mila.” He reached for her, her name a ragged breath, but she twisted out of his grip.
“I’m sorry, Thomas.” She shook her head, still not looking at him as she corrected her glasses.
Before he could say anything, she ran from the room.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock. Neither were as loud, as gut-punching as the sound of her feet on the stairs.
“Mila.” He ran after her.
He was going to fucking kill whoever was at the door. And then write a book about them and kill them in that. Slowly. Painfully.
The Mistaken Billionaire (the Muse series) Page 9
