by Megyn Ward
Fuckin’ Gray.
“86ed will suffice. Take their pictures and circulate them. They don’t get in. Not anywhere,” I tell him. Level isn’t the only club we’re invested in.
“You got it,” he says before turning his attention toward the woman sitting next to me. “Hi.” He flashes her his mega-watt smile while offering her his hand. “I’m Gray,” he says, his smile going from blinding to surface-of-the-sun, the second she slips her hand into his. “This guy isn’t bothering you, is he?” he jerks his chin in my direction and I feel the urge to do something I haven’t felt like doing since we were fifteen—punching him in his cocky mouth.
“Argenta,” the woman next to me says, returning his smile. “And no, he isn’t.” She sits back, letting herself sink into the sofa cushions, the movement withdrawing her hand from his. “But not for lack of trying.”
Gray laughs while shooting me a where the hell did she come from kind of look. He knows better than anyone where my taste in women usually runs. I like them soft and willing. Uncomplicated. Undemanding. My life is hectic enough without a relationship or a woman who wants one hanging around my neck.
I’ve known this woman for less than ten minutes but it’s enough time to know she is none of those things.
Unfortunately, there is nothing usual about the way I’m feeling or what I’m wanting right now.
Because he’s always been able to read me like a book, Gray’s suddenly all business again. “I’ll take care of it, boss,” he says. Because he’s unable to help himself, he gives her one last grin and a nice to meet you before heading back the way he came. Within a few minutes, he and his crew have the suits rounded up and herded downstairs. Sitting here, I’m not sure what to do or say next.
Another first for me, especially where women are concerned.
Finally, I figure it out. “Can we start over?” Turning, I find she’s already looking at me. Considering me, her deep gray gaze unwavering and direct.
“Yes,” she says, the tip of her tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip before she catches it between her teeth.
“I’m Tobias,” I say, offering her my hand.
She smiles at me, amused by my gesture. “Argenta.” She looks at my hand for a moment before taking it. “Thank you, Tobias,” she says, in that low, smoky voice of hers. “For rescuing me.”
We both know she didn’t need rescuing.
“You want to get out of here?” It wasn’t what I’d planned to say. Not even close. I’m usually smoother than this. A lot smoother. Usually, I’d have a woman like this eating out of the palm of my hand. Instead, I’m sitting here, my totally inept and eager question hanging between us, waiting for her to fling the rest of her club soda in my face.
Without warning her cell phone comes up and a bright light flashes in my face. She took my picture.
I open my mouth to ask her what the hell she was doing but she shushes me, holding up a finger in front of my face while firing off a quick text. When she’s finished, she tucks her phone into her purse before standing.
Holy shit.
There’s beautiful and there’s stunning and then there’s this woman. The dress is just this side of a felony. Candy apple red and tight enough to render me speechless, it’s intricately placed cut-outs offering glimpses of firm, flawless skin. Not enough to be indecent but enough to tell me that those snotty bitches Jase took upstairs were right. She isn’t wearing any panties. Long black hair, loose and skimming past her shoulders in thick, tumbling waves, surrounding a body that makes standing up a risky proposition.
“Well,” she says, offering me a hint of a smile. “Are we getting out of here or what?”
5
Silver
I didn’t lie. Exactly.
My name is Argenta. Argenta Fiorella. Argento means silver in Italian. My father loves to tell the story of how, newly born, I was placed in his arms at the hospital. He says my eyes were wide open. A soft, shimmering gray, so luminous, they looked silver in the bright hospital lights. My mother wanted to name me Danielle but he insisted on Argenta, a feminized version of Argento.
Solange didn’t care enough to argue her point, and so I was named Argenta. Silver, since before I can remember.
While Tobias makes a quick phone call, I tap out a text to Jane.
Me: I’m leaving with
this man. His name
is Tobias.
I attach the picture and send it. Waiting for it to load, I get a good look at it. He looks irritated, brow lowered. Mouth tight. Jaw clenched. Definitely not someone who enjoys having his picture taken.
Almost immediately, a text comes through.
Jane: Holy Hotness,
Batman!
Jane: Please be safe.
Call me in one hour.
No texts. I want to hear
your voice!
Me: Who’s the grandma
now?
“Something funny?”
I look up to find him watching me. That’s when I realize I’m smiling. “No,” I say, tucking my phone into my purse without waiting for a reply from Jane. “And just so you’re aware, I sent the picture I took of you and your name to my friend. If I end up dead in an alley somewhere, you’ll be suspect #1.”
Instead of looking annoyed or appalled that I would even suggest such a thing, he laughs. “Well, now that I’m sufficiently thwarted…” he holds out his hand and I take it.
Tobias leads me down a back staircase, toward a heavy metal door. Above the door, there is a security camera mounted. It swings wide, opened by another mountain of a man, his huge hand pushing and holding it so that we can pass through.
“Hello, Joseph,” Tobias says as he crosses the threshold, his hand wrapped around mine to pull me through the door after him. “Tell Jase I took off when you see him.” He lets go of my hand in favor of the set of keys, dangling from the giant’s grip.
“Sure thing, boss,” Joseph says, the rumble of his voice so deep, I can feel it in my toes. “Ma’am.” The corner of his mouth lifts just a bit, more of a twitch than an actual smile.
I do my best Solange Moreau impression, tilting my head at an almost haughty angle, my chin lifted just enough so that I give the impression that I’m looking down, even though this man’s elbow is in my direct line of sight. “Joseph.” I murmur the word and in response, the giant’s face cracks in two. He gives me a real smile, so quick it’s gone before I even have a chance to register it for what it really is.
Approval.
Sitting in the narrow alleyway outside the club’s only side entrance is a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport. My father is a car buff and the Veyron Super Sport is the Holy Grail of cars, with a price tag that makes a Lambo look like a Honda Civic.
“What did you say your last name was?” I say, tilting my head toward the man standing next to me.
“I didn’t,” he says, flashing me the kind of smile that makes me forget my own last name. “Where would you like to go,” Tobias says, skirting the front of the Bugatti.
“It’s my birthday,” I blurt out, earning myself a sharp look across the roof of his car. The giant opens my car door with a quiet chuckle and I slide in, immediately enveloped in soft, supple leather.
As soon as I pull my legs into the car, the door is shut behind me. Moments later, Tobias slips into his own seat. “Your birthday, huh?” He gives me a long look, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the car. “How old are you, Argenta?”
“Twenty-one,” I tell him, following it with a shrug. “How old are you?”
“Older than twenty-one.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a quick smile. “Where are we going, birthday girl?”
“I don’t care what we do or where we go, as long as I can get out of this dress.” As soon as it comes out of my mouth, I realize what I’m saying. How it sounds.
“I think I can handle that,” he says quietly, the low rumble of his voice reaching out to me, filling the interior of the car. Before I can say a word, he hi
ts a glowing, blue button on his dashboard. Within seconds, a disembodied voice fills the space.
“Good evening, sir.” Clipped. Refined. Faintly British.
“Good evening,” Tobias says, gaze pinned to mine. “I need a cake.”
“Very good,” the voice says, actually sounding excited at the prospect of finding and delivering a cake at nearly 1AM. “Any particular flavor, sir?”
Tobias gives me a questioning look.
“Chocolate,” I say. “Enough to kill me.”
“Of course, madam,” Bentley says as if any of this makes any sort of sense. “Shall I deliver it to your residence, sir?”
Your residence?
“Yes,” Tobias says, his gaze still pinned to mine, dark blue and hooded. “It’s her birthday.”
My heart starts to flutter in my chest, my fingers wrapping around the hem of my dress.
He’s taking me home with him.
“Indeed, sir.”
He ends the call and breaks eye contact, slipping the key into the ignition mounted on the dash before pressing the start button under the gearshift. The Bugatti roars to life. “Now,” he says, wrapping his hand around the gearshift before giving me a wicked smile. “Let’s get you out of that dress.”
6
Tobias
Rule #1: Don’t bring them home.
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 windows 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.
