by Ashlee Price
That has her snorting. “I mentioned it to an empty room, Grazia. No one was in danger of overhearing what I said.”
I bite my lip. “I guess not. This whole situation has me on edge. I have no idea why I even signed the damned thing.”
“Because you wanted to screw his brains out?”
The twinkle in her eye has me holding back a smile. Clearing my throat, I tell her, deadpan, “That might have had something to do with it.”
She immediately snickers and returns to the laptop. Jessie is both my PA and my friend. In fact, she’s probably my best friend. She’s the only person I really talk to about anything important, anyway.
I guess that could be construed as sad, but hell, Jessie is pretty awesome. It would be hard not to like her, and even harder not to become close to her.
“It’s for a foundation started by the Levitt Corporation,” she tells me after a few minutes.
“It’s Marshall’s own gala?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah, looks like it.”
“I wonder why he didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he has this big macho, alpha billionaire image to play up to?”
“Is that even a thing?” I ask, doubtfully.
She nods like she knows what she’s talking about, and hell, the way she devours the gossip columns, maybe Jessie is my go-to gal for information about Marshall. Because Christ, I sure as hell don’t know the man, and all of a sudden I’m dating him.
After a handful of meetings, most of them with little conversation while I was working at events I was managing, he invited me to his offices and propositioned me.
I’d gone there with the expectation of being offered more work, or at a pinch, dinner. Instead, he threw an NDA at me and told me to sign or there’d be nothing between us.
For some reason, I didn’t tell him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. I signed it, and then we fucked on his desk.
It was like a blot on my character.
I am not the sort of person who screws on top of a desk in a skyscraper with a billionaire tech mogul.
I’m the kind of gal who spends all day and night working, trying to make ends meet, while dreaming of the day she’ll be able to give up her day job so she can work full time at her passion—fashion design.
And yet, all of a sudden, I’m with a man who moves and shakes the very city I live in. It’s overwhelming and—though I hate to admit it—frightening.
“I guess there’s more to him than meets the eye,” I tell her, studying the gala’s website.
“Either that or it’s a tax break.”
I grin at her. “Well, that’s just a handy bonus.”
She rolls her eyes and returns to the spreadsheet we were working on earlier. When the jewelry arrived, Jessie was here with me so we could arrange the next couple of events on our agenda. After we gawked at it for a little while, she carried on working while I was left steaming over the implication of the ‘gift’ he’d sent me. I had to call him just to make sure he remembered exactly what I was to him.
He’d wanted me to be his mistress. He’d wanted me to be his employed slut. The only way I agreed to sign the NDA was after making sure he knew that I would never be any man’s mistress, and that his only chance at getting close to me was to date me.
When he agreed, I was stunned. But mostly, relieved. Especially when he kissed me.
There’s a leashed tension about him. Something I’ve noticed from our very first meeting. He’s attractive, there’s no denying that, but in my job I meet attractive men all the time. A guy being handsome isn’t enough for me to throw all my principles away and leapfrog onto him as quickly as I can.
No, there is something about Marshall that’s different. And I’ve yet to figure out what it is, exactly.
“You’ve disappeared on me again,” Jessie grumbles. “I guess that’s what happens when you fall in love; it’s like the song, why do birds suddenly appear?”
Chuckling, I whack her on the arm. “Get on with your work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She winks at me, with an eye roll, I get back to my own epic to-do list.
****
I hate that I’m nervous.
I really hate it.
I’ve smoothed down my dress God knows how many times, and I’ve wasted countless minutes gawking at my hair wondering if I should just wear it up to get it away from my neck. I’ve questioned the wisdom of wearing this dress, while also wondering if I should call Marshall and ask him what the hell we’re doing tonight so at least I’ll know if I’m wearing something inappropriate…
Nerves. Dammit.
Biting my lip, I stare at myself in the mirror again. Admittedly, I look good. I could be overdressed if we’re not doing anything fancy, but hell, I can always get changed.
It’s a simple thought, but it’s one that immediately calms me down. It’s not like he won’t wait for me to change into something else if what I’m wearing is too fancy or whatever.
Sucking in a deep and calming breath, I refuse to fiddle with my hair anymore and I back away from the mirror. Turning on my heel, I head to the kitchen, intent on grabbing myself a glass of water, when the doorbell sounds.
When butterflies settle in my gut once more, I shrug them off, stride over to the door, and open it. Seeing him there in casual clothes makes my heart sink. But then it starts to soar, because damn, he looks good.
His mouth gapes a little, and before I can even think of blushing, he says in a hoarse whisper, “You look absolutely beautiful. Wow.”
Somehow I know it takes a lot to impress this man, and unbidden, I twirl in a circle so he can be hit with the full bang of the red A-line dress that’s half pin-up material and half sweetheart innocence.
When he clears his throat, I tell him, “Beautiful, but entirely too much. I’ll go and get changed.”
His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No! I want you to wear that. You look…” A growl rumbles in his throat. “You look divine.”
“I’m glad, but I’m not wearing this while you’re wearing that.” Everything he wears is expensive, designer, but essentially he has on a pair of jeans, a shirt and a really nice sweater over it.
I won’t lie, it comes as a surprise to see him flush with discomfort. “I should have told you what we were doing.”
“Yeah, you probably should have, but hell, I could have called to ask.” I shrug. “It’s no big deal. Just give me two minutes and I can change.”
“Shit,” he grumbles, following me in when I wave him inside my apartment. “I want you to wear that.”
“I can wear it another day,” I say in a teasing tone. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s water and juice in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
When he smiles his thanks, I retreat to the bedroom and quickly change into a pair of black linen pants, some ballet flats and a red camisole. Simple, but the colors suit me as much as the dress does.
It barely takes me the two minutes I’d told him. I return to the living room to see him staring at one of the paintings on the wall. He hears my shoes tapping against the hardwood floor and asks, without turning around, “This is your work?”
“Yeah, it’s something I did in college.”
At that, he half-turns to look at me. “You’re talented.”
My lips twitch. “Gee, a compliment. Thanks.”
Another flush. And yet more surprise from me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out the way it did. I’m just… hell, I didn’t expect you to be this good.”
He returns his attention to the painting while I look at him. He’s enamored by the deceptively clean lines of the nude portrait I have hanging on my back wall, but I’m more interested in him. If he posed for me, I’d snap his fingers off at the opportunity.
“Thank you, I think.”
This time, he shoots a quick grin at me before asking, “Was that dress one of your designs?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Again, I’m impr
essed.”
“I’m pretty decent at what I do. Unfortunately, the fashion world needs more than pretty decent if you want to make a name for yourself there.” I shrug, accustomed to the notion that I’ll never make waves in that particular sphere.
Even though I’d give my left leg to do just that.
“Then the fashion world is damn crazy. That dress was…” He blows out a breath. “I’ve never seen something so simple do something so crazy. You looked like sex and sin all mixed together.”
“Just the look I aimed for when I designed the dress,” I tease. “Right, where are we going?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Would you mind if we go back to my place?”
Though I’m surprised, I’m not disappointed. He’s seen my living space, now I’d like to see his. “Sure. That’s fine with me.”
His smile is a little more strained than it was moments before. “It’s been a very long day.”
Together, we head to the door. “I’ll bet. In fact, I’d guess it’s probably rare for you to have a short day.”
He waits for me to lock up, and then presses a hand to the small of my back as we walk to the elevator. The doors are still open, meaning no one else has called it since his arrival—not altogether surprising, as my building isn’t the busiest.
It’s a very old one, and is used by designers such as myself because it’s cheap and enables us to live where we work thanks to the larger living spaces that come with an older building.
As we travel down to the first floor, he tells me, “You’re right about that. My days tend to be fifteen hours on a regular basis.”
“Mine aren’t much better. Eight on days without an event, like today, and then upwards of twelve when there is one.”
As we head out onto the street, I see a car waiting for him. A traffic cop probably wouldn’t dare move the expensive vehicle along just because the engine isn’t idling. Oh no, this car’s double parked and couldn’t care less!
Marshall’s chauffeur jumps out and opens the door for us. Ladies first. Within seconds of sitting down, the driver’s back behind the wheel and we’re being whisked through the city.
When I think of the buses I slog on, the taxis I take in a pinch when my budget allows it, I have to admit the luxury of owning not only a car, but one that comes with a driver to ferry you around, is a lavish treat.
“What are you thinking?”
I turn to him with a smile. “Not a lot, really. Just how lovely it must be to travel around the city like this.”
He grimaces. “God, yes. I went to college in the city, but I lived in Brighton Beach with my grandmother. I had to trek in and out twice a day on the subway. I’d have traveled further at the time, and for longer. It was only an hour each way, after all. But now, I’ll admit, I’m used to this.”
“And why shouldn’t you be? You work damn hard for it.”
“Ah, but there’s the rub. So do you, and I’ll bet you have to take taxis.” He wrinkles his nose. “Life isn’t always fair.”
“Not necessarily fair, but I mean, we can’t all be rich and powerful. Some of us have to serve people like you,” I mock, grinning up at him so he knows I’m only joking and not being serious.
He reaches over to tap my nose. “You’re bad for a man’s ego.”
“I never said I was good for it.”
“No, that’s true. Don’t worry, I won’t sue for false advertising.”
“Very reassuring,” I retort, then close my eyes when he traces the finger that tapped my nose up over the curve of my cheek and down my jaw. When a shudder chases down my spine, I let myself look at him and whisper, “How long until we reach your place?”
That question makes his eyes flare wide before they shutter at half-mast. “Not long.” He turns to look out the window. “Ten minutes.”
My jaw clenches as the need he inspires in me flushes through me with a flash. I don’t understand what it is about him that does it, but maybe I’m not supposed to understand.
Doesn’t everyone have that one attraction in their life? That one odd peculiarity that makes no sense, that burns hotter than anything else, but that is impossible to give up?
Maybe Marshall is mine. My mistake to make. My flash fire to enjoy and indulge in, safe in the knowledge that it will eventually burn out.
“Ten minutes isn’t long,” I whisper.
“No? It feels like a lifetime at the moment.”
My lips twitch at that, and when his hand hovers near my mouth, I press a kiss to his fingertip. The tender move is unlike me, but it was an instinctive touch, and I don’t regret it, because a low rumbling sound echoes from him.
I like how vocal he is.
The one and only time we had sex, the groans and moans he made were reassuring in a way. The other men I’ve slept with were mostly silent, only grunting at the end when they came. But not Marshall. He was loud, passionate. It inspired me to let go, to be free.
I enjoyed that as much as the orgasm I had with him.
Crazy, but true.
“Is there a privacy window?” I ask the question under my breath.
His answer is to press a button overhead. When the window shoots up, I immediately clamber over to his side of the car and straddle his lap.
The instant I’m there, I move closer until my breath brushes his lips. When he’s breathing me in, I let our mouths touch, gently at first, mostly because I’m waiting. Waiting for him to take me, to claim me. To make me his.
The possessive thoughts are outside of my comfort zone, but I don’t care. At that moment, I’m beyond caring. From the minute he arrived at my door, I’ve been wanting to be here, in his arms, riding the passion he inspires in me at full gallop. Now I’m here, he has all my focus, all my attention.
When he strikes, it’s everything I knew it would be. His tongue penetrates my lips, and as it rakes against my own, I feel like he’s fucking my mouth. Fucking it like he’d fuck me.
The notion makes me shudder, and I grab a hold of his shoulders and dig my nails into them. I know he won’t feel it through the thick wool of his sweater and shirt, but it doesn’t matter. Not yet. He’ll feel them later, when we’re in bed together. That’s for damned sure.
I let him take control of the kiss, content for him to be in charge as I begin to rock my hips, riding him until I can feel the hard ridge of his shaft swell between my legs. I press down, reveling in that extra pressure as I ride him. His mouth is still driving mine insane. He robs me of my breath, steals it like the kindest thief as I take us both to a precipice neither of us can fall over.
Almost as though we needed the reminder, the car brakes to a gentle halt. Although my mind is most definitely elsewhere, it’s the prompt we need to stop ourselves from taking this too far.
“We’re here,” he mumbles against my lips.
“I know.”
My breathy words should sound shameful; instead they’re loaded with all the desire and lust pounding their way through me.
It’s crazy what he makes me feel. I don’t understand it, and the more I experience it, the less I want to make sense of it.
This is my grand passion, and I intend to take advantage of it as much as I can.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he whispers as he nibbles the corner of my mouth.
Rather than reply, I nod and let him help me off his lap. He opens the door himself, climbs out a little stiffly—who could blame him with the wood he’s packing?—and bends down to help me out of the car.
Yet again, he presses a hand to the bottom of my back, and I can feel his gentle support as he guides me from the street to the entrance of his building.
It’s as impressive as I’d figured it would be. A huge swathing red canopy to shield the building’s eminent inhabitants from stormy weather, a smart doorman wearing an expensive overcoat and top hat like something from another era, and a huge, gleaming golden door that opens onto a grand reception lobby.
It’s not what I imagined. I thought
he’d be into minimalist chic—after all, I’ve seen his office. But this building is most definitely old, and it’s most definitely art deco, and most definitely not modern.
Surprised, I let him lead me to one of those modernized elevators that replicate the kind belonging in another era, and together, we travel to the top.
He inserts a card that takes us right to the penthouse, where the elevator opens up into the apartment. My first glimpse of his home is astonishing.
It has the same edge as his office. Lots of clean lines, empty spaces, but this is a little warmer, cozier. There are lots of seating nooks. Plush chairs, selected for comfort not style, congregate together in various areas of the loft, set amid low tables with delicate and/or stylish ornaments that add to the atmosphere without cluttering the place up.
We walk past two such seating areas before reaching a room that could only be considered a library. This is the only place with proper walls, and these ones are loaded down with books. Endless amounts of them. Not new ones, either. They’re leather-bound, with cracked spines, so they’re old and have been used. Whether they’re for show or not is another matter entirely.
“Like to read, huh?” I ask dumbly, curious enough to wonder if the books are for real.
“Yeah. This is my favorite room. I don’t read as much as I’d like; I don’t have the time.” He shrugs it off, but I can still sense how badly he wishes he did have the time.
It’s another facet to his nature that interests me. He’s no cookie-cutter tycoon. He has quirks, and they’re my most favorite part of every person. They’re what make a person unique, and I get the feeling Marshall is more unique than most.
Hell, for him to have accomplished what he has at his age is astonishing. Those facets make me want to explore, and I fully intend on doing so.
Chapter Three – Marshall
Eying the library with faint regret, I lead Grazia away toward my favorite part of my apartment.
I had a hand in decorating this place, more so than most of my properties, which is why I live in this particular one. I don’t often bring women to this apartment, though, as it’s my private space, but tonight, after visiting Brighton Beach, I didn’t want to be anywhere else but home.
