by Julie Kriss
She moved on me, and I gripped her hips. The condom has to go, I thought, the idea coming from nowhere. I’d never had bare sex, but I absolutely had to have it with this woman. I filed that away as a problem I’d find a solution to.
“Oh, God,” she said, and I knew she was feeling the same way I was, the satisfaction of a deep, impossible craving. I leaned up and sucked on her neck again, making her flinch. I didn’t want to leave a visible mark, but I pushed it as close as I could. In response she moved on my lap, making me sink deeper. We both moaned.
“Incredible,” I said against her skin. “You are so fucking incredible.”
She moved her hips, her eyes drifting shut as my fingers dug into her hips. Her body moved in a rhythm, sliding on me, her knees sinking into the sofa.
“That’s it,” I coaxed her softly. “Please yourself.” It pleased me to watch it, to feel it. I slid my hand down her belly, finding her clit with my thumb. I rubbed it with just the right pressure, on just the right spot, as she moved over and over.
I felt the orgasm inside her first, a shaking tremor, and then she was crying out and gripping my shoulders, unable to stop herself. My own orgasm hit like a freight train and I emptied myself into her. Then we both collapsed, panting and sweating.
In that moment, I wanted to keep her. I wanted to have her. I wanted her to be mine—not the just the pretend woman, but the real one. I would have done anything.
She lifted her head and looked into my eyes. She looked dazed, pleased, and completely satisfied. She smiled at me, and the smile was so beautiful I felt it in my bones.
“Thank you,” she said. “I guess it’s time for me to leave.”
Twenty-Six
Samantha
* * *
“I’m telling you, there’s something going on with him,” Jade, the receptionist at Tower VC, said as she poured her coffee. “But no one knows what it is.”
“I don’t know.” This was Anita, the intern in the legal department. She was sipping her coffee, frowning as she scrolled on her phone. “I don’t see what you’re talking about.”
“Keep scrolling,” Jade said.
I took a cup and poured my coffee. There was no one else at the coffee station in the office, and no one within earshot. Still, I leaned a little closer. “What don’t you see?” I asked.
Jade raised an eyebrow at me. She was twenty-two, black, tall, and gorgeous. “Busted,” she said. “If we show you, you have to promise not to tell the boss.”
“Of course I won’t tell him,” I said, suppressing the flutter in my chest, and the second one lower down. Aidan wasn’t in the office today—he had back-to-back real estate meetings around town. It was Tuesday, and I hadn’t seen him since Saturday night. The night that hadn’t happened, of course. At least, not to me.
I couldn’t think about it right now. These were my coworkers, and Jade was watching me. “I pinky swear,” I said to her.
“You know Aidan doesn’t like gossip,” Jade said.
I felt my stomach twist. Gossip?
“I don’t see any gossip,” Anita said. “Maybe they took it down.”
“It’s there.” Jade leaned over to Anita’s phone, scrolled quickly. “See? There. Read it.”
“’What a surprise to see a face we knew at the Masoku Gallery on Saturday night,’” Anita read aloud. “’The Man in Black himself, Aidan Winters, made an appearance. But he wasn’t wearing his signature black! He swapped his usual severe clothes for gray. Why? Your guess is as good as ours! Though we shouldn’t be too surprised to see Mr. Winters on the premises, since his multimillion-dollar company, Tower VC, owns the building and invested in the gallery. He never appears at the gallery’s shows, so we didn’t know he was an art lover. Did a woman lure him there? We’d love to know. There were no photos allowed, so you’ll have to take our word for it. In the meantime, the Man in Black maintains his bachelor status—and his air of mystery!’”
“Stupid, I know,” Jade said. “Still, he’s been different lately. I’ve definitely noticed.”
“It was just an art show,” Anita said.
“He didn’t wear black,” Jade said. “Have you ever seen him wear anything but black?”
“No, but I like it. He always looks hot.”
They looked at me, expecting me to say something. Anything. And for a second, I couldn’t think. My brain went blank and my hands went cold.
Aidan had been seen at the art show. There was gossip about it. That was why he hadn’t approached me inside the gallery—because he’d known there was a risk.
A risk I had taken without thinking.
And Tower VC really did own the building. That hadn’t been part of the game.
The silence had gone on a little too long, and both women were looking at me, so I said, “I’ve never seen him wear anything but black, either.”
Because I was Samantha, and for Samantha, that was true.
“Come on,” Jade said. “You work with him more than the rest of us. You have to have noticed his mood.”
“His mood?” I asked.
“He was completely impossible after the Chicago trip,” Anita said, nodding. “I remember that. But then he mellowed out.”
“Mellow for Aidan, that is,” Jade agreed. “He’s still his scary-ass self, but something’s different. I know the look of a man who’s getting some, and trust me, that man is definitely getting some. I’d bet a million bucks.”
I put my coffee to my lips and sipped it. Hard.
“Damn, that is one lucky woman,” Anita said. She gestured to the article on her phone. “An artist, right? That’s why he showed up at the show all casual. He’s got some artist chick and he’s banging her senseless.”
“Maybe.” Jade looked at me, an all-knowing look that demanded answers. “Spill it, Samantha. You know the dirt.”
I put my coffee down. I had to get control, and I had to do it now. “I don’t know anything,” I said, shrugging. “You know he doesn’t tell me his personal life. He definitely wouldn’t tell me that kind of detail.”
“No, but you have eyes,” Jade said. “Am I right or am I crazy?”
Why had I walked into this conversation? Oh right, because I was insatiably curious about anything to do with my boss. Which now I was regretting. “I suppose he’s in a good mood,” I said, “though he’s always very professional with me.”
There. That was a good answer. The answer a proper executive assistant would give.
“You mark my words,” Jade said. “There’s something going on. And sooner or later the gossip sites are going to pick it up. Then you’ll see some fireworks.”
I was in my office, scanning contracts for the confidential server, when my phone rang. It was Aidan.
“What’s up?” I asked him when I answered.
“Come outside,” he said. “I want you to come with me.”
“Go with you where?”
“I want your opinion on something.”
“All right. Give me a minute.” I hung up, locked my office, and took the elevator to the ground floor. It was a beautiful day—the rain had cleared the skies, and a warm breeze was blowing. June was finally here. In a month, New York would be hot and unbearable, mostly smelling like rank sweat and garbage, but today it was a nice place to be.
Aidan’s company car and driver had pulled up to the curb. He pushed open the back door and gestured me to get in.
“This is a little mafia-like,” I said as I got in.
“Hardly,” Aidan said. He was wearing his signature black, his laptop open on his lap. Aidan tended to work in the car while on the way to meetings—he said it was the best way not to waste time. “It’s just a meeting.”
“With who?”
“An agent for the building we’re thinking of buying. I can’t decide if it’s a good investment or not.”
When he didn’t continue, I filled in the blanks, incredulous. “You mean you want my opinion?”
“Yes, I do.” Gone was the
man who had picked me up on Saturday night. This was all-business Aidan, calm and impenetrable. His scary-ass self, as Jade said. He handed me some papers, and his knee brushed mine. I ignored the fact that my skin tingled with even that slight touch.
“These are building records,” I said. I’d seen plenty of these since working for Aidan. “We’re going to the Lower East Side?”
“One of Manhattan’s resurging neighborhoods,” Aidan said. “For decades one of the poorest parts of the city. Now being gentrified like everywhere else.”
He didn’t sound impressed. “You’re not a fan?” I asked.
“Of the Lower East Side? Sure, especially the restaurants. Of gentrification? I’m not convinced every neighborhood needs a Sephora megastore and an artisanal juice bar. But who am I to dictate the free market?”
I liked Aidan when he was like this. It was always interesting to pick his brain. He wasn’t college educated, which meant he sometimes knew unusual things. There was a moment of quiet in the car, and I found myself enjoying it—Aidan’s presence next to me, his scent, his knee brushing mine. Saturday night had been incredible, but I also liked just being near him.
“I didn’t know Tower VC owned the Masoku Gallery,” I said.
His dark eyes flickered to me, and I saw something in their depths—he knew what I was getting at. “It’s one of my favorite properties of ours, I admit,” he said. “It doesn’t generate the most profit, but it’s a place that makes the neighborhood unique and interesting.”
I looked casually down at my papers. “You were spotted there by the gossip sites on Saturday night. They said you weren’t wearing black.”
He was quiet for a second. “I wasn’t. I told you I own other colors.”
“Still, since we’re in private here I thought I should warn you. If you don’t want to be seen, you need to be more careful.”
“Noted,” he said.
I raised my gaze to him again. He was looking at me.
“It was something of an impulse,” he said gently. “I like the people who come to the gallery.”
I bit my lip. “There’s gossip at the office, too, as long as I’m warning you. People think you’re seeing someone.”
He looked a little icy at that. “If I am, it’s nobody’s business.”
“True. But the rumor is that you’re…” I trailed off.
Aidan raised his eyebrows. “That I’m what?”
I cleared my throat. “That you’re getting laid.”
He scratched his chin for a second, thinking that over. “Offices are the worst fucking places, I swear to God,” he said. “Is anyone talking about you?”
It was the closest he’d come to alluding to what we did in our off-hours. “No one is talking about me that I can tell,” I said. “Certainly not to my face.”
“All right, then. But you’re right. I’ll be more discreet. In the meantime, tell me whether, if you had twenty million dollars, you’d buy this building or not.”
“I don’t know,” I said when we had finished the tour of the building. “I’m not an expert.”
The real estate agent had left, and we were standing in front of the building, looking up at it. It was in rough shape, there was no doubt—the building had been neglected for nearly ten years, and there was water damage and bad electrical wiring. But it was in a good spot on the Lower East Side.
“I’m not an expert, either,” Aidan said. “Do you want to know a secret? Most of the time I fucking guess.”
“Then why don’t you fucking guess this time?” I asked him.
He smiled at my profanity. He was flat-out gorgeous when he smiled, probably because it was so rare. “I don’t know. I’ve been second-guessing myself lately—I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m burned out.”
He was serious, so I gave it a try. “Well, it’s an eyesore,” I said, looking at how the building compared to the others on the street. “I’m not sure the building should be saved, even if it could be. You might have to tear down and rebuild.”
“So the property is twenty million, and rebuilding is another ten,” Aidan said. “The question is, will it be worth at least thirty million when it’s all over? Preferably forty, if I’m going to spend that kind of time.”
I looked at it again. It was a four-story apartment building, empty now. I couldn’t believe we were talking about twenty, thirty, forty million dollars as if it was pocket change. “You won’t have any renters while you rebuild.”
“Correct. No cash flow at all. Money going out and not coming in.”
“Is it being sold for below market value?”
“This is Manhattan, so absolutely fucking not.”
“But when it’s finished and you get renters, then you make money.”
“Over time, yes. Or I sell it and move on.”
I looked up and down the street again. “This is a nice street,” I said. “These are working people. There are bodegas and little restaurants. This building should be part of that, part of the neighborhood. Maybe row townhouses with young families in them. It would add to the community.”
I stopped talking, because he was looking at me. I couldn’t decipher his expression. “What?” I said.
“You’re sentimental,” Aidan replied. “You’re a romantic.”
“I’m not,” I protested. “You’re the one who said the art gallery added to the neighborhood.”
“I bought the art gallery for a song, and it’s gone significantly up in value.”
“Value you only realize if you sell it.”
“And I’m not selling,” Aidan agreed. “But I could.”
I crossed my arms. “I’m not an expert, like I said. But it seems to me that real estate is about more than just making money. It’s about making a neighborhood where people want to live, to work. Where businesses can open and make a profit. Where, I don’t know, where people could live good lives.”
“And my goal is to make money,” Aidan said. “As much money as humanly possible, and then even more.”
I thought of the Aidan I’d met on Saturday night, who had called himself William. It’s utterly cold and unfulfilling, he’d said of real estate. “I don’t believe you just want to make money,” I said.
“Oh no?” His voice was icy again. “Then what do I want?”
“I don’t know. Something else. Something that has meaning.”
He didn’t answer that. “And what do you want?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Nothing. I told you my story. Since I was a baby, I’ve been lucky to be alive. Things have turned out better for me than they had any right to.”
“So you don’t want anything at all?”
“I want safety and security,” I said. “I want a job that fulfills me and pays the bills. I want my sister nearby and reasonably happy. I have those things. What else could I want?”
The words hung there. After a moment, Aidan nodded.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll see.”
The text came at midnight. I was alone in my condo, sitting in bed, reading. The book was One Night with the Devil, and to be completely honest it was the third time I’d read it. Especially the scene where the hero stripped the heroine naked, tied a silk rope around her wrists, put her on all fours on the bed, and—
On the nightstand, my phone buzzed. I picked it up and read the text from Aidan.
Tomorrow night, Shaker’s rooftop on Fifth Avenue. Just after nine.
My throat went dry. Underneath my sleep T-shirt, my nipples hardened. I put my book down.
Yes, I replied.
I didn’t even think of saying no.
Because damn it, Aidan Winters was right. There was something else I wanted, after all.
Twenty-Seven
Samantha
* * *
The Jacques was classy, but Shaker’s was trendy, expensive, and crowded. It was on the roof of an office building, twelve stories up. Fifth Avenue stretched away below, surrounded by skyscrapers—the view dominated by th
e Empire State Building, still Art Deco perfection after so many years.
It was a beautiful night when I arrived—just after nine, as instructed. The days were getting longer, and the sun had set just a little while ago. A warm breeze blew and the New Yorkers who were drinking up here, high above the city, were just warming up. I threaded my way through them and walked to the bar.
Aidan was there.
I had to pause for a minute, because he was sitting on a bar stool, drinking a glass of whiskey, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans were worn, and the shirt was light gray, fitting him to perfection. His biceps—had I ever noticed Aidan’s biceps before? I noticed them now. They were perfectly shaped and hard as granite. The shirt fell straight over his flat stomach. The line of his shoulders was to die for.
He was gorgeous in a suit, and he was gorgeous in jeans and a tee. It wasn’t fair.
No one was looking at him, except for a couple of women who were checking him out. He was hot, but he wasn’t recognized as the Man in Black. I took a breath and got into character, preparing to play the game once again.
I was wearing a skirt, blouse, and heels. My name was Leigh, and I’d just left the office after working late. I had recently been dumped by my long-term boyfriend, who I’d thought would marry me, and I was low on confidence but determined to get back into the dating pool and meet someone. Tonight I screwed up my courage to approach the hot guy in jeans sitting alone at the bar.
A seat opened up next to him and I grabbed it. I signaled the bartender and ordered a glass of white wine spritzer.
As the bartender pushed the drink my way, Aidan turned and looked at me. He smiled appreciatively—a cocky grin. God, he was so gorgeous.
“Hi there, Spritzer Girl,” he said.
“Hi, Whiskey Guy,” I replied.
And just like that, the game was on.
His name was Max, and he was an airline pilot on leave. In fact, he had to be at JFK in a few hours for a trip to Seoul. He was hot and very, very aware of it. He was looking for a gorgeous woman to spend time with before he left again, and he said I fit the bill.
