Penthouse Prince: A new York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  I have an aversion to Post-it notes, but I would follow Tristan anywhere. The supply room is on the other side of the floor and by the time we get there I’m almost winded from trying to keep pace. “Do you speed walk in the office for exercise, or is this your normal clip?”

  Tristan ushers me inside and closes the door. “I was feeling impatient,” he says, his growly tone doing strange things to my stomach. “I wanted to talk to you in private.”

  When I look up into Tristan’s face, I find myself drowning in the hypnotic depths of his eyes. They are ombre spheres, rimmed by navy at the outer edges and getting progressively lighter until a steel band encircles the iris. And I know I’ve made a mistake. Tristan’s eyes should come with a warning sign. Hazardous. Will cause extreme heat. My lungs feel scorched, but I breathe deep anyway. “Did you see the tweet last night? We can’t afford to take risks like this.”

  “Yeah, I saw it, and it was as ambiguous as every other one of their bullshit tweets.”

  “Aren’t you worried? What if people figure out that they’re talking about us?”

  “Do you really want to live your life by someone else’s rules?”

  I’ve spent my entire life living by someone else’s rules. “Fine,” I say, taking a steadying breath and leaning back against a shelf. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I thought back over our conversation yesterday. Particularly the part about secrets.”

  Uh oh. “And . . .”

  “And our problem isn’t how we move forward, it’s how we ended things. The reason things feel awkward between us now is because of what happened then.”

  I nod slowly, my cheeks burning as I recall how I’d rolled out from under Tristan, stark naked, and shimmied into my dress in his hall. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “We should fix that, don’t you agree?” Tristan takes a step toward me, and I notice the purple smudges marring the skin beneath his eyes. Obviously neither one of us slept well last night.

  Tristan’s gaze travels the full length of my body, from the tight bun I carefully pinned at the base of my scalp this morning, to the nude heels that aren’t nearly high enough to put us at eye level.

  When his stare finally returns to my face, his hands landing lightly on my hips, I’m practically dizzy from nervous anticipation. “You want a do-over?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Yes. A do-over where we actually finish what we started. “I— I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I finally stammer.

  “I didn’t hear a word of our morning meeting. Not a single word. I couldn’t concentrate for shit with you beside me.”

  “I took notes. I can send them to you.”

  “Sure,” he smirks. “You do that. But what about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that?”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “Just that we hang out, Reina. Outside of the office. It doesn’t have to be at my apartment. We can grab a burger, or go play pool. It doesn’t matter, really. A few hours to take the sting out of the last few minutes from Friday.”

  Except for the light contact of Tristan’s palms, there is no part of our bodies that touch. And if I’m being honest with myself, that’s the only thing that seems wrong about our situation. The urge to press the length of my body against his, to feel my curves flattened by the solid bulk of his muscles, is almost irresistible. I want Tristan to crush his lips to mine, kiss me until I can’t breathe. A slow burn ignites deep in my stomach as my eyes plead with his, but what I’m begging for . . . I’m not sure.

  Tristan must sense the conflict dividing me, this wanting what I know I shouldn’t have, and he doesn’t shy away from it. “If I’m reading things wrong— If that night was just a one-sided thing, I’ll back off.” His breath fans my ear, sending a shiver through my entire body. For a split second, I consider lying. Spending the rest of my rotation with his team trying to minimize our interactions because of the simmering chemistry between us. And it sounds miserable.

  If I have a chance to extinguish the flames, I have to take it.

  I am willing—no, eager—to work hard and make personal sacrifices for the sake of my career. A career that will never get off the ground if anyone finds me in the supply room with my boss, the door closed, oozing with disappointment that he isn’t trying to get inside my skirt. I am a lot of things, but relieved isn’t one of them.

  Endorphins ricochet through my body like the ball in an old-fashioned arcade game. I’ve tried to deny the chemistry between us, then suggested we ignore it. But to hell with that. It just isn’t possible. Tristan is right. “Tonight?”

  Tristan gives a slow nod. “I think that’s best,” he says, then steps back. Needing to prolong our sense of closeness, I set my hand on Tristan’s chest. Immediately, an electrical charge runs through the marrow of my bones.

  Tristan must feel it, too. He moves back toward me, so fast that my hand is trapped between us, the beat of his racing heart thrumming beneath my palm.

  My lips tilt up at the edges as Tristan dips his head to mine, halting an inch away. I can taste his breath, spearmint with just the faintest hint of orange juice. One second goes by. Then two. And then I curl my free hand around the back of Tristan’s neck and draw him closer.

  At first, Tristan’s kiss feels restrained, as if he’s still giving me a chance to pull away. And if it’s possible, that sliver of reserve makes me want him even more.

  I close my eyes as he leisurely explores my mouth. His kiss is light and heady, filled with promise—like the whipped cream on top of a dense chocolate mousse. Decadence is close, close enough to smell, close enough to taste, but still below the surface.

  I am the one who demands more. I nip at his lower lip, suck it between my teeth, trace my tongue along its velvety softness.

  Tristan groans as he deepens our kiss, his hands wrapping around my waist and grabbing hold of my ass, tilting my hips forward so I can feel the substantial bulge beneath his trousers. My breasts push against the front of his jacket, the layers between us a maddening obstacle. If what he’s done with his tongue is any indication, sex with Tristan will be an event to remember.

  Tristan pulls at the bun I twisted so carefully this morning. My head tilts back, giving him greater access, wanting so much more than what is possible right now.

  He breaks away from me with a gruff curse, backing up several steps into the interior of the oversized closet until he bumps against the opposite wall. “No. We can’t do this here. Not now.”

  I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. I blink at him as the sound of our breaths fill the room, feeling like a sand castle struck by an incoming wave. My fancy turrets and arches have collapsed, leaving just a mangled lump of wet sand sinking into the beach.

  His hair stands on end, and there are faint scratches on his neck from my nails. He looks exactly like he’s been making out in the supply closet and I imagine I do, too. “To be continued. Tonight.”

  “Your place,” I add, not bothering to state the obvious. That meeting up at a bar or some trendy place with artisan cocktails and vintage board games is impossible right now. Until we figure out how to keep our hands off each other, we can’t be seen in public.

  And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe we need to do more than just hang out. We need to get this lust out of our systems.

  After another beat, I straighten my clothes as Tristan attempts to finger-comb his hair back into place.

  “Listen . . . Before we go back out there . . .” I tense, knowing what he’s about to suggest and hating it already. “I know you said that leaving Bettencourt is out of the question, and I respect that. But I’d like you to consider a less drastic option. There are so many other divisions you can start off in. I’ll set you up with another portfolio manager or have you assigned to marketing or research, whatever you want. You can come back to Polaris in a few months, toward the end of the training program.”

  Logically, I kno
w what he’s saying makes sense. But I shake my head anyway. “No. Please, that’s not what I want at all. The opportunity to work on the Polaris Fund is everything I’ve ever wanted. And right now is the most exciting time to join your team—while you’re actively expanding. In a few months, the Fund will be closed to new investors and your focus will be less about strategy and growth than maintenance.” Plus, Kyle knows what I’m capable of and I’m certain he’ll actually include me in the work they’re doing.

  Taking a breath, I debate whether I should even verbalize the thoughts racing through my mind. Spit it out already. I force words through my mouth in a rush. “Let’s just have sex tonight and get it over with. Then we can move forward and focus on work.”

  An aristocratic eyebrow arches upward, his mouth twisting into a scowl. “You think that’s all it will take? One fuck and we’ll both be satisfied?”

  I grin at Tristan’s expression. He even wears indignation well. “Okay, fine. Maybe we’ll have to do it more than once. But I just started here, and I intend to come out on the other side of this internship with a job offer— because I’ve proved myself on the Bettencourt trading floor, not in your bedroom. No one can know about us.”

  “Is there someone else? Maybe not a boyfriend, just a friends-with-benefits kind of thing? You seem pretty eager to keep us in the dark.”

  It’s what I know. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Tristan tucks in his shirt, adjusts his sleeves. Skepticism darkens the steely glimmer in his eyes to a thick onyx halo. “Casual sex, no strings attached. That’s what you want?”

  “I’m not exactly the next Mrs. Bettencourt. I highly doubt your socialite stepmother would approve of me.”

  Tristan cocks his head to the side, seemingly less than eager to take my words at face value. “Why? Because you want more out of life than planning overpriced parties with bad food and watered-down drinks?”

  I look down, a blush coloring my cheeks. If he knew that even my own mother won’t be seen in public with me, Tristan would feel differently. “Something like that.”

  Tristan

  I’ve grown up in the world of banking and big business, have already made a lot of deals, and allowing Reina to walk away from me isn’t on the table.

  If I could convince her to work in a different department, on a different floor—maybe getting together wouldn’t seem so tawdry. But Reina’s veto is instantaneous and unyielding.

  I can’t blame her. The next month is going to be a hell of a ride for my team. For someone as smart and ambitious as Reina, of course she wants to be where the action is. And I understand why she wants to keep this, us, in the dark.

  I have my own reasons for wanting to keep my physical relationship with her hidden. It’s not just the ten year age difference, either. Sleeping with a girl whose ID tag is stamped with my last name . . . It doesn’t matter that it’s entirely consensual, it just looks sleazy.

  None of which makes Reina’s nonchalant indifference any less grating.

  “Fine.” A flare of something unfamiliar ignites inside me. Not jealousy. It can’t be that. I’m not the jealous type. That would require caring about someone enough to consider her mine. Committing to just one person. No. I was burned once before and have the scars to prove it. “Call it what you want, but as long as we’re doing the horizontal mambo, I’m the only guy on your dance card. Got it?”

  Reina’s laugh is soft and husky, a sound of surprise as much as amusement. “Territorial, are we?”

  My jaw remains tight. This is a deal-breaker for me. “I was an only child until fourteen, and I’ve never enjoyed sharing.”

  “Fine. And how about you?”

  “Me?”

  Reina’s lips are swollen from my kisses, her hair not nearly as neat as it was a few minutes ago. “Yes. Do you expect me not to care when you’re out with other women?”

  “So keep me busy,” I shoot back, keeping the truth to myself. I’ve never met another woman who has so completely captivated my attention. And I have no intention of moving on to someone else.

  Not that I won’t, of course. Soon, I imagine. Just like Reina, I’m not interested in anything serious or permanent. For now, though, I only want her.

  The morning passes, and my night with Reina gets closer and closer . . . Until pre-market opens in Sydney, and my best laid plans are blown to bits. Within minutes, anything influenced by China—which is everything—crashes. The plunge continues when New Zealand comes online, rolling across time zones with the sun. Unanticipated uncertainty concerning China’s currency rate and the implications for international trade hit companies across the globe like bullets, including companies I have big positions in. Hour by hour, as each market begins their trading day, the corporate carcasses pile up.

  Most people think investing is tied to the New York Stock Exchange. And it is. But it’s also tied to the London Stock Exchange, and those in Toyko, Frankfurt, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Toronto, and Sydney, just to name a few—not to mention the NASDAQ, Chicago Mercantile Exchange, and innumerable off-exchange and over-the-counter markets. Regardless of time and place, the market value of my Polaris Fund, and every fund managed by Bettencourt or any other firm, changes by the second.

  The Shanghai exchange doesn’t close until 4 a.m., New York time, which is when I insist that everyone on my team call it quits for the night. Including Reina. She kept close to Kyle today, who knew her skill set and gave her whatever work she could handle.

  There’s no point entertaining the thought of meeting up at my place, or anywhere else. There’s too much work to do and not enough hours on the clock. I have just enough time to run home for a quick doze and a cold shower before heading back to the office.

  The rest of the week is much the same. I cope the only way I know how, by tying a tourniquet around my desire so tightly I can barely feel my cock. But it’s still there, and doesn’t hesitate to let me know with every glimpse of Reina’s full lips, every whiff of her tantalizing perfume.

  It’s like being a kid on Christmas Eve—the Groundhog Day version. I go to sleep and wake up, but it’s never Christmas Day. I don’t get to open my presents. Torture, since I know exactly what’s beneath the shiny wrapping, the extravagant bows. Whisper-soft skin, pale pink nipples that beg for my kisses, an ass worthy of worship. A mouth as sweet as mulled cider, and just as intoxicating.

  Temptation is always within reach, but the stakes are too high. One kiss, one taste, one touch and I’ll be lost. I can’t lose focus now. Not yet.

  By Friday, our hard work and long hours have paid off. We succeed in reversing our initial losses, and even add a few gains. Just in time to spend the weekend fine-tuning our investment pitch for current and prospective clients.

  With the lock-up period coming to an end, my current investors will soon have the option of cashing in their profits and taking their business elsewhere. Of course, my hope is that they double down on their investment and write another check.

  With a year of performance under our belt, we’re opening up the fund to new money. Interest is high but until their cash is sitting in our account, it’s all just talk. Which is why my team has put together a two-week road show. Given the current market turmoil, I’m only taking a skeleton staff with me. The rest will have to stay behind to mind the store. I’d like to stay back too, but potential investors expect to see the guy whose name will be on their statement.

  All this has left exactly zero time to follow up on my supply closet conversation with Reina. As much as I hate the unsettled feeling between us—not to mention the simmering sexual frustration—I know it’s for the best. Millions of dollars are at stake, as is my reputation.

  More money under management equals more potential for profit. Growing my fund means hunting down investors—wherever they are. For hedge fund managers like me, a road show is our African safari.

  They are generally a blur of breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and nights out stroking the egos of anyone with millions of dollars to sp
are. Unlike small-time, small-town investors who worry over every penny and are solely interested in performance, our clients require more than just a Power Point presentation and a bound brochure. They expect to be wined, dined, and treated to a damn good time.

  That said, our presentation and handout materials have to be stellar. After my usual pre-dawn Sunday morning run, I sprawl on the couch in my office with a red pen and a hard copy of the latest version, making it about halfway through before deciding to shut my eyes for a few minutes.

  The next thing I know, Reina is lifting it off my face. “I take it this wasn’t such a page-turner, huh?”

  Still half-asleep, I grab for her wrist and tug her her against me, her little gasp making me hard in an instant. “Good morning.”

  “Tristan,” she pushes at my chest. “We can’t do this here. Someone might see.”

  I groan as I release her, knowing she’s right. But damn, she’d felt good. “Who’s here?”

  “No one that I’ve seen . . . yet. But it’s only a matter of time. Marketing wants to finalize the pitch materials this afternoon.”

  I glance at my watch. “You hungry?”

  “Sure. What are you in the mood for? I can go grab—”

  What I’m in the mood for is Reina herself. But since I can’t have her—yet—I’ll have to make do with something else. “We’ll go together. It’s been a while since I’ve had breakfast pizza and I hate eating alone.”

  “Breakfast pizza?"

  I throw her a look. “Trust me.”

  Twenty minutes later, Reina moans her approval. “This is amazing.”

  I grin around my own slice of perfectly toasted pizza dough covered in bacon, eggs, cheese, and caramelized onions, then turn to the man in a white apron coming toward us with glasses of orange juice. “You’ve got a new fan, Joe.”