“Tell me.”
She leaned forward. Set her chin in her hand. Spoke in a sensual whisper. “Making money. And then turning that money into more money. Now, how can I help you do that, Daniel?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life than I was when she said those words.
Here I am, three years later, traveling by train with my financial advisor turned business partner. All to check out a tip from a waitress.
But you never know where your best tips will come from.
And here Scarlett is, as wildly attractive as she was back then. Her long legs, clad in designer jeans, are crossed. She’s wearing black flats with red soles, and kicking one back and forth. Her burgundy silk blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her breasts, the barest tease of soft flesh. Her diamond earrings blaze from the sun shining through the window, and her carved cheekbones accentuate her gorgeous face.
As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.
What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?
“Does that sound like a good plan?”
No idea what the plan is.
“Sounds fantastic,” I say, figuring I can wing it.
Sort of like how I deal with these flare-ups of attraction that happen when I’m around her.
I manage.
I’ve been wildly attracted to her since we met, and I’ve never acted on it.
I need her too much. Anything more than a late-night fantasy would be the height of foolishness.
Risk is one thing, but I abhor stupid decision-making.
As we step off the train an hour later, I slide my aviator sunglasses on and crook my lips into a grin. “Let’s go see if this hotel is as naughty as we expect it to be.”
She casts me a glance. “I’m not sure hotels are naughty. It’s more that the people staying in them are.”
I couldn’t agree more—and last night, thinking of her, I definitely was. “You have me there.”
We sail into the boutique hotel, where I scan the lobby, mentally recording every detail, then inquire about a room.
The front desk manager says one is available right now, so I check in, perusing the restaurant, the bar, and all the amenities as we go, making our way to the elevator and up five stories.
Once we’re off the lift, we head into the room, but we have no plans to stay, only to appraise it.
I unlock the door, open it, then say, “After you.”
“Always such a gentleman.”
Once inside, Scarlett oohs and aahs, her gaze landing on a mirror on the wall. It’s sleek and modern, and positioned perfectly for a crystal clear view of any and all bedroom sports.
The mirror screams sex.
Her lips form an O. “That mirror is so decadent.”
I move behind her, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I trust you’re thinking about decadence for one thing and one thing only?”
She hums a yes. In her reflection, I swear I can see trysts and liaisons flickering across her green irises.
This woman.
What would she do if I were to reach my arms around her, unbutton her blouse, and let the fabric fall down? How would she respond if she were revealed to me in the mirror?
Would she want to be watched? Would she want to see how I look as I undress her, as I slide off all her clothes, as I run my hands along her soft, delicious flesh?
She’d see the truth of my desire.
The way I crave her and crave control at the same time.
If we existed in a parallel universe, I’d worship her as I put her on her knees. I’d adore every inch of her skin before I tied her up, had my way with her body, and fucked her into blissful oblivion.
Get a grip.
I blink away the dirty thoughts.
I must focus.
But it’s hard when she tilts her head and seems to be considering something in the mirror.
It’s hard, too, when I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the beauty with the sculpted cheekbones and full red lips.
“What are you thinking, Scarlett?” I ask.
She meets my gaze in the mirror. “This one is so much better than the one at our hotel in Avignon.”
“So you’re a mirror connoisseur?”
She nods, looking a little guilty. But it’s not a bad sort of guilty. Rather a dirty, delicious sort. “I am.”
Then abruptly she blinks and wheels around, almost as if she’s been thinking something she shouldn’t while she was gazing in the mirror.
She clears her throat and gestures toward the lavatory. “I should go check out the bathroom.”
“Go forth.”
She heads there, then gasps. “I’m going to retire right here, right now.”
Laughing, I follow her. The bathroom is sumptuous, with marble tile, thick towels, and a clawfoot tub.
“I love a clawfoot tub,” she says in a reverent whisper. Then, like a good investor, she heads to the bath, sits on the edge, and turns on the water, testing, I presume, to make sure it doesn’t come out rust colored.
“It’s perfect,” she says, then turns off the tap and whirls around.
She loses her grip, almost slipping.
“Oh!” she cries. Her skull heads toward the tap.
I lunge toward her as she stretches out her arm to brace herself on the edge of the tub, but she whacks it on the tap.
Hard.
“Ouch,” she yelps, grabbing her forearm, her face wincing as I reach for her.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She tries to wave me off, her tone stoic. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
But the furrow in her brow, the pain in her eyes tells me she’s not.
“You’re not fine,” I say. “You just smacked your hand on the tap. I know what it’s like for a hand to be . . .” I don’t finish the thought. The scar on my right hand tells the story. Her eyes soften, drifting down to the mark. I ignore the sad look in her irises. “We need these hands of yours to work. To operate your spreadsheets,” I say lightly.
Despite my scar, my hands work just fine.
For nearly everything. There’s only one thing I want to do with them that I no longer can. But that thing has nothing to do with women, or strength, so I lift her up, scooping her into my arms.
Her eyes widen. “Why are you carrying me?”
“You’re wounded, woman.”
An eye roll is her reply as I carry her to the bed and set her down on the edge of the king-size mattress. “I’m not damaged.”
“Of course you’re not damaged. But you did whack your arm.”
“My hand too,” she says, softly this time.
I crouch in front of her, reaching for her. “Let me see it.”
“Are you a doctor?” she counters, but she lets me inspect her injury.
“I’m the doctor in the room,” I tease.
I ask where it hurts, and she points to her wrist, frowning. I run a thumb gently along that tender spot, that tantalizing place that can drive a woman wild.
If you touch her just right.
Which it seems I am doing, since Scarlett’s breath hitches.
“Daniel,” she whispers, her voice perhaps betraying her. “I’m fine. I swear I’m fine.”
I tuck my finger under her chin, lift it, and meet her gaze. “Are you sure?”