“So, where do we start?” I ask, trying to kill the awkward silence that’s fallen. She looks up as I take a swig of water, her eyes falling to my lips. I smile, and she startles, distracting herself once again by pouring some water. I should have done that. Poured her water. What kind of gentleman are you, Ward?
“I guess you should tell me why I’m here.” She braves facing me.
“Oh?” Yes, why is she here? My thoughts are all over the place, and she is dominating them. Just her. Nothing else. No shitty past. No guilt. No shame. No pain. Just her.
“You requested me by name?” she murmurs.
Ah. Interiors. This beautiful specimen is a dab hand at amazing interiors. “Yes.” My smile is natural. Not forced. I just love how she’s struggling to look me in the eye. She keeps taking a timeout, looking away, gathering herself, before facing me again. It’s . . . fascinating. I know I affect women, but none of them try to hide their attraction. Perhaps, maybe—definitely—because all the women I encounter are members of my fine establishment. Inhibitions are lost. Beating around the bush is just a waste of time, when you could simply spell out your desires and get-fucking-on with it. Which everyone does at The Manor, including me. But this woman . . . that’s not in her. Boldness isn’t the way forward here.
But it’s all I know.
I feel my forehead wrinkle again. The way forward to what exactly, Ward?
“So, may I ask why?”
“You may.” I inch forward on the couch and rid my hands of my water, keeping my arse on the edge, my forearms on my knees.
“Okay. Why?” she asks, unsure.
“I’ve heard great things about you.” Is she blushing? It’s cute. And something else I’m not familiar with.
“Thank you. So why am I here?”
“Well, to design.” I laugh to myself, my thoughts filthy. My answer could be very different.
“Design what, exactly? From what I’ve seen, everything is pretty perfect.”
She’s right, but as of now I’d have her redesign the entire place if it meant keeping her here for longer. Just to look at her. Admire her. Feel these odd tingles and be rid of the never-ending cycle of self-annihilation that is my life. “Thank you,” I say. “Do you have your portfolio with you?” I’m dragging this out. I don’t need to see her previous work. I’ve seen everything I need to see at Lusso to know she’s the woman for the job. But, shit, I’m getting far more than I bargained for.
“Of course.” She pulls it from her bag and sets it on the table, and I rise without thought and move to her couch, lowering beside her. She shifts subtly.
“You’re very young to be such an accomplished designer.” I start browsing the file.
“How old are you?” she blurts out, and my hand pauses turning the page. Jesus, and I thought my brain-to-mouth filter was dodgy. Hers is completely knackered. But, God love her, she’s totally exposed her state of mind right now. Confirmed my thoughts. She’s attracted to me.
Yet that question . . .
It tells me age matters. It tells me she’s wondering. Fuck. How old do I look? My confidence in that department has been dented for the first time in forever. Maybe because I’m on unfamiliar ground with an obviously younger woman.
I start nibbling my lip, thinking. Avoid the question. Simple. I glance up at her. Her face, bless her, is bright red. “Twenty–one,” I say, and she snorts, making my brows rise, part amused, but more insulted.
“Sorry.” She swings her gaze back to the portfolio in my hand, and I start turning the pages again. And I’m smiling when the interior of my new apartment comes into view. “This, I like a lot.”
“I’m not sure my work on Lusso would fit in here.”
I find her eyes. What about you, Ava? Would you fit in here? “You’re right; I’m just saying . . . I really like it.”
“Thank you.”
She clumsily grabs her water. She’s modest. Reserved. It’s refreshing after being surrounded by brash women my entire adult life. But she definitely needs to loosen up. Just a little, though. Not too much. Her disposition is endearing. Her awkwardness. Her terrible attempts to remain cool. That’s refreshing too.
This is so strange, this feeling. My fascination. Her fascination. I smile at the photographs, feeling her eyes drilling into me. I move my knee a fraction and brush her leg, and she jerks, moving away quickly.
“Do you have a toilet?” She’s up like a shot, faffing with her dress, and I slowly rise until I’m towering over her.
“Through the summer room and on your left.”
“Thank you.”
I remain exactly where I am, not giving her the space she needs, forcing her to edge her way past. She’s holding her breath. I’m definitely holding mine. My eyes follow her hasty steps all the way to the door until the wood separates us.
“Well, fucking hell,” I breathe, falling to my arse on the couch and staring forward. Ava O’Shea. I don’t know what I anticipated, but she most definitely wasn’t it. I blow out my cheeks, scrubbing my hands down my rough face. Just ask her out. Simple shit. Except, I don’t ask women out. I get plastered and fuck them in every filthy way imaginable, and something tells me she wouldn’t be all too amenable to an offer to join me in my private suite. She’s nothing like the women I’m used to, and I’m guessing Miss Ava O’Shea isn’t familiar with this lifestyle. But is she curious? Could she turn after she’s seen what I offer here? I pout.
Frown.
Recoil.
No. This place, it wouldn’t suit her. She’s too . . . lovely. She’s more lace, not leather. More passionate lovemaking than animalistic fucking. I sense she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a fairy tale, and I know, better than anyone, that all I have to offer is a horror story. Darkness. Ugliness. Pain. Sin. Guilt.
She’s out of your league, Ward.
The door swings open and I jump out of my fucking skin. “For fuck’s sake, Sarah,” I snap.
“Sorry. I finished earlier than expected. Want me to take ov—”
“No.” I grab the portfolio and start flicking the pages. “I’ve got it, thanks.” I risk a peek up at her, discovering exactly what I knew I would. A massive frown.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep.” That’s a lie. I don’t think I am okay. I feel . . . weird. And gutted. Because Miss O’Shea doesn’t fit into my box. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
That frown doesn’t leave her face as she closes the door. It’s an achievement, considering the amount of shit she has pumped into it. I toss the folder on the table and start trying to master a plan because, and it’s a fucking revelation, I am affected.
I’ve just got to know what’s under that navy pencil dress. Got to taste those lips. Got to feel those hips. Get to know her. Woo her. Then ask her out, Ward. That’s the correct etiquette, I believe.
All well and good, but I’m assuming she’s interested. I might have read this completely wrong. Perhaps she’s just off because she’s found herself at an elite sex club in a meeting with a man who, I fucking hope, breaks the stereotypical sex-club-owner type.