I tip my head back to look up at him. “Hey.” I match his hushed tone.
My eyes shift to the six serious looking faces on the screen of his laptop.
He leans into me. “The camera is covered with a Post-it note,” he says. “I tend to pace a lot during long conference calls, and that drives people crazy.”
“Why not select not to let the app use your camera?”
“The Post-it note lets everybody know I’m growing impatient.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t expect this call would take this long,” he says, rubbing his temples.
He must be having quite the day because he’s still unshaven, which is unlike him. Even weary and drained, he’s still as gorgeous as ever.
A man with a deep voice and a British accent launches into an explanation of the revised renovation plans of one of the Pompadour London hotels.
Phoenix isn’t paying attention. Instead, his gaze is fixed on me. His blue eyes drop to my white designer heels and drag up my bare legs, up my body, pausing at my breasts before rising to my face.
“You look fucking hot,” he says before dropping a soft kiss against my lips.
I changed into a pretty dress before going out shopping. I had to bring on my A game because I’m in Paris. I love-love-love this iconic Diane von Furstenberg knee-length wrap dress. The black and white print stands out, and the electric-blue background resembles the Adriatic Sea.
“Thanks,” I say, with a coquettish smile.
“Did you go shopping?” He makes a move to untie the sash at my waist.
I shoo his hands away. “What do you think you’re doing, Mr. CEO-COO?” I keep my voice low.
He chuckles and grabs me by the hand.
I follow him to the desk. “Do you want a drink? It’s cocktail hour somewhere in the world.”
He nods.
“Whiskey or wine?”
“Wine. Red.”
“Okay.”
I make my way to the mini bar to locate a good bottle. I still can’t get over the fact there’s also a full bar in the living room area. The Pompadour is the height of luxury.
As I move about the room, I’m keenly aware of Phoenix’s eyes on me. I peek over my shoulder.
His attention lingers on my ass, eyebrow cocked in interest.
I smile.
He doesn’t.
He stares at me. Or should I say, he devours me with his eyes. He runs a hand over his stubble, and my stomach flips as I long to feel it between my thighs again.
This conference call is becoming more of an annoyance with each passing minute.
Thank God for wine to pass the time.
I grab an exceptional Syrah I’ve had the pleasure of sampling before at Rhys’s place. I pour two glasses and sashay back to my husband.
