“Don’t imply that I’ve ever forced you to do anything against your will. I may have initiated what happened the other night in your kitchen, but you cooperated fully and enjoyed it as much as I did.”
“Not enough to make the same mistake twice.”
“More than enough. That’s what you’re afraid of. It’s not me you don’t trust. It’s yourself.”
The naked vulnerability in her wide amber eyes confirms the truth of my words. But I get no satisfaction from knowing I’m right.
“Look, Dee…” I take a step back. “It’s pointless to deny the chemistry that’s still between us. But I’m not going to use the storm as an excuse to lure you into bed. So why wait in the lobby sitting in wet clothes when you can come up and get into something dry? I promised you hands-off at the beginning of the evening, and it’s a promise I intend to keep.”
Dee mulls it over, gnawing her plump bottom lip, before she finally agrees. “Fine. It’s the most practical option under the circumstances.”
Her voice has taken that cool business tone, but the wariness in her eyes tells the real story. She’s still nervous about the prospect of being alone with me. And as my gaze drifts over the hard tips of her breasts straining against the wet, clinging fabric, I know once we clear my front door it’s going to take every bit of my willpower not to push Dee up against the wall and take her like a desperate man.
God knows I want to. But if I make love to her tonight, rather than afterglow there’ll be recrimination. Dee will hate herself for throwing away the vestiges of her self-control and condemn me for being an opportunist. So as much as I want her, I’m going to keep my paws to myself: short-term pain for long-term gain.
During the quick elevator ride and the walk to my penthouse, I can feel anxiety radiating off her. “You’re not entering the lion’s lair,” I say when I unlock the door.
“I know that.”
“Then stop looking at me as though you’re the sacrificial lamb. We can talk or watch TV, whatever you want. And when you’re ready to sleep, you’ll go to one bedroom and I’ll go to the other. So there’s no reason to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” she says.
“You’re shaking,” I point out.
“I’m cold.”
If pretending to be in control of her emotions makes Dee feel better, I’m not going to argue. I push open the door and move back to let her inside. The motion sensor bathes the suite in blue ambient light. While I disengage the alarm, I watch the scan of her eyes taking it all in. Compared with her place, my apartment must seem enormous. The living room is a vast expanse; at the opposite end, floor-to-ceiling windows lead to the terrace, which overlooks the city.
We toe off our wet shoes in the foyer, making a small puddle where we stand.
“Do you have a towel to wipe this up?” she asks.
None of the women I occasionally hook up with would ever ask me that. They’d either not notice or expect a servant to be on hand. “Sure. Let me get one.” I’m back in a moment with a towel, but I insist on being the one to mop up the water.
Dee inches forward in her stocking feet, curling her toes from the cold. I try to picture my place through her eyes. The decor’s modern and masculine. Mostly blacks, tans, and browns. Recessed lighting everywhere.Bells and Mama T have been itching for two years to add “a pop of color.” But I’ve never consented to letting them mess around with my space. Now, if Dee wanted to, she could. I’d change the whole damn thing to hot pink if it would get her to stay for more than just the night.
“Let’s get you something to wear. Bedrooms are this way,” I say, leading her down the hall and providing the whirlwind tour as we go. “Powder room’s on the left, laundry room to the right, office over here, this is the workout room, and the master suite is just ahead. You can take that and I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“I’d prefer the guest room.”
“Sure,” I say, disappointed. I like the idea of Dee being in my apartment, but even more I like the idea of her sleeping in my bed. Her warm, scented body curled up on my sheets, her tumble of curls fanning across my pillow.
I show her to the room across the hall from mine, where Dwayde sleeps when he stays over. There’s a queen-sized bed and a dresser, and through the French glass doors is an art table topped with art supplies. “The cleaning staff came by yesterday, so there are fresh sheets on the bed and clean towels in the bathroom. I’ll be right back with some clothes.”
When I return several minutes later, after calling to ensure the Torres clan are safe and sound, I find Dee moving around the room, studying each of the framed sketches.
“Are these Dwayde’s?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Wow,” she murmurs and stops at the charcoal drawing of me making a three-point shot. My feet lifted off the ground; my shooting arm extended in the air; the ball sinking into the net. My expression victorious.
“When Isabelle said Dwayde was gifted, I wasn’t expecting this. From what I know of graffiti, I thought it would be more cartoonish, not in a bad way. But these…they’re amazing, so lifelike, down to the minute details. The muscles in your legs and arms. The tension in your jaw. The glimmer of victory in your eyes.”
“Kid’s got talent,” I say proudly. “I have a couple of pieces of his graffiti-style art in my living room. I’ll show you later.”
“These are all exceptional, but this one of you leaves me in awe.”
