We both know exactly what’s going to happen the moment we step inside that suite.
Naturally, I follow.
Chapter Forty-Five
Gemma
He swipes the key card across the reader and the door unlocks. I take in the suite, trying to focus on the details rather than how badly I want him to touch me.
I follow Max through a dimly lit hallway, peering into various rooms. Not a single cent has been spared on details—the best finishes, the finest furnishings and décor. Max watches me, gauging my reaction with a sexy lopsided grin. His woody scent clings to the air, and I breathe it in hungrily.
My breath stalls in my throat when he leads me to the massive windows taking up the entire back wall of the penthouse, much like his own. I’m again taken aback by the beautiful view.
Holy shit. Opposite is a large terrace dotted with potted plants and—is that an in-ground pool? He leads me down a set of stairs I hadn’t even noticed, which opens to a theater room. The left wall is a viewing window to the pool, an underground terrace pool. In London. Unheard of.
“Oh, how the other half lives,” I say wistfully.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice low. He follows me back up the steps.
“Like it? I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a gorgeous suite. This view is stunning.”
“It is,” he says. I pivot to find his aquamarine eyes locked on me, not the skyline, and I turn so he can’t see the heat climbing my cheeks.
“How much is this per night?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the warmth pooling low in my belly.
“Twenty-five thousand pounds,” he provides. My eyes widen.
Stepping forward, he reaches a hand up to caress my jaw, feathering his thumb back and forth over my cheek as if I’m something precious.
“Max,” I whisper, my eyes drifting shut.
His touch is different, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me.
When I open my eyes, his pupils are wide, his brows cinched together. He looks at me as if he’s just placed a missing puzzle piece and now the image makes sense. As if he can predict my thoughts.
“What?” I ask, feeling more exposed than I have before.
He shakes his head.
“You don’t even realize, do you? You’re extraordinary.” His thumb traces my bottom lip.
“You don’t have to say that.” I cast my gaze downward.
He bristles. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” I say, my voice quieter. “I’m not the kind of woman men write sonnets about. No one’s ever scribbled verses about me in the margins of their notebook.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” he says.
“I’m being realistic. I know what and who I am. You don’t need to make me feel special to get what you want. We both agreed to the terms. I’m already here.”
He looks taken aback. “Is that really all you think this is?”
“Isn’t it?” I challenge, though my voice wavers slightly.
“No. Not anymore,” he says.
“What changed?” I ask, knowing full well what changed, because I’ve felt it too.
