He grins. “Smart girls are sexy as hell.” He plants another kiss on my palm. “Relax, Lisa,” he murmurs, and oddly enough, I do. “I didn’t peg you as a virgin, a priss, or a woman who doesn’t know how to fuck. You are none of those things.”
The word fuck rattles through me more pleasantly than it should, and I realize these walls have heard the word more times in the last hour than they have the entire time I’ve lived here.
It also occurs to me that I really should get off Dax’s lap. I try for solemn dignity, but feel ungainly as I swing one leg to the side and move back, smoothing my skirt down as I stand up. I do my best to straighten my blouse, making a vain attempt to tuck it back in before giving up and hurrying toward my bedroom.
“Give me just a minute to put myself back together,” I call over my shoulder as I slam the door behind me before turning to lean against it.
What the hell just happened?
Before I can stop it, a grin spreads across my face as I remember exactly what just happened. Every last detail, from Dax’s scruff against my throat to his hands on my ass to the thundering earthquake of orgasm. Orgasms.
Good Lord.
I can count on one hand the times Gary made me come more than once, and I’d have at least one finger left over. I use that finger now to make an obscene gesture in memory of that relationship and the asshole who left me standing there at the altar in my Vera Wang wedding gown and my Oscar de la Renta beaded peep-toes with?—
Knock it off, I order myself. You just had the best sex of your life with a guy who’s the exact opposite of all that. Now get back out there and put the rest of the plan in action.
The rest of the plan is fuzzy in the back of my head, but it’s been percolating in my brain all evening. It begins to gel as I straighten my clothes, splash cool water on my face, and touch up my lip gloss.
When I return to the living room, Dax is standing in front of my stainless-steel wine chiller studying the bottles inside. It’s an impressive collection, with reds and whites in separate, temperature-controlled compartments. It’s one thing I fought for in my split with Gary, even though he kept the fancy house in the West Hills with the thousand-bottle underground wine cellar. This condo was mine to start with anyway, though I redecorated to remove any trace of Gary’s four-year influence on my life. I wanted something different.
I stare at Dax now. He’s certainly different.
“Hi,” I say.
Dax smiles at me, and I try to come up with something clever to say to the man who just banged me senseless.
“There’s an Evenstad Reserve from Domaine Serene in there,” I say.
Christ. Can I be a bigger snob?
But Dax just smiles. “I’ve only had the 2013, but I hear the 2014 was much oakier.”
I blink at him, dumbfounded. “It was sixty percent French Oak instead of fifty-seven. You know wine?”
The utter shock must be obvious on my face, and Dax straightens his shoulders.
He takes a step back from the wine chiller and holds my gaze, unblinking. “Sorry to kill your fantasy about having sex with a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal who can’t tell a decanter from a champagne flute and spells Cabernet with a K.”
“I—I—I never thought?—”
“Yeah you did.” He gives me a small smile, and there’s no ice in his voice, but still. I can tell I hit a sore spot. I’m not sure what that’s about.
“Sorry,” I tell him, not sure what else to say.
“Not a problem,” he says. “It’s good to know wine for business, plus I happen to enjoy it.”
I glance away, embarrassed by my own assumptions. By the fact that I’ve judged him without really knowing him. It’s not the first time someone’s caught me in the act of being pretentious and judgmental, but it’s the first time it’s really stung. I start to swing my gaze back to Dax when it snags on his wallet upended on the floor. I stare for a few beats, pretty sure I’m seeing things.
“Holy shit.” I blink at the jet-black credit card fringed with silver, then look at Dax. “Who are you?”
He follows my gaze toward the couch, then gives a small, dry laugh. Taking his time, he ambles over and picks up his wallet. Then he walks back toward me, shoving cards and ID back in their slots, but not that one. The black card he holds up, giving me a clearer view of it. I’ve never seen one up close.
“This? Is this what you mean?”
I nod, too surprised to play dumb. “I just—that’s an Amex Centurion Card. Isn’t it?”
He nods and shoves it back in his wallet. But I’ve already seen enough to know it’s the real deal. “Not to hang up on this or anything,” I say slowly, “but doesn’t that card have like a ten thousand-dollar initiation fee and another five grand in annual membership charges?”
