With that done, I lead Brie to my private elevator.
Once the door closes, Brie’s gaze roves the lacquered elevator ceiling with light protruding around the rim, beneath the side panels, and casting down onto the floor.“Is there video surveillance?”
“No,” I answer, watching the digital numbers blink past on the panel.“A lobby camera can view anyone entering the elevator, and there’s a security camera in the entryway on my floor, but in no other location.”
“So, hypothetically, this elevator is private?”
“Entirely.”
She smiles.“Dangerous information.”
I fight a smile—half aroused, half exasperated that she can still joke after what happened.
The elevator arrives at the penthouse, signified by the digital letters PH, and I follow Brie into the entry.
She points at the far corner.“One camera.Any others?”
“No.”
I push her suitcase forward into the foyer, stopping at the round entry table.Beside the white orchid centerpiece sits my mail—mundane, normal, safe.The orchid trembles as the wheel taps the pedestal.
“Is someone actively monitoring?”
“No.”The admission stings.My home, my resources, and I didn’t keep her safe in her own apartment.“I’ll have that adjusted tomorrow.”
“There’s no need.”She steps close, hand touching my arm, eyes scanning the mail in my hand.Then her lips brush the side of my neck and everything else falls away.“I just wanted to know if anyone is watching.”
She traces a path of soft kisses to my earlobe and bites gently.
Blood rushes to my groin—instant, demanding.I’m hard before her teeth release my skin.The world narrows to the place her mouth has been and the places it might go.To the fact that she’shere, in my space, safe.
She cups my shaft through my trousers—bold, deliberate—and I nearly groan aloud.My hand finds her hip, tightens, one last flicker of restraint before I give in completely.
I lift her onto the table in one movement.
Orchids tremble as she opens her thighs to me.The air thickens—heat, breath, the taste of anticipation.My hands frame her hips and the city falls to a murmur beyond the glass.
She fumbles with my belt, but I catch her hands.“Not yet.”
First, I need to see her.All of her.In my home, in my light, safe.
I tug at her loose jeans and she shifts on the table, shimmying her hips, lifting so I can pull them down her legs.The baggy clothes she wore for disguise—the wig now discarded, the piercings removed—they hid her.I want her revealed.
“This too.”I hook my fingers under the hem of her camisole.
She lifts her arms and I pull the fabric over her head, revealing skin I’ve mapped in darkness but never here, never in daylight filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows.She’s bare from the waist up, beautiful, and mine to protect.
“I should probably shower,” she says, suddenly self-conscious.“My hair’s been in a wig cap for hours.”
“I don’t care.”My gaze drags over her—heat-dazed, possessive.My fingers dig into her thighs as I spread them wider.“Lean back.”
She hesitates—exposed, vulnerable on my entry table in afternoon light—but I spread her wider, not waiting.Not when I need this.Need to taste her safety, her trust, her presence in my space.
My tongue drags through her center and the flower arrangement rocks precariously.I yank her closer to the edge, one hand splayed across her lower belly, the other gripping her thigh.She tastes like salt and citrus and the end of restraint.
Her fingers slide into my hair—hesitant, then sure—tightening as I work her with tongue and fingers, merciless now.She moans, and I take every sound like proof she’s here, she’s safe, she’s mine.
Broken syllables spill from her—maybeoh my god, maybe my name, maybe nothing but need—until her thighs tighten around my head and her back arches off the polished wood.
