“So you went and built one from scratch?”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Open your windows manually and use the switches for the lights?” I propose with humor. He lets out a loud breath, the closest thing to a laugh I have ever heard from him.
“But where’s the challenge in that?”
I genuinely laugh, amused by the way he thinks. In his genius mind, building a whole AI system isn’t that far-fetched. Searching for personal clues as to who he is, I look around the place. The room looks impersonal, like a magazine home. There isn’t even a picture anywhere, just generic-looking art. That’s disappointing.
The place is particularly masculine, and the lack of a woman’s touch reminds me of something. “Do you have a woman in your life?”
His answer takes slightly too long to come. “I don’t.”
“What about the one from the nude when we first met in the elevator?”
“She was a convenient arrangement, nothing more. And she wasn’t one anymore at the time she sent that picture.”
“Really?”
“Relationships demand too much maintenance. That’s why I don’t get entangled with anyone.”
Message received loud and clear. We’re not getting entangled. This is just a convenient arrangement—one where he hopefully rearranges my insides.
A pout is on my lips as I approach a painting. It’s Pollock-inspired, with drops and splashes of paint. I’m not into modern art, but there’s something fascinating about it. I don’t know if it’s the contrast of the colors, the slight relief of the drops, or the sheer size of the piece—as big as a door—but I adore it for some reason.
I can feel his eyes following my stroll around his place, and it warms me from the inside out. The apartment is remarkably silent, giving me a sense of isolation. We’re in Downtown Seattle, close to rush hour, and I can’t hear a single car. All this silence isn’t helping with my nervousness. Some music would go a long way.
Feeling bold, I take a deep breath, not moving my eyes from the painting. “Iris, could you put on some music?”
I hear what almost sounds like a chuckle behind me. “Sorry, she only answers to my voice, Andrea. And I’m afraid I never programmed her for music.”
He’s close to me now, but I keep my back to him, resisting the urge to turn around and look at him.
“Are you telling me you don’t listen to your funky playlist here?” I tease, remembering his unexpected tastes.
“I only listen to the funky playlist to prevent me from falling asleep while I drive for long hours.”
Confused and disappointed, I spin around to face him. “So you don’t actually like disco music?”
“I don’t like music in general.”
That’s probably a red flag, but I couldn’t care less when he’s so close to me. I fight the urge to press my palms on his broad chest.
“Why would you let me believe it was your playlist then?”
“You were having a blast. I didn’t want to ruin your fun.” Bending closer to me, he brings his mouth right next to my ear, his hand grazing my side from my hip to my ribs. “You have the most enticing laugh, Andrea.”
His closeness, baritone voice, and touch are too much for me to handle. A wave of pure lust travels through my entire frame to end straight between my legs, where my clit pulsates with need. Right then and there, I cream my panties.
How does he keep doing that? Make me so weak and needy?
Perfectly aware of what he just did to me, he retreats with a smirk. “Would you like something to drink?”
Once more, the reality of what’s about to happen dawns on me. I’m here to seal the deal, to have sex with Lex. Should I call it…slex? Okay, now my nervousness is derailing my brain.
“I’d like that, but could I use your bathroom first?” I ask, trying to seem nonchalant. I need to clean up because I’m not letting him near my chocha so long after my last shower.
He points to a hallway behind me. “Second door on the right.”
