As my fists batter the white gym logo on the bag, I can’t help thinking back to those piercing blue eyes watching me as Gray Jones slammed his cock down my throat like a piston.
Why was it so good? And why the hell am I still thinking about it?
Chapter 11
Gray
As a rule, nobody really walks much in New York City, but whenever I get the chance, I like to stroll back to my apartment at the end of the day.
It gives me the chance to stop off at my favorite coffee place on the way. They charge seven bucks a cup, but it’s worth it.
A light rain is falling as I come out of the shop, coffee in hand, and look up at the streetlights. There’s a hazy halo of drops around each one as I start back to my apartment, the brake lights of the cars on the road obscured by the rain, and the city has a quiet aura about it that calms my fractured nerves.
I tend to walk home whenever I’ve had a particularly stressful or irritating day, but I can’t identify what today is, only that I’m out of sorts. I haven’t been able to get Jax out of my head since she left, and I wince as I take a sip of coffee too quickly, burning my tongue.
Strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalk, I enjoy the sounds of the city, watching the cabs and cars come and go, the beep of a horn, the distant wail of a siren. I love New York, and walking along the streets always clears my head.
I’ve finished my coffee by the time I walk through the doors of my apartment building. Even though it’s late, caffeine barelyaffects me at all anymore, and sleep is tugging at the back of my eyes as I throw my cup in the trash.
The lobby is quiet tonight, with one security guard leaning back in his chair behind the reception desk, scrolling on his phone. I make my way to my private elevator, and when he sees me, he sits up, pretending to look busy.
I hit the button, watching the numbers slowly move down to zero, feeling some of the tension bleed from my shoulders.
My apartment was one of the most expensive purchases I ever made. At the time I bought it, it was a status thing. I wanted people to think I was impressive because of where I lived, and now theyknowI’m impressive because of what I’ve achieved.
The only thing missing, in my mother’s eyes, is a wife and 2.4 kids.
I clench my jaw as the elevator dings, and I step inside. My hand goes automatically to my jacket pocket, pulling out the coin inside. Its weight is familiar and comforting as I watch it shimmer in the elevator lights.
I flip it over in my palm, the weight of it moving effortlessly to the backs of my fingers. I skip it along each one, a practiced movement I learned as a teenager. Finally, as it reaches my thumb again, I flip it into the air, watching it spin before catching it.
The elevator dings again, and I step out into the penthouse. The only other person who has access to it is Mrs. Shipping, my housekeeper. She’s worked for me for years and was a godsend after my father died.
“Good evening, sir,” she says, emerging from a side room, her purse over her shoulder, as usual.
I must have asked her not to call me ‘sir’ hundreds of times over the years, but it’s become such a habit that I would feel odd if she called me Gray.
“Hey Ship!” I say, handing her the chai latte I picked up for her.
She frowns at it, flicking me an irritated glare. “You have to stop buying me things, Mr. Jones.”
“I’ll make a note,” I say, as her lips thin, which is her version of a smile. “Anything to report?” I ask as I walk into my living room. It has an aquarium that spans the entire length of one wall, and I sigh happily as it comes into view.
My fish are my pride and joy. I love watching them when I get back at night, and Mrs. Shipping and I have a private joke that if I could dive in there and live with them, I would.
“Your mother has called you five times today,” Ship says. “On the fifth occasion, she asked me rather briskly to remind you that you own a cell phone. She has also messaged you several times, as I understand it.”
Mrs. Shipping is British, very polite, and well-spoken, but even I can detect the tone of irritation in her voice. She does not like my mother.
“Thanks, Ship, I’ll give her a call later. You heading to the theatre tonight?”
Ship spends so much time on Broadway she must be on first-name terms with most of the ushers by now.
“Not tonight, Charles is in town, so I’m taking him to dinner.”
I turn, raising my eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me your son was in the US.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure he would be able to make the trip. He’s up for redundancy, and he’s been struggling for money.” She flashes me a sharp look. “Don’t even think about it.”
