“The reek of Creed cologne and the glint of entry-level Rolexes,” he says, hooking his thumb in the direction of the analysts.
Cuff links from Graff.His earlier words drop into my head. My eyes flick over a suit that’s definitely made to measure, given his build and its fit. I glance at his wrist and the watch I can’t see—that I haven’t paid attention to.Yet.
“Patek Philippe,” he says, lifting his wrist. “Wanna know which one?”
“No,” I say quickly, uncomfortably caught out.
“My job pays well too.”
“So I see.”Would that be thanks to generous sugar mama or a happily fulfilled client base?
“Go on.” He reaches for the gilt picture frame in the center of the table, surrounded by knickknacks oozing Frenchness. “Ask me. Whatever it is you’re thinking.”
Not in a million years would I utter the phrasesugar mamain his hearing. “And spoil your air of mystery?”
His mouth kicks up, and he reads the text accompanying the print in the frame, the reason for our cutesy designated table name.
“Peter proposed in Paris,” he reads with an unimpressed twist of the lips. “Original.”
Oh, you have no idea. “That’s Pete.”
“Pete?” He slides me a look.
“He prefers Peter. That’s why I call him Pete,” I say, acid sweet.
“Kill Stinky Pete,” Matt murmurs as he puts it down.
“What did you just say?”
“I see you’re unfamiliar with the villainousToy Storycharacter?”
“You have kids?” My heart plummets to my Jimmy Choos.
“Borrowed only. I’m an uncle,” he says with an air of ... something. “‘Kill Stinky Pete’ is what my niece would yell at the TV whenever the prospector inToy Storypopped up. When she was much younger, at least.” He smiles, the memory causing something inside me to thaw. “She’s more into Disney princesses these days.”
“‘Kill Stinky Pete.’ I like it. Feels almost preordained.”
“There’s a reason he’s at the top of your smother-with-a-pillow list.”
My mouth curls lopsidedly. “Not painful enough. And the margin of error is too wide for my tastes.”
“All right, killer,” he says with a chuckle.
“Don’t call me that.” My words hit the air like bullets. “I just don’t like it,” I add, hoping to lessen my bite as I turn and make asif to pull out my chair. Until his hand engulfs mine and he squeezes it tenderly. Reassuringly.
“Hey, turn that frown upside down before people begin to think you don’t fancy me.”
As if,I almost answer, though I catch myself. Breath catches in my throat as I sense him closer. I feel the heat of his breath against my neck, the wisp of it making me shiver.
“And how could you not fancy me when I’ve spent the afternoon between your legs.”
His words, that taunting tone. It feels like the thrust of two fingers deep inside me. As my body clenches emptily, I curl my toes in my shoes as a way to make sure I don’t turn. Because if I turn, I might throw myself at him.
The last good man in Manhattan has game.Of course he does. This is his stock-in-trade.
“That was a little graphic,” I murmur as I offer him my profile, chin slightly raised.
“What can I say? Your lover is a dirty talker. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
