I slip off my sandals to be polite, even though he’s still wearing his dress shoes. He’s ditched his suit jacket, standing there in his shirt sleeves, yellow tie under his collar.
This condo is unreal. A full wall of windows that must have an ocean view when the shades are up. Living room furniture that looks like something out of an interior design magazine. An open-plan kitchen a chef would love.
He gestures expansively. “Mi casa es su casa,” he says. “You want anything to drink?”
“I’m good.” I cross my arms and take a lap around the large space. Everything is sleek and shiny—polished floors, marble counters, brushed-metal fridge. There aren’t many personal touches anywhere. It’s hotel-like that way, and there’s a faint new-car smell.
Nerves prickle up and down my spine as I navigate around his leather sofa and dark wood coffee table. I can hear waves crashing, and I lift the edge of the shade a touch, revealing a glimpse of dark ocean outside.
“You had me sweating there for a second,” he says. I turn on my heel and he’s standing closer than I expected, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. He stares into it and swirls the liquid around. “Thought I’d scared you off.”
My heart jumps as he steps closer, and I will my mind not to slide back to that shitty movie theater from ten years ago.Don’t compare it like you always do. Let it be its own thing.
“Well, here I am,” I say, head tilted up to hold his gaze.
He sets his glass on the table, and I can practically feel the barrier of restraint that was between us trembling, about to come down.
“Here you are,” he echoes, brushing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. Petting me, almost. Gazing at me possessively, like I’m his new favorite toy.
I catch his wrist, and his dark brows lift in amusement as I kiss the thin skin there, holding eye contact the whole time. His warmth beneath my mouth sends a thrill through me, like unwrapping a present I’ve been staring at for weeks.
He laughs as I let go of his wrist and pulls me closer by the hips. “You’re full of surprises.”
See? He wants you here.
I press my lips into the five o’clock shadow on his impressive jaw, inhaling that cologne smell I can’t quite name. Something sharp and something soft. Tobacco and amber? Smoke and sandalwood? Whatever it is, it smells expensive.
Then he claims my mouth, and I can taste the bite of his whiskey with an undertone of acidic mint, like he gargled mouthwash when I was on the way over. His lips change position like they’re on a timer, and a feeling nags at me, in the corner of my mind—it’s too smooth, like he is, in general. Too studied, somehow, a routine he’s gone through many times. Something about this kiss is like a (very nice) form letter.
You’re overthinking it! Self-sabotaging again!
I pull back, trying to reset, and give him a flirty smile to cover my nerves. He brings out my pushiest self, and he seems to like it. Maybe I’ll lean into that tonight.
I reach for his tie right below the knot, and his throat bobs as I tug him toward me and walk slowly backward. He catches up and slides his arms around my waist, kissing my neck until my legs hit the cold leather and I plop down onto the cushion.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, leaning over me, hands on the back of the couch. “Order me around.”
I’m always watching life with vague longing from behind glass, looking but not touching. Trying not to demand too much or be too difficult, never reaching out and grabbing. But somehow this bizarre situation makes me feel like I could be a different person.
I push on his chest so he leans back. “Get on your knees,” I demand, and until this moment I would never have guessed I was the kind of person who would say that. Who’d feel something confusing and electric spark through me when he does what I told him, holding my gaze while he pushes up my tasteful midi skirt and strokes my thighs with the back of his hand. Who’d feel powerful for a second as he nuzzles me there with his nose, as he looks up and asks permission, tugging down my lacy black underwear.
But then his mouth is on me, and it turns out he can do some things thatdistinctly do not feel like a form letter.Where his kiss was impersonal, this feels like he has something to prove, heat-seeking, demanding. Every stroke of his tongue seems to saymine mine mine.A riptide carries me out to sea and I can’t remember anything—how I got here, what I agreed to, what I was trying to accomplish, even my own name. And when he murmursRubya little while later, I wonder distantly,Who is that?
Chapter
27
I get home at two a.m., thanks to another car Mark Winterson called, and doze off for a few hours before my alarm goes off.
I wake up in such a fog, I wonder if last night was a dream—but there’s the contract in my inbox as a (somewhat jarring) reminder. My brain feels so tender and hazy, my first thought is:I can’t deal with running into Greg today.I don’t want to have to explain myself yet—and where does he find the nerve, anyway?—so I tell Erica I’m not feeling well and that I need to work from home.
At lunchtime, Greg texts again asking if I’m okay, but I don’t write back. And then a message from Mark Winterson pops up on my screen:Come sailing tomorrow.
Oh sure, normal second-date stuff! I have to laugh out loud, and it’s been so quiet in my house all day, the sound of my own voice startles me. But after a few minutes of agonizing, I write back:What should I wear?
When the car he sent to fetch me pulls up at the marina, Mark Winterson is standing at the curb, wearing a cable-knit sweater that reminds me of the rich guy fromKnives Out.
“Hey, Ruby,” he says as he opens the door and offers me a hand. He peeks his head inside and says, “Thanks, man,” before closing the door and waving the driver off.
