I press my palms flat on the granite and focus on the cold stone against my skin while I picture her stepping into the elevator far below me. She must be nervous. Thirty-three floors is a long ride up and plenty of time for her to chicken out, get off and leave. Every second of her climb pulls my shoulders tighter. My pulse thumps heavy behind my jaw, in my wrists, at the base of my throat. By the time the chime sounds, I can feel my own heartbeat in my teeth.
I cross the foyer and stand in front of the elevator that opens up directly into my living room. I slide one hand into my pocket. The other hangs at my side, fingers flexing once before I force them still.
And then the doors slide open.
A beauty straight out of a fairytale steps into my foyer and all the rambling thoughts bombarding my head go quiet.
She's petite. Five feet of woman standing in low hallway light with her hands clasped in front of her, fingers white-knuckled around a phone, tangled together in a grip that tells me she's scared out of her mind yet had the balls to show up anyway. That combination punches the air out of my lungs.
Blonde hair hangs loose around her shoulders, falling across her cheekbones, half-hiding her face. Sexy as hell and mysterious. My fingers itch to sweep the silky strands from her face.
I step closer and take in the bare look. She's not wearing any makeup and she doesn't need to. The warmth of her bare skin stops me. Freckles dust the bridge of her nose and over the sexy swell of her cheeks. Pink lips tremble at the corners. And her eyes. God. They are the purest blue I've ever seen, and when she lifts her lashes and lets me have the full force of them, my lungs forget how to work.
Huge. Bright. And so damn innocent my chest aches.
A baby blue dress skims her upper thighs, sleeves rolled to her elbows and cinched at the waist with a black belt. Simple. Something a woman throws on when she's not trying to impress anyone, and it's doing more damage to my composure than any evening gown ever has.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And she has no idea. I can tell by the way she's gripping her own hands, bracing for rejection. She walked in here expecting me to take one look and send her home.
Not a fucking chance. Heat spreads through me, and right behind it a pull so fierce I want to lock the elevator, bolt the door, keep her.
Jesus, if she could hear my thoughts she’d run. Hell, I wouldn’t blame her.
I slowly move toward her. Each step I take I expect her to take one in the opposite direction, but she doesn't. Her chin lifts and the lonely shadows holding my soul captive loosen. The corner of my mouth pulls before I can stop it. Brave little thing. Her pulse hammers in the hollow of her throat, fast and visible, and I lock onto it, watching the flutter of her heart beneath skin that looks soft enough to wreck me.
She shifts from one foot to another all the while watching every move I make toward her. She clocks my slow gait, the movement of my shoulders and the ink slithering down my arms.
"You came." Stating the obvious, but I’m as intrigued as I am surprised. Not everyone accepts erotic invitations from strangers.
Her mouth quirks. She shifts under my gaze, chin ducking, fingers twisting at the hem of her dress. She's no escort and she definitely isn't a woman who seeks out fun with strange men.
She searches my eyes tentatively before dropping her gaze to the floor. "I almost didn't." Her voice is soft. Breathless, but steady. Her fingers twist tighter around her phone. "Much to your doorman’s chagrin, I sat in the lobby for legit five minutes arguing with myself."
I clock the way she leans toward me, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. Her warmth reaches for mine.
I take half a step closer. "I take it the bad angel on your shoulder won? Does that happen often?"
The corner of her mouth pulls higher. The quick flash of humor through her obvious fear is bright only for a second before it fades.
She hesitates a heartbeat before answering, "The reckless angel, I like to call her. And she usually does. Yeah."
Warmth pools low in my stomach that has nothing to do with the whiskey. She's been in my home for less than three minutes and I already want to break my own damn rule. And I want her name. I want to know what to call this feeling when it inevitably keeps me up tonight.
Except I can't know her name. That's the rule, I remind myself.
I inhale and with it comes her sweet scent. My eyes drop to the delicate curve of her breasts. The hardness of her nipples teasing me through the delicate baby blue of her dress. She doesn’t know it, but the innocent look about her has my cock throbbing and my pulse climbing.
I smile slowly. "No names," I remind both of us. "That was the deal. But I’m willing to break any rule if it helps make you comfortable."
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second when she lifts them from the floor. “No,” she blurts out so quickly we both have to laugh.
“I mean, rules are rules and I came here knowing them.” She tucks one side of her hair behind her ear that draws my eye to the delicate nature of her hand.
I reach out and brush the back of my knuckles along the fringe of her hair. It's as soft and angel-like as it looks. She dips her head and the hair falls over her cheek again. I can't wait to have that face in my hands as I take her. A primal need to feel her gripping me, the heat of her body melding with mine and the taste of her on my tongue nearly overpowers me.
I watch her throat work slowly as she swallows. I want my mouth on that throat. Want to drag my lips down the line of her neck and feel her pulse jump against my tongue.
She smooths out the invisible wrinkles of her dress. "You said no panties too." Her chin lifts a fraction and our gazes lock. "I followed the rules."