PROLOGUE
XAVIER
The redhead'shand crept up my thigh somewhere around 57th Street.
"Patience," I said, glancing at her for a second. "We're almost there."
I saw her pout just before I turned my attention back to the road. Full lips, perfectly glossed. I'd met her three hours ago at some gallery opening I hadn't meant to attend, and now her fingers were doing things that made it very hard to focus on traffic. Her name was either Bianca or Brianna. Something with a B.
"You've been saying that for ten blocks." Her voice was a purr. She leaned closer, breath warm against my ear. "I'm not a patient woman, Xavier."
I shot herthegrin. The one that had gotten me out of trouble and into beds for most of my adult life. "Try, honey. I’ll make it worth your while."
"Mmm." She pulled back, but only barely. "You better be worth it."
I was. I usually was. At least, no one had complained yet.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It had been buzzing for three weeks straight, and I knew exactly who it was.Eleanor Dubois, matriarch of the Dubois empire, controller of purse strings, and my grandmother. The woman who had looked me dead in the eye over dinner twenty-one days ago and said something utterly ridiculous.
I'd laughed. She hadn't.
So I'd done what any reasonable person would do when faced with an unreasonable demand: stopped answering her calls and hoped the problem would solve itself.
The valet at my building practically tripped over himself when I pulled up. I tossed him the keys to the Aston Martin and helped B-something out of the passenger seat. She wobbled slightly on her heels. I steadied her with a hand on her waist, and she turned it into an excuse to press against me.
"Penthouse?" she asked, eyebrows arched.
"Would you expect anything less?"
She laughed, low and throaty. "From you? No."
The elevator doors slid shut, and she was on me before we'd passed the second floor. Her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me down to her. I went willingly.
She tasted like the champagne we'd been drinking, sweet and sharp, and when I pressed her back against the mirrored wall, she made a sound in her throat that sent heat pooling low in my stomach.
"God," she breathed against my mouth. "I've been thinking about this all night."
"Just thinking?" I traced my lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She tilted her head back, giving me access. "I'm offended."
"Thinking." Her hands found the last button of my shirt, tugging it loose. "Imagining." She moved to the next one. "Planning."
"Planning?" I pulled back just enough to look at her. "What kind of plans?"
Her smile was wicked. "The kind that involves significantly less clothing."
The elevator dinged. Thirty-second floor. I grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway, both of us laughing. I fumbled with my keys, distracted by the way she pressed against my back, her lips finding the spot below my ear.
"Hurry up," she whispered. Her teeth grazed my earlobe. "I don't like waiting."
"You mentioned that." The key finally cooperated. I pushed the door open and spun to face her, walking backward into my apartment, pulling her with me by the waist. She came easily, rising on her toes to catch my mouth again.
I reached up to loosen my collar. The top button gave way, then the second. Her fingers joined mine, working faster, more urgently. The shirt gaped open. Her palms pressed flat against my chest, and I felt the cool metal of her rings against my skin.
"Better," she murmured.
Someone cleared their throat.
We froze. Both of us. Her hands still on my chest, my arms still around her waist. We turned toward my living room like teenagers caught after curfew.