Chapter 4
Chapter Four
A ubrey
He is a real piece of work–the kind of guy contributing to everything that is wrong with this world.
Which is why I enjoy sticking this whole bachelor planning thing to him.
I love that Brick is punishing him. I mean, it’s also weird–aren’t they best friends?
But Brick is his boss, so I guess there’s a hierarchy there.
As I walk, a text comes through from the group chat Jan set up between me, Jamie, Caroline, and her about Sentience.
Jamie–did you find anything useful on the drive?
It shows up as read, but Jamie doesn’t answer.
Maybe she’s busy, but a niggling of foreboding runs through me. I’m probably just paranoid, but what if someone got to her? Or got her phone?
She was pretty paranoid about them exacting retribution beyond the firing.
Corporations like Sentience might be dastardly enough to hire someone to “fix” her entire situation.
No. I’m being nuts.
I walk the few blocks to Madi’s building on Billionaire Row.
I’ve been here only twice before, which is weird, considering I used to see Madi daily before she moved out.
We grew up living in the same building in Jersey and then moved in together in Brooklyn last fall.
While we never went to the same schools, I was used to seeing her evenings and weekends.
Now I’m lucky if I see her once every three weeks.
The front doors are locked, but through the smoky glass, I see a doorman or security guard guy–a huge man with muscles that stretch his suit jacket behind the desk. He strides swiftly to open the door.
“I’m here to see Madison Evans,” I say. I texted her earlier to make sure this thing was really happening because there was no way I was coming all the way over to Central Park if it wasn’t a sure thing. She said she would be here.
“Are you Ms. Cook?”
I startle. “Yes?” Madi must be running late and called to tell him. Damn. I am five minutes early.
“Mr. White is expecting you.” His voice is gruff and deep. Less suave butler and more mafia bodyguard.
Mr. White. Not Madi. And jeez–so formal.
“William White the Third.” I mimic his formality with a lash of sarcasm on my tongue. “Yes.”
“Right this way.” He escorts me to an elevator and uses his keycard to punch the button for the fortieth floor. “Number forty-four.” He steps out of the elevator, and the door closes.
I take the elevator up to Billy’s apartment. I don’t know–in buildings on Billionaire Row, do you even call it an apartment? Are they all penthouses? Do they each have their own floor? I know Brick and Madi do.
I don’t love that I’m not going to Madi’s place first. Being in her apartment building without her makes me feel adrift.
A little…abandoned.
But that’s ridiculous. I’m a strong, independent woman. I can go to a billionaire’s apartment without her.
It’s not like I’m afraid of William White.
Except my heart races at the prospect of being near him again. Being under his harsh, judging blue-gray gaze. The one framed by thick, angry brows and an air of total disdain. I remember the way we bumped into each other in the doorway at La Résistance. Because he was holding the door open for me.
I don’t want that kind of man. The kind that holds doors and throws money around like he grows it on trees and owns twenty orchards. I’m not interested in Billy White.
Only in making him suffer.
I toss my tight curls and lift my chin as I march out of the elevator and look for number forty-four.
The door is slightly ajar, like he left it open for me, and that does something to my belly. Makes it drop out at the familiarity of it. Like I’m Billy’s girlfriend coming home to him after a long workday.
Or, in Billy’s case, the scenario would more likely be a call girl showing up to service him.
And that idea causes a squeezing of the flesh between my legs. A lifting and holding. Heating.
I shake off any sick attraction I have to this guy. It’s probably just the “other” thing. He’s different from my usual type. That makes me morbidly curious, that’s all.
I throw the door open without knocking. He left it unlatched, after all.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out. It’s not that funny, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
Billy stands behind a long gorgeous marble-topped kitchen island, pouring a gin and tonic. The look of utter horror he sends me makes my not-funny jab worth it.
I slam the door behind me to add to his annoyance and love that he visibly tenses. I’m pretty sure I can see the muscles around his jaw tightening in real time.
He’s probably grinding those white molars down just having me in his place.
I look around. The apartment is different from Brick and Madi’s exposed brick industrial look. This one is all plastered walls and windows, but the entire palette is gray.
Dull gray.
Billy comes around from behind the counter holding his drink as I shrug out of my acid-washed crop jean jacket.
It’s my favorite 80’s throw-back, with rows of rainbow jewels stitched onto the pockets and around the cuffs.
I toss it on the gunmetal grey leather couch at the same time he reaches to take it.
“Who decorated your apartment, a prison guard?”
His upper lip lifts in a snarl. “What do you mean?” He picks my jacket up from the couch like it’s a dust rag that got left out by the maid.
“I mean, why is everything grey? Are you depressed? Maybe you should see someone about that.”
Billy carries my jacket to the front hall closet and hangs it up without responding, so I persist.
“Have you ever heard of color? Art?”
“Lori Ann Beiber decorated the place.”
I look at him blankly. “Should I know her? Is she an ex-girlfriend? She has terrible taste.”
“She owns the top interior design firm in Manhattan.” His voice is dry and condescending, as if to imply that I know nothing about art or culture.
I send him a mock-sympathetic look. “A little therapy goes a long way.”
His jaw muscles flex again.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” Because my intention is to annoy the hell out of this guy–working with me on this wedding is his punishment after all–I take his drink from his hand.
His gray eyes flash, almost looking ice blue for a moment. His gaze follows as I bring the glass to my lips and take a deep swig.
“Mmm.” I’m surprised by how smooth the drink is. I suppose I’m not used to top shelf alcohol. How much do you have to pay for gin that coats your throat with cool warmth like that? “That’s good.”
“Keep it.” His voice is rough, his gaze still pinned on my lips.
Something about his gaze makes my skin tingle, but I can’t quite say why. Danger? Attraction? It’s unclear.
I look around again to dissipate the electric moment. “Where are Madi and Brick?”
Billy walks back to the kitchen. “Probably fucking,” he says with disgust.
I can’t quite laugh, but I let out a huff of agreement. Considering how much sex my former roomie gets these days, I’m sure he’s right.
He pours himself another drink, and I follow him around behind the island to make myself a pest, loving when he looks askance. I take it a step further, boosting myself up to sit on his counter beside the cutting board with limes.
The marble slab that comprises the island is even more magnificent up close. It’s grey–like everything else, but veined with white, silver, and purple and rather than being slabs put together with seams, it seems to be one long, gorgeous piece. I trace a purple vein with my finger.
He turns from the ice machine where he was filling a fresh glass and takes in my new position.
His eyes turn icy blue-grey. He strolls toward me.
“You sit on my kitchen counter, I’m going to assume you’re offering yourself to eat.
” His tone is so dry I take a half-second to register the overt sexual nature of his words.
Oh. Damn.
Heat pools between my legs at the suggestion.
I hadn’t pegged him as the kind of guy who eats a lot of pussy. I figured he hired sex workers and forced them all to sign NDAs. It’s hard to imagine the cold, reserved asshole giving anything back to anyone–even a lover.
A shiver races down my legs at the vision of him pushing my thighs open and lowering his head to find out what I like.
And that’s when a flood of awareness rushes through me. This is a guy who is good at what he does. He holds doors automatically, even when he doesn’t appear to want to. He knows proper etiquette. Which means he must know proper etiquette in bed, too.
Maybe, maybe not. But something in me desperately wants to know.
I pick up one of the sliced limes and bring it to my lips, biting the tart flesh and sucking. “You wish.”
Billy
Do I?
Do I want to use this knife to cut every ribbon of clothing from this smart-mouthed girl and shut her up with her own moans?
Fuck. Yeah, I do.
I set the glass with ice down and swiftly turn to grip her waist, picking her up from the counter, and setting her down on her feet.
I move so fast that she doesn’t have time to react.
Hopefully not to process how strong I am to be able to lift her from the counter like that.
Once she’s on her feet, I don’t want to let go, though.
I like the sensation of her soft waist in my hands.
I want to touch the other places that are soft.
I want her out of these fucking clothes.
The tight purple cropped sweater has a wide square neckline that gives me a view of her cleavage, and the knit fabric hugs her breasts and waist. She’s wearing wide-legged jeans that are the fashion now and a pair of chunky heeled boots.
I wonder what she’d look like in just panties and boots.
Lust makes me mean. “Stay off my furniture,” I growl like she’s a bad dog who needs scolding.
Her eyes narrow, and she shoves me away. The silver nose ring she wears renders her unkissable, not that I was thinking about claiming those pouty lips.
I release her reluctantly, already regretting being such a dick. I should apologize for touching her without permission.
Even as I consider apologizing, I want to do it again. To pick her back up. Put her on that counter and make good on my offer to eat her pussy.
She nabs the paring knife from the cutting board and slashes it toward my throat. It’s for show–she’s a full foot away. I know she’s not actually trying to defend herself. I smell anger on her, but not fear.
“Touch me again without permission, and you’re going to get hurt.”
My lips twitch. I don’t mean to smile. I should show her I’m taking her complaint seriously. But I like that I’ve gotten under her skin. I enjoy her flushed and angry, ready to fight.
I school my face. “Noted. And…” Fuck. I can’t believe it. Am I going to apologize? I have to force the words out of my throat. “Sorry,” I say stiffly, but add, “The next time I touch you, I’ll ask first.”
Because I do plan on touching her again.
I need to.
I need to work this… curiosity –nothing more–out of my system.
A brow arches as her pupils dilate. She’s definitely not afraid–she’s turned on.
My suggestion that I’ll be touching her again registers with her body, whether or not her mind agrees.
Like me, she must feel the chemical attraction between us.
She must know that her animal body is drawn to the animal body of someone completely unsuitable. Someone she could never be with.
My hands twitch to pick her up again. Wrap those thick thighs around my waist and carry her to the bedroom where I can tie her to the headboard and make her weep with pleasure.
A knock sounds at my door. Aubrey and I lock gazes. She’s still holding the knife out defensively.
Brick will cut my dick off and feed it to me if he thinks I threatened his mate’s human friend. All the gains I’ve made in the past months will be lost again. Maybe forever. If he thinks he can’t trust me to behave with his mate’s human family and friends, I will be cut out of his inner circle.
Fuck.