14. Natasha #2
“For some,” Trent said, fixing the button on his suit jacket. “Luckily, Aiden knows the owner.” He took my hand, threading our fingers together as he led me up to the entrance for the club, and I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.
He nodded to the massive security guard.
The man stepped aside, waving Trent past a long, winding line of people outside the building.
We rode a private elevator up to the rooftop.
It was a luxurious space, bathed in greenery and fresh flowers, with plush seating and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the city, including the Empire State Building.
The roof looked to be retractable, but seeing as it was getting colder in the evenings, it had been left closed.
“They’ve got a great cocktail menu,” Trent said. “It’s been vetted by Cora.”
Ah, yes, Aiden’s fiancée.
“Can I get you a drink?” Trent asked.
I tugged him toward the bar. “How about I get you a drink?”
Trent raised an eyebrow, his stare dark and teasing. “Okay then.”
“Are you going to tell me what you like or are you going to let me pick your poison?” I asked, walking up to the bartender.
He smirked, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of drink you think I like?”
“Is there one on the menu that strikes your fancy?”
His eyes traveled to the board and back. “There is.”
“Sex on the beach?” I asked.
He chuckled, low and throaty, reaching out to tuck one of my curls away from my face. That touch sent an electric thrill right from the top of my head down to my toes. “Do I really strike you as a sex on the beach guy?”
I shrugged. “I think you could be convinced.”
“I like my drinks less…colorful.” His hand moved from my hair to my bare arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. I leaned into the touch, liking the way his knuckles ghosted my hip.
No one else had ever made me feel this alive with just a touch. Trent was a first—and that terrified me almost as much as it thrilled me.
“Let me guess…you’re going to go for something boring. Like rum and Coke?”
“First of all, I’m not boring. But second, I’m not into rum. Maybe I’m a blackberry vodka kind of guy. Have you considered that?”
“You’re definitely not a vodka guy. You probably drank too much of it one night in college and then never touched it again.”
He narrowed his eyes playfully, leaning toward me. “Which of the guys have you been talking to?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Maybe you’re just easy to read, Mr. Saunders.”
“I’ll take a Dark ‘n’ Stormy.”
“Of course you will,” I said, placing the order for that and a Whiskey Sour. Once we had our drinks, we sat down on one of the plush sofas, angled so close our knees bumped. I knocked into him teasingly, making his drink shake.
He sipped it. “Watch yourself, Hellcat.”
“Or what?” I said, blinking up at him innocently.
“You don’t want to know,” he said, his voice almost a growl.
I swallowed hard.
“Or maybe you do want to know.” He took a slow sip of his drink, and I suddenly felt parched. “Maybe you’ll like it.”
The look he gave me left me dizzy.
I think we both knew exactly where this night was headed once we left the club, and part of me wanted to hurry along and get there already. I couldn’t shake the image of dream-Trent and that damn chaise. I needed to see if the real thing lived up to the hype.
“Looking a little hot and bothered over there,” Trent said.
“I’m not bothered,” I said, trying and failing to seem unaffected by the stare he was shooting my way. Trent was peeling my dress off with his eyes. My gaze dropped to his hands again, and I wondered what it would be like to watch him sand a delicate piece of furniture down, layer by layer.
God, I wanted Trent to take me apart…layer by layer.
“What else would you like?” he asked, his hand skimming up my knee.
I reminded myself to thank Stacy for the slit she’d worked into this dress. My skin was on fire where he touched me.
Trent leaned toward me, his lips skimming my ear. My eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
“Wait, is that—” Trent started.
My eyes flew open. I twisted around on the couch. “Kyle Landing,” I said, spotting him across the bar—the A-list Hollywood guy who’d started the sustainable furniture craze. He was surrounded by an entourage of people.
My attention wasn’t diverted for long, drawn back to the feel of Trent’s hand on my thigh. “I wonder how long he’s been sitting over there.” I’d barely noticed anything outside of Trent since we’d arrived.
“Maybe I should go over there and thank him,” Trent said.
I frowned. “What for?”
“I sort of feel like he’s part of the reason we got together. Don’t you?”
“I think it had more to do with making furniture for Dee. Besides, I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” I said. “We haven’t actually gotten together yet.”
His words ghosted across my neck. “Would you like to change that?”
“Yes,” I whispered, looking into his dark eyes. I took his hand, pulling him to his feet, leading Trent back to the elevator. By the time we made it down to the car, my skin was crawling with goose bumps.
Trent pulled the door open, and we climbed in. The partition was down. I glanced at the driver. “Straight to Trent’s place, please.”
Then I put my hand down on the button, raising the glass divider.