Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
OBSIDIAN
I pull the vehicle to a stop in front of the hotel in Washington, DC, trying not to think of the last time I was driving a vehicle with Ariana as the passenger, though those images have been circling my brain constantly during the couple of days that have passed.
That woman shocked the hell out of me when she finished herself off after I refused to. She’s fucking stubborn. Why wouldn’t she just tell me the guy was her brother when I first asked?
Because you were an asshole about it.
There’s more to Ariana than meets the eye, that much is obvious.
We haven’t talked about what happened. It’s almost as though we’re playing a game of chicken, and the first one to bring it up loses.
The valet comes to collect the keys for the car I had waiting at the private airport for us, while another opens Ariana’s door.
“Leave everything in the car. They’ll bring it up,” I tell her as I walk past.
Today she’s wearing a navy skirt and a white sleeveless blouse. Though there’s nothing inherently sexy about the outfit, she looks sexy in it. The expensive fabric falls over her curves to perfection, and it’s never been more obvious that this woman belongs in a better lifestyle than the one she’s been afforded.
The manager meets me in the lobby, as always. This is a Voss Enterprises property after all.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Voss. The suite is ready for you.” He hands me two key cards for the presidential suite.
“Thank you, Rory. This is Ariana Clarke.” I motion to Ariana at my side. “She’s my personal assistant. Anything she asks for is like getting a directive from me, clear?”
He looks at Ariana and nods, giving her a polite smile. I can see the curiosity on his face since I’ve never been here with anyone else while conducting business. “Of course, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Have our bags brought up and have a charcuterie tray as well as two steak dinners sent to the suite. You know how I like mine, and medium well for Miss Clarke. Some light refreshments too.”
“Right away, sir.” With swift efficiency, Rory turns on his heel and goes off to accommodate my request.
“Let’s go.” I don’t wait for Ariana to acknowledge my order.
Ever since Saturday night, my skin feels too tight every time I’m around her. It’s impossible to be in her vicinity and not think of her slick heat and the way she clenched around my fingers.
I stab the button for the elevator harder than necessary, and we wait in silence until it dings and the doors open. Being the gentleman I am, I motion for Ariana to go first.
Once we’re inside and moving up, she turns to me. “Why did he say suite and not rooms? Emphasis on the plural.”
I turn my head toward her. “Because we’re staying in the presidential suite. Don’t worry, there’s more than one bedroom.”
I should have booked her a room of her own. It would have been the smart thing to do—to put some distance between us. Maybe bring home one of my regulars to fuck and take the edge off. But I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to do the same with some asshat she might meet at the hotel bar.
She doesn’t say anything, nor does she speak when the elevator doors part on the top floor, and I lead us down the hall to our suite. I open the door and gesture for her to go in first.
“Wow.” Ariana takes a few steps inside, then stops and turns, taking in the space. “I’ve never been in a room this nice before.”
She seems to think better of sharing that with me. Her gaze flies to mine, and her cheeks deepen in color.
“Not many people have.” Usually, I’d be a prick about it. Say something to make her even more uncomfortable. But for some reason, the impulse is easy to crush. I step past her. “I’ll be staying in that room.” I point at the bedroom door to my left. “There are two other bedrooms on this side of the suite. Take whichever one you’d like.”
She goes from one room to the next, taking her time looking inside. When she reappears, she points at the door on her right. “I’m going to take that one. It has a better view.”
Just then, there’s a knock on the door, so I step over and find that it’s the bellhop. I direct him to which bedroom each piece of luggage should go, and before he leaves, I slip him a hundred-dollar bill.
“You’ll want to unpack and get settled, I’m sure, but do it quickly. It won’t take long for the steaks to arrive.” I walk toward my bedroom, needing some space from her.
Temptation can only be pushed aside for so long. I’m not a fucking saint.
I quickly unpack my things and change out of my suit into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt. After, I make my way out to the living area and turn on the TV, changing it to the business news. There’s another knock at the door, and an attendant rolls a cart into the suite with our food on it.
“Just put it over there.” I direct him to leave it near the dining room table and tip him before he leaves. “Ariana, food’s here.”
I lift the silver domes from the plates to ensure we’ve been delivered what I asked for. There’s no response, so I walk over to the closed door of her bedroom and knock.
“Ariana.” I heave a sigh when once again she doesn’t answer. “What the fuck is she doing in there?” I knock again, but she still doesn’t answer.
Did something happen? Did she leave the suite while I was in my bedroom? Did she have some medical event and is lying helplessly on the floor? A hundred thoughts whizz through my head.
I turn the handle to the door and swing it open, stilling at what I find inside.
Ariana is wrapped in a white bath towel and dancing around with her back to me. Her ass sways side to side as she moves to the beat of whatever music she’s listening to on her AirPods. She twirls around and screams, startling backward, nearly losing her footing. One hand flies up to her chest, and the other tugs out one of her AirPods.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I thought something was wrong. I called you and knocked on the door several times.”
Looking a little chagrined, she pulls out the other AirPod. “I wanted to have a shower after traveling.” It’s then she notices her state of undress, and she glances down at herself.
My dick really homes in on it too, because it jerks to life in my pants.
“Don’t be long. It’s no good if it’s cold.” I turn and leave the room, not bothering to close the door, but I hear it close behind me.
I take my plate, settle in on the end of the dining room table, and begin eating. A few minutes later, Ariana appears.
“You look different.” The words slip from my mouth before I can think them through.
Her steps falter, but she keeps coming toward me. “Not sure how to take that.” She picks up her plate and sits to the right of me.
I clear my throat. “I just mean that you look a lot younger like that.” I gesture with my steak knife to her outfit and her hair.
The red locks are still wet, and she’s pulled them into a messy bun at the top of her head. She doesn’t normally wear a lot of makeup, but she’s completely fresh-faced at the moment, and she has on a tank top and a pair of cotton shorts I think might actually be a pajama set.
It’s all just a reminder of the deep chasm separating us—our ten-year age gap, the difference in our bank accounts, and her innocence compared to how soiled I am.
“Still not sure how to take it.” She removes the silver dome and sets it to the side, looks at her plate, then over at me. “How did you know how I like my steak?”
Do I tell her that I asked Marcel to find out from the cook?
No.
“Lucky guess.” I shrug and cut another piece of steak for myself.
She looks as though she doesn’t know what to make of that and takes the first cut into her steak. I watch as she brings the fork to her lips and places the piece of meat between her plump lips, then I look away before I get any ideas.
When she’s done swallowing, she says, “You know I could say the same thing about you.”
My forehead creases. “What are you talking about?”
She looks me up and down. “I’ve never seen you dressed like that. It’s weird.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Weird?”
“You’re always the portrait of a billionaire—in your bespoke suits, hair perfectly coiffed, put together in a way not many can manage.”
I can’t help but preen at her description of me. “So, which do you prefer?” There’s a small amount of flirtation in my voice.
“I don’t have a preference. You’re my boss,” she says as she cuts another piece of steak. But she won’t look at me.
“Say it enough, and maybe you’ll believe it.”
Her head whips in my direction, and her eyes narrow the slightest amount. “Don’t worry. I realize your T-shirt probably costs more than all the clothes I came to the manor with.”
She might be correct, but I see her comment for what it is—a way to erect a wall between us.
If I were smart, I’d let her. But I still can’t seem to help myself from wanting more from her. Always more .