Chapter Fourteen
“You have no idea how sorry I am.”
“Really, it’s okay!” I mean, it’s not. But it is. “There was nothing you could do about it. You’re a busy person. If anything, I felt sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me?” Blake points to himself with a bemused expression, his mouth pulling downward at the corners. “Why would you feel sorry for me?”
Whoops. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. After all, we’re in his car, being driven to his penthouse here in the city—purely for research purposes, he’s assured me multiple times. Now, it seems like I’ve insulted him.
Hopefully, he’s enough of a gentleman not to push me out of a moving car.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I babble. Yes, I’m babbling, and my palms are all sweaty. “Not that you’re pitiable or anything. I mean, you have it all—at least, it seems that way. Millions of people would kill to be in your shoes. Even the cheapest shoes you own.”
He snorts softly, but his face is still an unreadable mask.
A handsome, unreadable mask with just a touch of scruff on the cheeks.
I wonder how that scruff would feel against the insides of my thighs, which is where Blake was all day—at least, in my fantasies, which are about all I have to work from right now.
“But I felt sorry for you anyway because you’re always on call. It must be tough, trying to plan a special night or a vacation when there’s no telling what’s going to happen. So many people depend on you.”
“They do,” he sighs. “And no worries. I understood what you meant. I’m tired and a little cranky, is all.”
“We don’t have to do this, especially tonight. You probably just got back to town.”
“I did.” He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing like there’s tightness in his muscles. “But I couldn’t wait to see you again. Sometimes, I’m stubborn. And I wanted to make it up to you after cutting things off so suddenly last night.”
Make it up to me? I catch my bottom lip under my teeth. “What do you have in mind?” I ask in what I hope is a cool, confident, worldly sort of way. So what if my palms are sweatier than ever? And oh, great, so are my underarms?
A slow smile spreads, and he doesn’t look so tired anymore. “You’ll see.”
“Is it okay that I dressed casually? Like you said I should?” Granted, I’m more dressed up than I would be if I was hanging around the apartment, the way I normally do on a Sunday night. But still.
“You look gorgeous. And, yes, it’s fine. We’ll be staying in tonight.”
How is it that the simplest, most innocent statement sets my heart racing? Who wouldn’t want to stay in with him?
Preferably in bed. Naked. A little sweaty and breathless.
“How’s the writing coming along?” he asks as we ride from the Upper East Side down into Midtown.
“Can you read my mind?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means, I’ve been imagining what else I can put in my book, based on what you’ve shown me so far.”
“I won’t take offense to that.” He snickers. “Though I sort of wish you were fully with me and not halfway in your book.”
“I’m not, really,” I insist before putting my hands to my cheeks. They’re hot to the touch, which doesn’t come as a surprise. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“Because … oh jeez,” I whisper, shaking my head. “It’s too much. Let’s just say, I need to write … other things. In … interesting locations …”
He manages not to laugh at me. “Oh. You mean, sex? You have to write sex scenes, and you’re trying to imagine doing it here, in the car?”
“No! Oh my God, I’m going to die of embarrassment. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He catches my wrist, chuckling as he raises my hand to his lips. Does he have any idea how sexy that is? Just the slightest kiss on the back of my knuckles, and I’m putty in his large, capable-looking hands.
“If you want me to show you what it’s like to play in the backseat of a moving car, I’m all yours. There’s a privacy divider between the front and back for a reason.”
Dear Lord, he’s beautiful, and when he gets that little growl in his voice, he’s practically irresistible.
There’s no ignoring the tingling between my legs, where I spent the day imagining Blake firmly planted. For one wild, breathless moment, I want to tell him to raise that divider and put his hands on me, all over me. I’m tired of playing and hinting and fantasizing.
Still …
“Maybe we should start off a little slower,” I suggest with a catch in my throat.
“That can be arranged too.”
His lips linger on my skin again, and I forget to breathe when our eyes meet. Yes, I want this. I want him. Whenever, wherever—it doesn’t matter.
It’s probably for the best that we pull up in front of a tall building a few moments later.
I can hardly believe my eyes once I manage to pry them from Blake’s. “You live on Fifth Avenue? In this building?”
“You’re familiar with it?” he asks with a wry chuckle before climbing from the car.
I know by now that he’ll jog around to my side and open the door for me. It gives me just a few seconds to compose myself.
Yes, I’m familiar with this building. It was refurbished several years back, and the apartments were snapped up in a flash by some of the biggest names in entertainment, tech, commerce.
The penthouse, in particular, was famous for its asking price.
More than seventy million dollars for over ten thousand square feet, not counting the expansive terrace overlooking the island.
I know before entering the private elevator that the penthouse is exactly where we’re going.
“This is so beautiful,” I marvel at the sleek marble floor, the rich, dark wood that panels the walls.
“It’s the inside of an elevator car,” he reminds me.
“When you were a kid back in Philly, did you ever imagine that you’d think nothing of a gorgeous elevator like this? That it would be commonplace?”
I can tell he’s laughing at himself now. “You’re right. Thank you for reminding me. Even I can become jaded.”
The doors open, and suddenly, I’m staring at the inside of the most mind-blowing apartment I’ve ever seen. I saw photos when the place was up for sale; it was all over real estate news around the time I was searching for my apartment, and, well, a girl can dream.
But those photos were nothing compared to the real thing.
“Have a look around,” Blake invites me as he walks across the wood floor, waving me in. “Are you hungry? I can order up anything you want. Anything at all.”
It’s hard to keep my mouth closed as I survey the room.
The floor plan is almost completely open, the outer-facing walls mostly windows, which give a panoramic view of the city around us.
There’s a fireplace in the center, the living room furniture arranged in front of it.
For such a sleek apartment, the furnishings are downright comfortable-looking.
I can imagine getting cozy on the sofa, lost in a book.
“Hmm?” I ask when I find him staring at me, waiting. “Oh. Yeah. I could eat, sure. But please, whatever you want. You’re the one who’s been on the road all day.”
“Do you like sushi?”
“I love it.”
“Done.” He pulls out his phone and types something in. “While we wait, I’d like to take a shower. Do you mind keeping yourself occupied for a few minutes?”
“Not at all.” No, there’s plenty to see all around me. “Take your time.”
Maybe I watch a little too closely as he jogs up the stairs. What can I say? I admire the male figure, and he’s worthy of admiration.
Boy, oh boy. How does anybody get anything done when they live in an apartment like this? I’d never stop looking out the windows. The city is laid out before me, no matter where I go, lights twinkling against the night sky. It’s breathtaking, awe-inspiring. And to Blake, it’s commonplace.
The sound of the shower rings out in the back of my mind, and I can hear him singing some tuneless little melody. I can’t help but smile. He’s a man of many talents.
Talents which, if I play my cards right, I’ll have the chance to explore tonight. My heart just about beats out of my chest at the slightest thought of it, and I raise my hand to my lips to kiss the spot he kissed in the car.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, shaking my hands out and bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet.
“You can do this. You’re a goddess. A wanton sex goddess.
You’re going to rock his world, Kitty Valentine.
And you won’t do it in missionary. You absolutely will not, under any circumstances.
You’ll be downright brazen. Like an animal finally released from a cage.
He won’t know which end is up by the time you’re finished.
He might need an IV or something to replenish himself. ”
I catch myself, freezing solid. Blake is right behind me, isn’t he? Of course he heard everything I just said because that’s how my luck runs.
Only he’s not there. I’m alone, and he’s still upstairs. The shower has stopped, and there’s no more singing, but he hasn’t come down yet. Thank God for small favors.
A sudden buzzing makes me jump. My head sweeps back and forth as I try to figure out where the noise is coming from. In a moment, I realize it’s the elevator, that somebody’s coming up.
This is new. What am I supposed to do? I can’t imagine people randomly coming up on the elevator. The front desk staff wouldn’t allow that, would they?
“Uh, Blake?” I call out, but there’s no answer from upstairs. When did this become an episode of The Twilight Zone? When did I become the last person on earth?
Luckily, it’s just one of the front desk personnel, carrying an overstuffed shopping bag in each hand. “Mr. Marlin’s dinner order,” the young man informs me, putting the bags on the floor just outside the elevator car.
“Oh, thank you,” I breathe, laughing a little. “Sorry, he’s up in the shower. Let me get you a tip.”
“No need. Mr. Marlin makes sure everything’s taken care of.”
What a cryptic thing to say, and I have no choice but to shrug and accept it and thank the clerk again for taking the trip upstairs.
“Blake? Dinner’s here.” My voice echoes through the downstairs and, I’d guess, floats up to where my host is getting dressed. At least, I think he is. I haven’t heard so much as a squeaky floorboard.
Finally, I can’t help myself. I have to tiptoe up the stairs and see what I can see. “Yoo-hoo? Blake? Where’d you go?”
Just my luck, him having an accident while I’m downstairs, trying to talk myself into being a wanton sexual beast. He could’ve been bleeding out on the shower floor while I was trying to convince myself to try doggy-style.
Only he wasn’t, and he’s not now.
No, he’s stretched out across the bed with a towel around his waist, feet still on the floor.
I’m not sure what’s more interesting. Is it the king-size bed? The ultra-expensive workout equipment in one corner? The bathroom I can see through the open door with a soaking tub positioned right beside the window?
Or is it the man on the bed, the water still beading on his skin? The muscles—oh Lordy. His body is something I’d expect to see in a museum, carved out of marble. He could make a fortune as a fitness model if he ever got tired of being a media mogul.
Is that what I like the most? What has the breath catching in my throat?
No. It’s the fact that he’s fast asleep, snoring softly.
So much for rocking his world.