Chapter 22
Ihave never been inside a room that felt like I was trespassing until this one.
The presidential suite radiates a kind of deliberate excess, the likes of which I’ve only ever seen in the pages of Architectural Digest. The entry hall opens onto a living room bigger than my entire apartment, the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around in a glass arc that gives you the city in one dizzying sweep.
There’s a velvet sectional the size of a starter home, a curving white bar with a mirrored backsplash, and a grand piano so glossy it reflects the room.
James closes the door behind us, and I’m not sure how to proceed. I stand rooted on the marble, my suitcase at my feet, and will myself not to touch anything that looks more expensive than my car.
His jacket is already off, and he sets it carefully over the arm of the sectional before heading to the main bedroom.
“Avery,” he calls, his voice echoing through the suite.
I follow, dragging my suitcase behind me. The bedroom holds a king-size bed with a half-dozen pillows, a bench at the foot, a bathroom the size of a pickleball court. There’s a wall of glass, a separate vanity, and a rainfall shower built so large it also houses a soaking tub.
“Let’s unpack and meet in the living room to work on the finishing touches for the presentation,” he suggests.
I roll my suitcase to the far side of the bed and open it, pulling out my conference outfits and lining them up in the closet. There are padded silk hangers, and my hands are clumsy on them, dropping the hangers twice before I manage to hang anything.
Every second, I’m acutely aware of James’s body passing behind me as he hangs his own clothes.
He glances at my suitcase, then at me as I finally take my jacket off, and for a moment the practiced calm slips before he smooths it flat again.
We grab our laptops and head toward the living room to get to work.
James sits on the velvet sectional, and I sit close to him but still far enough away that another person could squeeze between us.
James stares at me and finally says, “What are you doing?”
“I’m running through the presentation. Have to make sure we won’t go over the time limit.”
“No. I mean, what are you doing all the way over there?” he says, nodding to where I’m seated.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just sa—”
I can’t finish my sentence before I feel James’s hand slide under my ass and yank me to him. The swift movement causes me to yelp.
He presses a kiss to my temple, but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s just you and me here. If you think that I’ll allow even an inch between us when we’re alone, you’re mistaken,” he says against my skin.
He pulls away, and I turn to look at him, placing my hand on his jaw. I lean in and press a kiss to his mouth.
We’ve kissed before, but this feels different. Almost out of place in comparison to every other time we’ve kissed, which has only ever been in anticipation of, or during, sex.
The kiss is gentle, unhurried. There is nothing transactional about it, nothing urgent. Just the soft press of our mouths, the heat that lingers in the space between us.
He pulls away only for a moment before planting another quick kiss. He smiles against my lips and says, “More of that later.”
Turning our attention to our laptops, he brings his hand to rest on my thigh as he gets to work.
We work mostly in silence for the next few hours before James speaks up.
“We’ve got two hours until dinner. I’m going to freshen up.”
“I’d love a shower.”
I close my laptop and stand, stretching the cramped muscles in my back.
The sun is lower now, the windows a mural of orange and blue. A small part of me wants to skip the conference dinner. To just stay up here and let the city fade into darkness while James sits next to me, grounding me in place with the warm weight of his hand.
But we’re here for work.
I head toward the bedroom and into the bathroom. James doesn’t follow, but I leave the door cracked for him.
An invitation.
The bathroom is as overdone as the rest of the suite with gold fixtures, an acre of marble, a little velvet stool by the vanity. I set my phone on the counter and undress, folding my clothes into a neat pile next to my phone because it feels wrong to let them touch the floor.
The water is a roar overhead, the rainfall shower splattering hot needles down my shoulders and back. I stand there for a minute, eyes closed, letting the water rinse the worry out of my muscles.
I’m mid-shampoo when I hear James’s voice, soft but impossible to miss.
“Do you need anything?”
I turn, shampoo in my eyes, and find him leaning in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame.
He’s shed the rest of his suit, standing in basic black boxer briefs and nothing else.
The shape of him knocks the breath out of me: not just the long, lean lines of his body, but the way he stands there, unselfconscious, all sculpted muscle and elaborate ink.
“I wouldn’t mind if you joined me.”
He looks me up and down, smirking.
He walks to the sink and turns to lean against it, like he’s considering it. But he faces the mirror, grabbing his leather pouch of toiletries, and pulls out his shaving cream and razor.
“If I get in there, we won’t be making it to dinner on time.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t watch,” he says, letting his gaze shift to my reflection in the mirror.
“You want to watch me shower?” I tease, running my hands over my breasts and down my torso.
He bites his lip, and I see his grip tighten on the edge of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back from joining me.
I smile to myself, knowing I’ve got him right where I want him.
He applies his shaving cream, keeping his eyes on my reflection. He might not be naked, but I can’t keep my eyes off him either.
It feels intimate, almost domestic. Like something a married couple would do. It feels like we’re skipping several steps, but it’s not uncomfortable.
I’m more shocked by how comfortable it does feel.
I take my time, sliding the soap along the arch of my ribs, along the inside of my thigh, feeling the heat of his gaze like an invisible touch.
“You going to keep staring, or are you going to say something?” I ask, twisting my hair into a silky knot and letting it fall free again.
“I’m just appreciating the view,” he says, but his voice is rougher, the sound of a man losing patience with himself.
He flicks his gaze back to his own reflection as he runs his razor along his cheek and jaw. In between each stroke, he looks at me in the mirror like he can’t bear to remove his eyes from my form.
He finishes with the razor, rinses his face, and dabs it dry with a hand towel just as I’m turning the water off in the shower. When I open the door, he’s already standing there with my towel. I turn my back to him, and he wraps it around me, kissing my shoulder.
“I like seeing you like this,” he says against my neck.
“Oh, I bet you do.”
“I don’t mean seeing you naked. I do. Believe me, I do. But I mean like this.”
He slides a palm over my waist, catching the slack of the towel and drawing it in tighter, like a leash. I lean into him, letting my head drop back onto his shoulder. His hand lingers at my hip, fingers splaying over my skin, and for a moment I forget we’re supposed to be getting ready for dinner.
“Raw. Undone.” He slides his hand under my towel and between my legs, cupping my pussy. “Wet.”
I shudder when he runs his finger through, parting my lips.
“I hope you don’t think you’ll be rewarded after teasing me like that when you know we don’t have time.”
He slaps my pussy, and I yelp.
“Get ready.” He kisses my neck once more before leaving me in the bathroom.
I can’t get a read on him. He doesn’t want an inch of space between us when we’re alone, but he doesn’t want to fuck me in the shower? The man’s self-control should be studied.
I take my time at the vanity, working my hair into loose waves.
Mina would be proud.
I line my eyes, dust my cheeks, and swipe on a shade of lipstick called Bombshell that she bought me and insisted I wear when I needed to “slay a boardroom or a bedroom.”
When I step into the bedroom, James is already dressed in his suit, no tie. He stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, watching as I step into my green dress. His eyes track my every movement.
“Zip me up?” I ask, collecting my hair over my shoulder and turning my back to him.
James steps into me, the line of his chest flush to my spine as his hands skim the zipper up my back with a slow, deliberate motion.
I feel the brush of his knuckles against my shoulder blades, the shiver of restraint in the way he keeps his fingers from straying, before letting his hands fall away.
I turn. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I feel the approval, the possessiveness, the hunger, all woven together in the way he holds my gaze.
“Shoes?” he asks.
“Right,” I say, dipping into the closet to grab my black strappy heels.
When I return to him, he takes the heels from my hands and sits on the corner of the bed.
He pats between his legs, and I lift my foot.
He slides the first heel on, setting my foot to rest on the bed so he can fasten the ankle strap.
When he’s done with that one, I lift my other foot and he puts the other heel on.
With both feet on the floor, I stand in front of him, letting him take me in.
“You look incredible,” he says, and I feel the words settle somewhere low.
“Ready?” I say, because if I don’t, neither of us will move.
He nods, and guides me toward the door, his hand steady at the small of my back.
We leave the suite and glide down the quiet hotel hallway.
In the elevator, I watch our reflection in the mirrored doors.
We look like the perfect power couple.
I almost want to reach over, pin him to the metal, and taste him right here in the elevator. But when the doors ping open, he steps out, all business, and the spell breaks.
The lobby is transformed. Now a swirl of ambient lighting, jazz piano, and small groups of attorneys in their attempted casual attire.
The conference dinner is set up in the adjoining restaurant, where a huddle of attorneys are already holding court at the bar, martinis in hand.
We find our table. The other attorneys from our firm are already here.
I greet everyone and sit, James taking the seat next to me.
I’ve been near him all day. Hell, I’ve already been naked in front of him today. But being this close to him in front of our coworkers feels dangerous.
James rests his hand on the back of my chair, only occasionally grazing my shoulder, but every time he does, I feel the contact like a jolt of electricity through me.
A server appears, pouring wine and passing menus.
The attorneys discuss the market, the rumors about firm mergers, and the horror of having to learn new billing software.
The conversation doesn’t die as our food arrives, everyone talking in between bites of grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad.
Someone makes a toast to the firm’s continued success, and everyone clinks glasses.
James’s hand finds my thigh under the table, hidden from view, and he draws idle shapes there with his thumb.
At one point, I try to shift my knees away, but his grip tightens, anchoring me to the seat. There’s no pain in it, just a reminder of how much space he can command, even in a crowded room.
As much as I should be paying attention to the conversation around me, my mind drifts to what his hands might do to me tonight. I get excited at the thought and readjust in my seat to combat the heat pooling in my lower belly.
My thoughts are interrupted by a suited man with a microphone. He introduces himself as one of the organizers of this week’s conference and briefly mentions all the guest speakers the attendees should be excited to hear.
I smile when James is named, knowing all the work we’ve put into our presentation.
After the organizer’s announcement is finished, our small talk resumes over dessert.
Teresa pulls out her phone, frowning at the screen.
“Look at this,” she says, turning her phone to show a photo of three young children all covered in marker, eating what looks to be a pepperoni pizza. “Gone not even twenty-four hours, and Mark is already ordering pizza for the kids.”
Kevin chuckles, swirling his scotch in his glass.
“Melissa shipped the kids off to her parents’ for the week and booked herself a stay at that new spa resort.
I wonder which will cost more: my wife’s stay or the repairs you’ll probably have to make from all the havoc your boys are gonna wreak this week. ”
When the chatter dies, Teresa attempts to revive it.
“Do you want kids, Avery?” she asks.
I nearly choke on my tiramisu. “Oh…I…haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been focused on my career. I mean, you guys know how it is.”
My coworkers nod in agreement, but Teresa’s not satisfied and presses on anyway.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
She must’ve had one too many glasses of wine tonight because she’s not usually this prying and pushy.
Thoughts of what I’ve been doing with Nash and James the past few months come in a rush.
Am I seeing someone? How do I even answer that question? I don’t have a boyfriend, but I casually sleep with the man sitting next to me and my paralegal?
Obviously, I can’t say that.
“Um, no. It’s just me and my cat,” I shrug awkwardly and down the rest of my wine.
I’m ready for this line of questioning to end.
“I think I’m gonna turn in. Need to rest up for tomorrow. Goodnight, everyone,” I say, pushing my chair back as James’s hand slides from my thigh.
Offering a tight smile, I smooth my dress and head toward the elevator.