Chapter 9
Nine
Close To You
Ryan
Who do I think I am?
The thought rolls through my head for about the tenth time in the thirty seconds since I followed Spence out of his office. Seriously… who do I think I am, just barging in like that?
I totally ambushed him—sabotaged whatever plans he had for the night. But hey, I just want to be friends with the guy. If I have to show up half naked, so be it.
I lean casually against the wall beside the elevator bank, pretending I’m not watching him. Pretending I’m not studying the hell out of his profile.
God, he’s so hot. All masculine and broody. My tongue about fell out of my mouth when I saw him in that suit. He was sexy the only other time I’ve seen him—tight jeans and a button down at the karaoke bar—but Spencer Stark in a suit?
Fuck.
Me.
Dead.
The hallway lighting catches the sharp angle of his jaw, and the fucking dark stubble that has me risking it all. His hair is still perfectly styled, not a strand out of place even after what I assume was a full day of intimidating people.
I’m intimidated.
The suit jacket is no doubt custom tailored.
I know custom tailored. I could care less about my day-to-day fits, but I don’t play when it comes to my game day suits.
And fucking hell, custom tailoring wrapped around thighs like his?
I realize I’m staring when he shifts slightly and glances toward me.
Shit.
Luckily, I’m saved by the elevator doors—they slide open with a soft whisper, taunting me.
You’re obsessed.
Spence steps in first. I follow behind him, planting myself against the mirrored wall on the left.
The cool glass presses against my back through the thin hoodie, and suddenly the elevator feels tiny.
Tinier than the shorts I thought were a good idea an hour ago.
Spencer turns to face forward, then slowly—very slowly—his gaze sweeps over me.
Down.
Up.
Down again.
The look is unhurried. Assessing. Suddenly I feel nearly naked.
I send up a silent prayer that my dick doesn’t go up while this elevator goes down.
My throat turns into a desert as I swallow over the lump there and shift my weight, trying very hard not to think about the fact that my shorts barely cover anything.
Finally, he speaks, voice low and deep. The kind of rumble that vibrates low in my gut. “What possessed you to come to my office?” he asks. “How did you even know where—”
“I meet Jen here every so often to take her to lunch,” I cut in quickly. “She introduced you to me as her coworker, bro. Two plus two.”
Spence narrows his eyes at me. “Stop calling me bro, bro.”
A grin breaks across my face before I can stop it. He folds his arms across his chest, the movement pulling his suit jacket tight across his shoulders. “And it’s after hours,” he continues. “There’s security.”
“The guard recognized me,” I shrug. “Big fan.”
Spence rolls his eyes. “Of course he did.”
I flash him a cheesy grin, but then his gaze drops again. Lower this time. And lingers. “Well,” he says dryly, “you could have at least put some clothes on. You’re about to lose an ass cheek.”
Heat rushes straight to the tips of my ears. The elevator slows then dings. The doors slide open onto the ground floor lobby. Spence gestures toward the opening. “After you.”
I blink at him once, then step out. The building’s lobby is mostly empty this time of night, just a security desk and a wall of glass that reflects the city lights outside.
In that glass reflection I see myself walking toward the exit… and Spencer Stark’s cobalt blue eyes locked squarely on my barely covered ass.
Good.
I push the front door open and step out into the evening air. Spence follows behind me. Once outside, he thumbs over his shoulder to the right. “My place is this way.”
I follow like a horny little puppy chasing those long legs that make easy work of the sidewalk that stretches ahead. Watching the muscles in his lower body flex through his suit as he leads the way—with swagger and fuck-hot confidence—makes me want to hump said legs.
Trust me, I’m trying very hard not to drool over the way his suit pants pull taut across his thighs when he walks.
Spoiler alert: I Fail.
Fucking spectacularly.
We round the corner and stop in front of a sleek modern building with glass balconies and warm lighting spilling from the lobby.
Spence presses the entry fob against the reader and pushes the door open.
The lobby smells faintly like polished wood and those designer scents hotels use.
There’s a quiet, upscale calm to the place.
Same vibe as my penthouse’s building, actually.
Spence nods at the Concierge then heads straight for the elevators. When we reach his floor, he leads me down a quiet hallway with recessed lighting and, notably, no doors except the one we’re heading toward.
I follow him to the end of the hall where he stops at the door and unlocks it. Spence steps aside and gestures me in.
The place is huge. No, it’s sprawling. Even bigger than mine.
High ceilings. Massive windows overlooking the city lights.
An open floor plan with a living room that could fit my whole team, gorgeous hardwood flooring, and a wide hallway that I’m guessing leads to where I really want to be—his bedroom.
Spence closes the door behind us. “I’m going to go change,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable—”
“KITTY!” I gasp with excitement as a black blur trots out from somewhere near the couch and lets out a small meow. I crouch down. “Well, hello there, gorgeous.”
The cat walks right up to me like we’ve been friends for years. I mean, I am that likable. Now if only this little one’s dad could get the memo.
Scooping the little furball up, I hold him against my chest, and he starts purring instantly. “Oh my God, look at you,” I coo as I watch Spence roll his eyes. “What’s their name?” I ask.
Spence scratches the back of his head. “Uh.” The hesitation is suspect. “He doesn’t really have a name.”
I blink. “Come on, really?”
“Fine. I call him Fucker,” he huffs.
I burst out laughing. “You named your cat Fucker?”
Spence shrugs and starts taking off his suit coat. “Well, I couldn’t land on a name for the longest time. Just started calling him Fucker—because he acted like one—while I was trying to decide.”
He hangs the coat carefully by the collar on his pointer finger. “And it just stuck. I might give him a real name one day.”
I shake my head, still holding the cat, who is now purring like a tiny chainsaw against my chest. Petting my new friend, I look up and actually take in the place. “Oh.” My eyes widen. “Oh. My. God.”
Spence sighs behind me. “What now?”
I set Fucker down and start walking—rapidly—toward the kitchen. “Your kitchen,” I say dramatically. “It’s a dream. Holy shit, look at all this space.”
Spence follows slower, clearly already regretting letting me in. “Please,” he grumbles. “Be my guest.”
I run my hands along the beautiful stone counters, huge prep areas, and… “Is that—” Eight burners. A massive gas range gleaming under the lights. I gasp, spotting the double ovens.
“Holy shit.” I start opening drawers and cabinets. Soft close, functional, perfect organization. Then I open a tall door and freeze. “No way.”
A walk-in butler’s pantry. Shelving. More storage. More prep space. And on the other side of it, a formal dining room. I step through it, then back into the kitchen just as I hear Spence’s footsteps approaching over the hardwood.
“I have serious kitchen envy,” I gush.
Spence shrugs. “Thanks. I’ve never cooked in it, though.”
My mouth drops open and I slowly point at him. “That,” I say, dead serious, “is criminal.”
He loosens his tie slightly, and my eyes immediately drop to his hands. His strong hands. Long, thick fingers moving over the knot of the tie as he slides it loose.
Horned-up little butterflies flutter low in my gut. I quickly look away when I realize he’s watching me stare. Seemingly unfazed, Spence pulls the tie free and carefully drapes it over his arm.
“I’m going to change,” he says.
I gulp as my brain helpfully supplies an unfortunately vivid mental image of him peeling out of his suit. “Yep,” I say, nodding too quickly. “Great plan. Love that plan.”
He turns and heads down the hallway and I watch him go. Boy, do I watch him go. Those thighs. That ass. The fabric of his pants fighting for its life.
I cover my junk and will it, yet again, not to get any ideas.
Maybe becoming workout buddies with someone I want but can’t have wasn’t such a good idea.
Still, I just want—no I need—to be close to him.