Chapter 30
chapter thirty
Dayton
Being back in Miami is torture. I flew in early on Monday, but by Tuesday, I’m nearly crawling out of my skin because I haven’t talked to Summer.
I’m tapping on my laptop keyboard at work, watching her on the security camera.
She’s talking to Jack while he finishes up the mural, which does look really incredible on the back deck of the house.
Now that it’s all coming together, I can see her vision.
She’s good at this home renovation and design thing.
I pull out my phone, scrolling to her name. She’s been saved under Cupcake since the day I got her number in high school.
I tap the Call button, pressing it up to my ear. A few seconds later, she pulls the device out of her dress pocket.
“Hello?”
I jolt when I hear her voice on the camera and through the phone. I scramble to mute the feed.
“Uh, hey.”
“Hi.”
“You answered.”
“You called me.”
“You’ve never answered my phone call before. Ever.” My heart is pounding.
She turns away from Jack, taking a few steps toward the ocean. “So, did you just call to see if I would answer?”
“No. I called because I missed the sound of your voice.”
I wish I could see her face. She’s silent for a few moments before she turns, just enough for me to see the slight upturn on the corner of her mouth.
“Hmm,” is all she says.
I lean back against my desk chair. The door to my office opens unexpectedly, and my secretary steps in.
“Mr. Copeland, your next appointment just arrived.”
“Thanks, Ava. I’ll be with him in a moment.”
She nods, lingering inside. I raise an eyebrow at her.
“And Noelle called. She wants you to call her back.”
“Okay.”
I won’t be calling Noelle back, considering I haven’t spoken to her in six months and have no intention of continuing our physical relationship. I already told her that, so I’m not sure why she’s calling my office.
Ava’s expression is pinched, but she nods and shuts the door.
“Who’s Ava?” Summer asks.
“My secretary.”
“Oh.” She gnaws on her lower lip.
“Most CEOs have them.”
“Yeah. Is she pretty?”
I lick my lips, studying her profile. “To some people, I guess.”
“Oh. So, yes.”
“She’s an aspiring model.”
She rolls her eyes. “Everyone thinks models are pretty. That’s why they’re models.”
“I prefer more of a yoga body with a deep tan and honey-blond hair that feels like silk.”
She covers her mouth with her hand. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know what I like, and I have very specific tastes. Also, are you jealous, Cupcake?”
She nods, but says, “No, of course not.”
I chuckle. I’m on the verge of telling her I can see her.
“I just know how tempting secretaries can be to their CEOs when they’re working in close quarters all day.”
“Ahh, right, your moronic douchebag ex-husband. I suppose, to weaker men, who don’t understand the value of a woman like you, it matters what their secretary looks like. Do you want me to fire her?”
Her mouth drops open. “No. I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Not yet. Would my firing her make you more likely to say yes when I ask you out on a date?”
Her cheeks are bright red, and I’m getting turned on, just watching her reaction.
“I don’t want to be responsible for someone losing their job.”
“That wasn’t a no.” I turn toward the door. “Ava! Can you come here?”
“Dayton, no! I don’t want you to fire her!”
Ava pokes her head back in the door. She isn’t my type whatsoever, but I did hire her to appeal to my clients, who are mostly male.
“Can I get a fresh cup of coffee?”
She nods, disappearing.
“Oh, so she gets your coffee too, huh? Does she write you sweet little notes on the cup, like the barista at Starbucks probably does?”
“Holy shit, you are jealous. Wait a minute. Is this how you always are? Do I need to fire my housekeeper too?”
“I’m not jealous! You’re not my boyfriend. I don’t care if you go to a female hairstylist, work with all women, go to strip clubs on the weekends … none of it matters to me.”
“You’ve said that twice now. Are you thinking about what it would be like if I was your boyfriend? Would you start cutting my hair and be my personal stripper?”
Summer’s face is now bright red, but she’s pacing around the back patio, biting her lip and twirling her hair around her finger. She looks incredibly kissable.
“I would ruin your hair.”
“That’s okay. My barber is male. Does that mean you can dance?”
“I took a pole-dancing class during my divorce.”
My pants tighten farther as my erection grows. “Keep going.”
She shrugs. “It didn’t help, obviously. Hot secretary beats the pole-dancing wife at home, I guess.”
My blood heats when I think about how her ex treated her.
Maybe I should fire Ava. If her working here makes Summer uncomfortable, I won’t hesitate. It’s not like being a secretary is Ava’s dream job.
“Are you busy tonight and tomorrow?”
“I have some pictures to edit for a pregnancy announcement session.”
“You could do that on the plane.”
“What plane?”
“The plane that’s going to bring you here.”
“Um, what?”
Ava walks back into my office, coffee in hand. She sets the cup on my desk.
“I need you to book a first-class flight here from Coconut Beach this afternoon. Her name is Summer Sullivan.”
Ava blinks at me. “Um, yes, sir.”
“Send the confirmation to this email address. And have Burt pick her up.” I scribble down Summer’s email on a sticky note.
Burt is my preferred driver when I’m in the city.
She nods, pursing her lips before turning around to leave.
“I’m late for a meeting, okay? But I’ll see you tonight. My driver, Burt, will pick you up.”
I can see on my monitor that Summer’s face has paled. She opens her mouth and closes it without responding. I tap the End call button, watching her pull the phone back and stare at the screen.
My fingers drum on the desk.
I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if she shows up.
When I rented this penthouse in Miami, sight unseen, I thought the stripper pole in the master suite was tacky. Of course, I paid to have it deep cleaned and never imagined I’d hear Summer Sullivan confess to taking pole-dancing lessons.
I’m wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants, opening a bottle of sparkling rosé when I hear a soft knocking sound on the front door. I walk over and open it. Summer is standing there in a pair of white sweatpants and a pink crop top. Her duffel bag is slung over her shoulder.
She tilts her head. “Are you going to invite me in?”
I lick my lips, reaching out to lift the bag from her shoulder. She lets me take it, stepping in when I move back from the door. I shut it behind her, trailing after her as she walks through the shiny space.
I almost forgot how addictive she was in the last two days. I’m drawn to her like a magnet to metal.
The apartment came fully furnished, and it’s sleek and modern. She moves over to the all-black kitchen island, grabbing one of the two glasses I just poured.
“It’s so … cold,” she says, taking a sip of the wine and turning her big green eyes back to rest on me.
I set her bag down beside the island and grab my wineglass. “It feels warmer now.”
I tap the rim of my glass to hers, looking down over her. She parts her lips, breathing in before her lashes flutter open to study my mouth.
“I almost didn’t get on the plane.”
“I’m glad you did,” I murmur.
The electric current between us is undeniable. She takes a slow sip of the wine before licking her bottom lip.
“Why did you invite me here, Dayton?”
“You promised me a dance I never got. I have a pole, and you’re a dancer.”
“I’m sure this city has plenty of those, more professional ones.”
“I told you I have very specific tastes.”
“Which are?” She presses her hip up against my kitchen island.
I set down my glass before I give in and finally touch her, my fingers wrapping around the sliver of tanned skin at her waist. I use both hands to lift her up onto the counter and push between her knees, spreading them apart.
Her free hand grips my biceps. Her hair is in a loose braid on her shoulder. I tug off the ponytail holder and drag my fingers through the honey strands to loosen them.
“I googled Ava,” she confesses.
I smirk, my bare chest puffing out. “And?”
“And she’s gorgeous. She plays tennis.”
My thumb is sliding over the soft skin of her stomach, but I need to be closer. I slide my hand up over to her rib cage, just like we did when we were teens and I was so horny for her that I couldn’t control my urges.
“But she’s not you.” I lean forward, my nose pressing to the side of her neck, where I inhale her coconut and sea-salt scent.
“And she is a model. For a luxury skin-care brand. She has no pores.”
“But she’s not you,” I whisper, weaving my fingers through her silky hair.
“I saw that girl who tagged you on social media. Your ex, Noelle. She’s—”
“Not you,” I whisper. “None of them are.”
I pull back, searching her eyes before pressing my lips to hers.
She sinks into me, her body relaxing against mine, instantly spineless. I cup the back of her head, my other hand pressing her lower back closer. She tastes like chocolate and wine.
She gasps when my erection rubs against her thigh. I need to feel the inside of her right now, but first, I want to see her. I lift her up, and she instantly wraps her legs around my waist.
My tongue dives into her mouth as I walk her toward my bedroom. She sighs, sucking on my bottom lip and biting down. My arms are easily supporting her weight, crushing her against my erection. She wiggles, trying to increase the friction.
When I get to the bed, I turn and sit down. I lean back, breaking the kiss.
“Go into the bathroom and change,” I tell her.
She looks over at the door to the left, gripping my shoulders. I ordered her three different sets of lingerie. They’re all pink, like the one she sent me a picture in. I laid them out on the bathroom counter.
Whatever happened with Summer and her ex-husband and ex-boyfriend did something to destroy her confidence. For a reason that is beyond my comprehension, she doesn’t see herself in the way I see her—a goddess with the ability to bring me to my knees.
She licks her lips before sliding off my lap. With one last exhale, she walks toward the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. I groan, wondering what good deed I did in a past life to deserve to live in this moment. I grab the remote off my nightstand, turning down the dimmable lights.
When I press the button to light up the TV screen, it automatically goes back to the last thing I was watching—the security cameras at the beach house.
I panic, scrambling to redirect to my music streaming service.
I exhale when it switches over, turning back to see that the bathroom door is still closed.
I select a date-night playlist rated Mature with the Explicit warning label on the cover. Sensual music starts pouring through the surround-sound speakers. The stripper pole in the corner of the room has its own lighting. It automatically switches to a glowing red, which I didn’t know was possible.
I walk back into the kitchen to grab the wine bottle and our glasses. When I return to the room, I top both of our glasses off before lying back against the pillows.
The bathroom door creaks open. I stay reclined, my erection now only at half-mast. It twitches in anticipation when I see her. I exhale, shivers running over the surface of my skin.
She chose my favorite one. It’s a dusty-rose pink with velvet triangle cups covering her breasts and sheer lace over her stomach.
A little pink bow decorates the center of her chest. It hits the top of her thighs, but I know that when she turns around, I’ll have a salacious view of her ass with only the matching G-string covering it.
Her cheeks are flushed as she faces me, awaiting my perusal.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, letting my eyes travel slowly down her curves. Her bikini tan lines are visible through the sheer lace, and I want nothing more than to throw her on the bed and get to the good part.
I force myself to remain still. Her honey hair is tumbling down her shoulders in waves, just waiting for me to wrap it around my fist. Her lips are in a pout, but she licks the top one and looks up at me with a doe-eyed expression before she turns and walks toward the dresser along the wall.
The air in my lungs disappears when I catch sight of her backside.
Her full, round ass, toned from hours of yoga, is begging for my handprints. She picks up her wineglass, sipping slowly. She pushes her hair back over her shoulder so that it hangs down past the curve of her waist. My mouth waters.
Holy fuck.
I grab my phone off the end table, lifting it up to take a photo of her. She turns, seeing me poised with the phone. She smirks, holding the pose. I tap the screen to take the picture.
“New background?” she asks, sipping the wine.
I nod.
Her tongue brushes across the top of her lip. “I’m starting to realize you might be … obsessed with me.”
I don’t respond because I don’t trust my voice not to admit the truth. That I’m much more than obsessed.
I’m consumed with her.
She sets the glass down, sashaying toward the pole. A song by The Weeknd starts playing over the surround-sound speakers. My dick is fully hard now, poking up visibly through my sweatpants. I don’t bother hiding it. She knows what she does to me.
I want her to know.
She stands in front of the pole before reaching out to grasp it. I exhale, only worried about one thing.
You cannot come in your pants right now.