13. Lourdes
Lourdes
It’s been two weeks at the new job, and every morning I leave the apartment before David wakes up. Or before he even gets home from either working or partying all night. I’ve been regularly using the Zervas company gym to work out, shower, and get dressed in the locker room.
I push myself hard, pumping iron, hoping that when I take off for Chicago, I’ll be strong enough to beat the hell out of David before I leave. If nothing else, the sweat burns away a little more of the insecurity under my skin.
Every morning without fail, there are fresh flowers waiting for me on my desk. Different varieties every day. White lilies, blood red roses, deep purple violets. But there is never a note.
Some mornings, other gifts wait for me, too.
Velvet boxes that contain glittering necklaces and matching bracelets.
Pearl earrings arrived the other day. I tell myself they’re professional gestures, additions to my uniform, a way for Ares to ensure I look the part when he brings me to meetings, lunches, or dinners.
He introduces me to everyone. “This is Lourdes. She is me.”
I asked for more to do. Rarely does anyone show up at the Wall Street office while he’s at the Aurelian.
He gave me access to all the business proposals he’s juggling.
When he’s meeting with investors or banking managers, Ares barks numbers at them.
Numbers he asks me for. I’ve made it a priority to always be ready with an answer.
This morning, Ares’s brother Ambrose calls me into his office. The attorney greets me with his usual smile. “These need Ares’s signature before noon,” he says, handing me a folder.
“He has a meeting at the Aurelian at ten.” I check the tablet I use. “It’s expected to go until after two.”
“There’s a filing deadline.” Ambrose glances at his phone. “He’s still at the penthouse. Bring the contracts to him there, and I’ll have a courier pick them up.”
The suggestion that I go to his penthouse, his home, hits me in a way that gives me butterflies.
Logistics tap tap tap in my brain.
“Wouldn’t it be more efficient for a courier to bring them to the Aurelian and wait?” I shift in my seat.
“Ares doesn’t sign anything without questions. You know the details. You fed them to me to write the contract.”
“Right.” I straighten my shoulders.
The trust these men have in me makes me confident that I will be able to get an upscale job like this once I have Sandrine secured somewhere. Zervas & Company on my resume and a recommendation from Ares Zervas will be very valuable.
After I nod, Ambrose makes a call. “Bring my car around to the south entrance,” he says into the phone. “Miss Sinclair is heading to Fifth.”
The penthouse on Fifth.
I’ve heard Ares mention it in passing. My penthouse, this. My penthouse, that.
My stomach tightens. I’ve never been there.
Never had a reason to go. Not once in the two weeks that I’ve worked for Ares has he invited me to his home.
Everything between us has been extremely professional, despite the unexpected intimate dinner at his cousin’s restaurant and the way he has looked at me every day since, when he thinks I don’t notice.
I notice. And God, I like it. Maybe too much.
Ambrose returns to his legal papers, not looking at me. I spin on my heels and go back to my desk. After retrieving my bag, I head for the elevator. At the south entrance, a narrow tributary block for deliveries, Ambrose’s car waits for me.
With a few turns, Wall Street falls away behind me. Glass and steel transform slowly into older stone buildings that sit opposite Central Park. The car slows in front of one of them. This one is understated but unmistakably expensive.
After a signal from Ambrose’s driver, a doorman steps forward to open my car door before I can get my fingers around the handle.
“Good morning. I’m here to see Mr. Zervas,” I say, allowing myself to be helped from the car like I’m a celebrity.
I hate to admit, I like that. For just a split second.
The doorman nods. “Yes, Miss Sinclair. You’ve been cleared by Mr. Ambrose.”
With three Zervas brothers, I guess adding a formal title of Mr. to their first names is a way to identify them in staff circles.
My heels click against the black and white checkered stone floors of the lobby. The air is faintly scented and smells clean and pleasant.
A man in his fifties, wearing a dark suit, approaches me, offering a respectful nod. “This way, Miss Sinclair.”
He hooks a right from a set of steel doors in the lobby and leads me to a private elevator. There are no buttons. And the building is so old, there’s no card pad. It uses an actual key, which the man keeps on a chain.
“After you,” he says, steering me inside.
It’s a smooth ascent for an old elevator. My ears pop slightly, and I consider how high up we’re actually going. When the single brass door slides open, I step into another world.
It starts with a vestibule.
Not flashy. Not gaudy. And not open. The rooms are divided by arched entryways, all with carved moldings. The furniture I see is modern with clean lines. It feels very… Ares. I can feel him in the space without him even being in the room.
A well-dressed man who I assume is Ares’s personal valet approaches me and says, “Mr. Zervas returned late from Club Wicked last night. His workout ran over. He should be showering. You may wait in his office.” He gestures down a corridor. “It’s in the residence wing.”
Something twists in my stomach. He returned late last night. From Club Wicked. It’s not a sex club. But it’s a rich man’s playground where members can get whatever they want. As the owner, Ares can also have whoever he wants.
Was he there late with a woman? And why does that send a shudder of sadness through me? I have no claim on him. I’m married. I’m not available. And I’m not sticking around.
“Thank you,” I say to the valet to get out of my head.
Wandering down the hallway, I feel the space grow quieter the deeper I go. The further I walk, the more private this wing feels.
I find the door I assume is the office. It’s slightly ajar, so I push it open. I expect it to be empty since Ares…
I’m hit with a vision that immediately tells me I’m in the wrong place. I freeze, my pulse jumping.
This isn’t an office. This is a bedroom. And by the messy sheets on the king-size bed in front of me, I know this is Ares’s bedroom.
The room feels like him. Dark tones, plush carpet, the faint scent of his musky cologne lingering in the air. Despite knowing that I should immediately leave this room, my gaze drifts, taking in the details.
My gaze lands back on the bed. Was a woman in it earlier? One he brought home and fucked? I don’t smell perfume. But Ares’s scent is so powerful. There’s so much of the man.
I should leave. Right now, this second. But I can’t…move.
Over the roar of blood in my ears, I make out the unmistakable sound of running water.
Ares is in the shower. My breath catches at the fear of being caught in here, mixed with a sharp adrenaline rush of imagining Ares Zervas nude and wet.
I turn to leave, but I catch the faint sound of moaning. My eyes flare back to the bed. Is there a woman in the shower with him?
White-hot anger and jealousy burn through me. Obscene and irrational.
The door to the bathroom is open. No need for him to close it. He has no idea I’m standing here. Did he even know I was on my way?
I doubt the valet would disturb his boss in the shower. With a woman.
“Fuck,” Ares groans.
My heart pounds, and I clutch my chest. I can’t listen. It’s none of my business.
“Lourdes…”
I spin around, a jolt lancing through me, thinking he caught me spying on him. But Ares isn’t standing there. Am I hearing things? I step closer to the bathroom. My eyes widen when I realize, thanks to a conveniently placed mirror over the marble vanity, I have a perfect view of the shower.
Ares is alone.
I see…everything.
Slightly bent forward with his eyes closed, he appears to be…
masturbating. One hand rests on the glass door.
The other hand, I assume, is fisted around…
his cock. I can’t see it, but I wish I could.
This strong forbidden desire shocks me. I hadn’t thought of him in these specific sexual ways before. Or his…anatomy.
Ares gives himself long, languid strokes. Can his hand close around it? Is it so long that he has to go slow? Yes, he’d be long and thick. Look at the rest of him.
“Lourdes, take my cock.”
He’s…thinking of me. He’s…touching himself, imagining fucking me. I feel ready to pass out. My heart is beating too fast, so hard.
And I’m wet. My clit throbs with need for the first time in years.
“Christ, you fuck me so good.” Eyes still closed, he throws his head back. “Just like that. Just how I like it. Spread your legs. Fuck, I’m so deep in your cunt. Do you like my cock this deep?”
Yes…
I want that. I want him.
Blinded by this sudden surge of lust, I bump into the wall, reminding me I’m not supposed to be in his bedroom at all. Even though he’s fantasizing about me and it’s so damn sexy.
I step back. For all I know, he can go for hours. Of course, a man like that can go for hours. I turn and open the door to leave, but in my rush, I end up in his closet.
Before I turn around, my eyes are locked on how perfectly organized it is. There are rows of suits and dress shirts. Everything is arranged with precision that borders on obsession.
His scent is stronger in here. It smells spicy and addictive, and it makes my lungs expand as I breathe it in. I can’t…leave. I just can’t.
On the center dresser, a silver tray holds several bottles of cologne. He uses different scents for different occasions? Different versions of himself. I only know one: CEO Ares.
I reach out before I can stop myself and touch the scent label I recognize. My fingers brush the glass, then I lift it. Heart pounding, I give a quick spray to my wrist, so I can smell him all day.
This is insane.
Pulse quickening, I set down the bottle, forcing myself to breathe. Then something catches my eye.