CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CASH
“Cash,” Sylvie wheezes, covering her face with both hands. “It’s … oh my fuck.”
“Breathe, baby.”
“I can’t.” She peeks through her fingers, overwhelmed but too hungry for it not to chance a look. “It’s too much.”
“It’s not too much.” I clutch her waist, my fingers sinking into the bow of her hips as I move her where I want her. “It’s perfect. Open your eyes.”
She does.
“Well, I mean,” she stammers, more undone than I’ve ever seen her, “it’s sexy as hell. But you need to reevaluate your gift giving. A toaster is an appropriate birthday present, not a Ducati Panigale V4 S.”
Her ability to rattle off the model has me laughing. I think I did good.
“Why the hell would I buy you a toaster?”
“I don’t know. Toast is a cozy treasure.” She bites back a smile. “And … an appliance to produce it is … normal.”
“And boring. Please tell me a man has never bought you a toaster. You know what? I don’t want to know anything about cozy treasures.” I station myself behind her, gesturing to the bike in front of us. “I was going for exhilarating and practical. More like toasting anyone else on the road.”
“So cozy.” She chuckles.
“The matte black was a custom paint job. I figured it would allow you to use it for jobs. I added the rear seat and got a few fake license plates to slap on. She’ll fit on my jet, so we’ll take her with us tomorrow and try her out. You’ve had too many drinks today.”
She spent the afternoon with the girls until they all returned as happy as happy hour would permit.
Or as much as Mercy—their chaperone since she can’t drink—would allow.
They sopped up the alcohol at our family dinner, which was over an hour ago, but Sylvie still shouldn’t drive.
Worth it though. She was glowing when she returned.
She must’ve temporarily dismissed the reservations about my family’s involvement in her upcoming heist.
“I’m not drunk, but …” She twists around to peer up at me.
“It’s late. And we need to leave early.” Despite her suggestion for us to head back to the penthouse, she steps away and tarries near the bike, tracing the curves with her index finger.
A question loiters the space between us until she finally releases it. “Is this what you do?”
“What I do?” I repeat, not sure what she means.
“I’m so appreciative.” She presses both palms over her chest, emotion making her voice quaver. “It’s the most generous anyone has ever … it all has been … the clothes and breakfast and Big Top night. I don’t think I should accept it, but—”
“Why?”
“Because …” Her gaze flits between me and the bike, and suddenly, what she’s inquiring about hits me.
I stride toward her, crowding her near the Ducati while still allotting her some breathing room.
“I have never spoiled another woman like this. Or at all. Not even a fucking toaster because I’ve never …
” I take a beat to reroute my approach. “You don’t need me to buy you things.
You’re capable of getting any-damn-thing you want all by yourself.
But I’m guessing you don’t let yourself splurge because it could bring you unwanted attention.
That’s been a concern for a long time. Right? ”
She hesitates, but there’s an unmistakable hint of validation in the rise of her chin. “Yes.”
“That’s not the case with me in the picture.
This is expected, so let me … the thought of being the reason you can relax and live a little freer …
” I blow out a choppy breath because I am so bad at this shit.
“If you need to think of it as a gift from a friend, so be it. But I waited all day to see that damn smile on your face, so …”
She soaks that in for a long-ass minute, intent on making me sweat every goddamn interaction we have. But when those ambers park on me, her addictive brazenness is swimming inside them. “And if I refuse to take it?”
This I can work with.
I curl my hand around the back of her neck, tilting her jaw up with my thumb. “Only a brat would refuse gifts that were tailor-made for her. If that’s the way you want to play it, I have no reason not to spank your ass so you can’t sit down for a week.”
The air crackles between us. Her breathing grows shallow, and her pupils blow wide.
She’s so rigid about most aspects of her life, but I think she likes the thought of handing over some control.
I bet she’d let me take her right here on her new bike.
But not fucking this up equates to letting her set the pace.
“Well, I wasn’t going to refuse. I was just playing around, but …” She bites her lip, batting her thick lashes before she sashays her fine ass toward the penthouse elevator and smiles at me over her shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”
Later works too.
“Thank you.” She spins, walking backward for a few paces before resuming her jaunt. “I love it so much.”
I sidle up to her and glide my hand over the small of her back. “Good birthday?”
“The best.” As we step into the elevator, her nose crinkles. “So, what will you be driving tomorrow?”
I scan my iris and send us into motion. “The Ducati.”
“The hell you will,” she scoffs, so gorgeous in that purple dress. “My job. My bike. My right to drive. You have your own motorcycles.”
“I guess I’ll be your backpack, Sly.”
She covers her mouth, breaking into a fit of giggles, which confirms there’s still some alcohol in her bloodstream, keeping her loose. “Just what I need to carry. A six-foot-three Noire.”
As the elevator spits us out, I open the door and lean down to rasp in her ear, “I think the thought of me tucked around you will keep you plenty cozy tonight.”
She shivers, but doesn’t answer, so I wait until we make it upstairs, but when she’s still quiet on the upper landing, I capture her wrist and hold it against my chest to keep her from bolting.
“Last night and today were perfect. I will never get tired of seeing you happy or”—I kick my chin toward my room with a nod to last night—“hearing you moan my name.”
Shutters snap over her face, sealing me out. That must’ve been the wrong thing to say.
“It was a great day,” she manages on a measured inhale, exhale, but her dismissal is clear when she stretches onto her tiptoes to peck my cheek. “We have to get up so early, so …”
I’m not sure what the hell happened, so I swagger away as though I didn’t catch any of that. “Have a good night, Palmer.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and lying in Maddox’s bed, staring at the ceiling.
My thoughts are circling faster than the fan.
All of them revolve around the amber-eyed vixen.
And the people who hurt her. She deserves someone who can pick up the pieces, and I’m not sure how to be that guy.
I can spoil her and get her out of her professional bind and make her scream until her voice is nothing but a faint memory.
But I don’t know how to fix what someone else broke, especially when she’s so resistant.
Maybe that’s not the right word because there’s no denying the sparks between us.
She just won’t let herself believe there’s anything worth hanging on to, but I’d be willing to bet she feels it.
I reach for my phone, unlocking it and hovering over our text thread until I just go for it.
Me: Hey. You awake?
She responds immediately, and based on the brisk pace of our conversation, I’m guessing she’s as preoccupied as I am.
Sylvie: Yes. Why are you texting me from one room over?
Me: Is that an invitation?
Sylvie: Do you always answer questions with questions?
Me: Do you always evade answering them?
Sylvie: They don’t call me Sly for nothing.
Me: I’m the only one who calls you Sly.
Sylvie: You don’t know that.
Me: I do. Your pupils dilate when I say it.
Sylvie: They do not!
Me: Yes, they do. You do some other things, too, but I know how carried away your filthy mind can get, so we won’t discuss those now.
Sylvie: You’re not awake because of my dilating pupils. What’s going on? Sorry if I was weird at the end of the night. My mind was starting to drift to tomorrow, the job, and everything your brothers said earlier.
Me: It’s okay. I’m sure today was a lot.
Sylvie: It was. Mostly in a good way.
Sylvie: Now you. What’s messing with your head?
Me: I don’t sleep well.
Sylvie: Staying asleep or falling asleep?
Me: Both. I have nightmares sometimes.
Sylvie: Oh, I didn’t expect that.
Me: No one ever does.
Sylvie: What about your family?
Me: Nah. I’m not the haunted one.
Sylvie: They don’t know you have trouble sleeping and have nightmares? You all seem so close.
Me: We are. Mad knows. It’s a middle-kid thing. The oldest two carried everything. The youngest two acted out. Mad and I smiled through it. But now, it’s different with him gone.
Sylvie: He’s in the apartment below this one.
Me: And so happy. I love Tessa. I love them together. I wouldn’t change a thing.
Sylvie: But you’re lonely.
Me: More than I’d like to admit.
I take a deep breath and offer some unfiltered truth.
Me: Maddox isn’t the reason I realized it though.
Sylvie: No?
Me: No.
Sylvie: Maybe it’s worse because you’re not in your own bed.
Me: Probably.
Sylvie: You should do something about that.
I shoot straight up because I sure as fuck would like to do something about that, but I need to know what she’s thinking.
Me: Sly???
Sylvie: That was an invitation to sleep beside me. So you won’t be lonely.
I climb out of bed, throw a pair of gray joggers over my boxer briefs, and stroll at a pace that attempts to hide my vision of bursting through the wall and devouring her.
She smiles when I let myself in. But I can’t make out much else since the room is dark, bathed only in the silver glow of moonlight and some twinkling city lights.
When I reach the empty side of the bed, I realize that like some sort of wicked temptress, she’s wearing my T-shirt. And nothing else. Maybe panties.
Fuck.