The last time I felt awe like this was when I was flying into New York City for the first time. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to live here, in a place I’d dreamed about for so long.
Adrian grins, slipping his arm around my waist. “I’m certainly not the richest man in New York.”
“How very modest of you,” I teasingly respond although my normal bite is lost.
There’s a deep rumble from his chest, a short hum. I’ve noticed him do it a few times now and with it, his hand drops lower, to the side of my hip and his thumb rubs soothing circles there.
It causes a tension, a nervousness inside of me. It’s more serious. Because I crave it. I want more of that masculine hum of satisfaction.
Being in his personal space and seeing his things and furniture is way beyond what I ever thought I’d do with him. I’m nervous to get it right and keep my cool, but I’m a strange mixture of giddy and hot. The more I learn about Adrian, the harder it will be when things end between us. I’m not sure I want things to end between us. Which only adds more to the feeling of not having the upper hand.
I certainly don’t want them to end here, in his beautiful penthouse with all his fancy furniture and Adrian in his suit from the office. Despite working all day it’s still crisp. I’d like for him to take it off, or to play the game we always play … but in his home, we don’t have to rush.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low.
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want a drink?”
I nod. A drink would be good. Something to hold in my hands and busy myself with.
“Let’s step into the kitchen, then.” In Adrian’s kitchen, which is an elegant, masculine space with dark marble countertops and tall reclaimed wood shelves, he takes down two cut glass tumblers. Light bends through them, refracting as he cradles them in his large palms. Even his tumblers reek of wealth “What would you like?” he asks.
“You choose,” I offer, not knowing what’s in his kitchen.
“Whiskey?” he questions. “I have a favorite you may not have tried before.”
“I don’t mind whiskey.”
“Chocolate cream cold brew whiskey,” he speaks clearly, opening cabinets and leaving me alone by the kitchen island, standing quite alone in the expansive space.
Once he has what he needs, the bottles lined up and large spherical ice cubes taking up space in the tumblers, he strips off his jacket so he’s just in his shirt from the office. Like his suit, his dress shirt is still pristine after a day of sitting in meetings and restructuring the company. My mouth waters at the thought of what’s hidden under the belt around his waist and the white shirt above.
How did we come to be here? How did I find myself in this penthouse, with a man like him?
“If you don’t care for it, I’ll happily drink both and get you something else,” he offers and I nod a thanks, deciding I should take that seat at the island after all.
He’s capable in the kitchen, mixing this drink like he’s made it a thousand times before. I have another flash of jealousy. Maybe he has, for some other woman, though it’s none of my business who he brings here or who he makes drinks for. It comes and goes, leaving me questioning how much he’s gotten to me. We’ve both been with other partners. And this, whatever is between us, is mutual.
Evening light glows around him as he tells me, “Let me know what you think.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as he hands me the heavy glass. The first sip goes down smooth. “Wow.” I never would have guessed chocolate and whiskey would be a combination so easy and delectable. He’s made it better than any bartender could have. It overwhelms me, how good it is.
“You like?” he questions, standing and leaning against the island.
“I do.”
“Now that you’ve seen mine, I’m wondering about yours,” he says, sipping his whiskey.
“My place is nothing like this,” I comment, a bit worried, but also blunt. I’m sure he’s aware. I don’t come from this kind of money and my position certainly doesn’t pay a salary where I could afford anything close to this in my lifetime.
Adrian sips his own whiskey, which he takes straight.
“I imagine you bring work home?” he asks.
“I prefer to stay at the office, but yes. My apartment is small. When I split with my ex, I sold off everything and bought a place in the West Village that I’d wanted for so long.”
“Hell’s Kitchen is fitting for you.” I nearly tell him I’m barely there, but then I realize what he’s revealed.
“How did you know?” I question and then answer for myself. “Did you snoop in the company files?”