The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

Somehow, I’ve never been to the penthouse in L’Etoile.

It’s always eluded me. And haunted me.

It isn’t the amenities that interest me. A bed made of solid gold. Draperies spun from a rare Chinese silkworm. Whatever they are I’m sure they’re lovely, but it’s the person who rents them I want to meet. My chest feels tight with anticipation. A heavy beat through my veins, because this is more than a client. This is someone who might have access to the current owner of this hotel.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but hopes aren’t under my control. They rise and rise, high enough that I have to turn my thoughts away from revenge. To something much more base. Sex.

There’s a private elevator that leads only to the penthouse and the private rooftop gardens. It requires the key card to call it down. There are three buttons on the inside wood panel: L for lobby, P for penthouse, and R for the roof. There’s also the silhouette of a bell. I suppose that’s for if, in the space between the lobby and their suite, they decide they need champagne and strawberries delivered. I could call down for some. Or I could have brought some flowers. Props, you could say. Props to charm a lady, but I don’t need them. Don’t want them. I pride myself on making them feel like they’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, because for one night, they are.

A soft chime signals my arrival. The doors slide open.

I was prepared for any type of penthouse decor. Something lush and antique to match the lower floors. Something modern and sleek to appeal to the upscale traveler.

What I’m looking at isn’t a penthouse at all. Not one I’ve ever seen.

There’s a lumpy corduroy sofa in front of a gilded brick fireplace. A pile of old books about to topple over on a side table that probably came from Ikea. Through the room I can see floor-to-ceiling windows that would have been the focal point, but they’ve been covered by drapes. That alone would not be remarkable, except for the string of star-shaped plastic lights that traipse across them. It takes me a moment to realize that my mouth is open. Shocked. I’m shocked, which is pleasant enough considering it’s a novelty. How long has it been since something surprised me? And where is the object of that surprise? There is no woman to greet me. No seductress. No glamourous woman ready for the night of her life. God, what is that strange tightening in my chest? It feels like anticipation, deep and true, and it’s been a lifetime since I felt that.

“Hello,” I call, stepping into the suite.

There’s a thump from the bedroom. A woman pops her head around the corner, all frizzy hair and wild eyes and plump pink lips. She wears a black dress with a startling high neck, lace on top, the kind that a matron would wear—but her skin is perfectly smooth, her eyes wide. This is a young woman. Younger than myself, her clothes an anachronism. Her expression? Pure relief. “Oh thank God.”

She sounds so sincere that I have visions of an orgasm emergency. A deficiency so intense she had to dial a twenty-four-hour line to have it fixed. There’s something undeniably hot about the idea of a woman in dire straits and me the only one who can help.

“Hugo Bellmont,” I tell her, providing a small bow. “At your service.”

And then I give her the smile. Not the megawatt one that I used downstairs. I give her the slow, suggestive one that lets her know every dirty thing that I’m thinking.

It isn’t fake. It doesn’t need to be. Not with her whispery curls that I’d love to feel in my fist. Not with the pale freckles across her nose that I’d love to track all the way down her body.

Her eyes are an interesting pale green. I want to look in them while I go down on her.

Every single dirty thought is in the smallest smile.

Except she disappears back into the bedroom. “In here!”

How unusual. I’ve never met a woman as hurried about her sexual requirements. She sounds worried, almost frantic, and I haven’t even been here sixty seconds.

I follow her, feeling for the first time in years out of my depth. It’s a nice feeling, a pleasant simmer in my veins. My steps feel lighter across the plush carpet.

At the threshold I barely have time to register the strange furniture. It’s large and antique. Expensive but mismatched. As if they crammed an estate sale into one room.

The young woman is bent over a large dresser, her ass perfectly plump. I could fill my hands with her. Could press my new erection against the crease. Except it isn’t a sexy pose.

Instead she seems to be looking behind the dresser.

“It’s okay,” she’s saying, breathless. “Come out, sweetie. You can do it.”

Based on the sweet tone of her voice and the cat dish I spotted on the way inside, I already know what I’m going to see when I peek over the top of the dresser. Sure enough, there’s a fluffy cat with bright yellow eyes peering up at me.

I don’t have much experience with cats. They were one level up from rodents where I grew up, useful for catching rats and underfoot in dark alleys.

However, my experience with pussies of a different sort translates just fine, because I can see exactly what’s happened to the poor girl. She’s backed herself all the way into a corner, made her body so small she can’t possibly come out.

No matter how nicely her owner coaxes her, it won’t work. It can’t possibly. Something like this isn’t solved with words; it’s solved with a confident, calming touch.

I straighten enough to pul

l off my jacket. “If you’ll allow me.”