I said, “There was an Under Construction tag with some digits at the bottom, but they only flashed a few times before trickling away.”
“Digits? Do you remember what they were?”
“Not really. Started with a five…”
He fell silent again. Tension arced between us. I could feel him brooding. Could picture the furrowed brow and the clenched jaw. Something definitely was not right with the problems at 10,000 Lux.
“One more complication?” I ventured.
“I’ll get it fixed in the morning.” His tone was still low and sexy but decisive. “Now, about the job. Say, Yes, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and then we can wrap up the business portion of this call.”
That spark only he could ignite made my clit tingle. The ache inside me sprang to life—an incessant need that consumed me. A demanding, erratic pulsing in my core that would only intensify if I stayed on the phone with him.
“Ari,” he said, his tone coaxing. “What’s the point in stalling? What more can I offer to make you agree?”
“Nothing,” I told him. “Everything you’ve put on the table is … perfect. Yes, everything I’ve ever wanted. The rest,” as he’d termed it during dinner the night before, “is something entirely different.”
“I’ve explained about Mikaela. And I’ve been patient with you. You can’t expect me to wait forever.”
“Dane, we’ve known each other for, like, two weeks.”
“Yes,” he said, the sound of his laptop snapping closed and him settling into a chair or sofa echoed his frustration. “And I haven’t laid a hand on you. That’s killing me, Ari.”
Exhilaration shot through me. The throbbing in my pussy had me squeezing my legs together.
“Dane,” I grumbled. God, he lit me up so easily. Too easily.
“Tell me what you sleep in.”
My eyelids closed tightly as magma started to flow in place of blood.
“Ari,” he prompted, a hint of need edging his voice, tearing at me. “Give me something to work with here.”
My cheeks warmed. “Nothing provocative, sorry. I’ve got on a faded Edmonton Oilers T-shirt, ripped at the neck.”
“Mm.” He sounded a bit more satisfied. “Number?”
“Ninety-nine, of course.”
“The Great One. Wayne Gretzky. I wouldn’t take you for a hockey fan.”
Shoving thoughts of how much more thrilling a response someone like Mikaela Madsen would give to his question, I stood and flipped off the light switch, then returned to the living room. The storm was a bad one, and it made me a little nervous as I thought again of its warning, the potential for it to truly be an omen. Though I fought that odd notion tugging at me. Monsoons were unpredictable and they could be mild and last two weeks or torrential and last two months. Total crapshoot.
Not an omen, Ari.
Cur
ling up on the sofa that faced the patio doors and the golf course beyond, I dragged the throw from the back of the couch and draped it over my bare legs.
“My dad got me into hockey,” I said, “when Gretzky coached the Phoenix Coyotes. He never missed a game on TV. He and Gretzky played a pro-am tourney together. That’s when I met him.”
“Bryce DeMille is your dad—I read that in the bridal magazine feature. I’ve seen him on ESPN. He had a very promising career.”
“And a bad shoulder.”
“He’ll like the courses at the Lux.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”