I could have stood there kissing him all night. He was that good. And it had been too damn long for me. I wanted him so badly I could taste it, but I hadn’t been able to figure him out tonight, and didn’t dare make any assumptions.
Luckily, I didn’t have to.
“My place?” he asked in a gruff voice.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
He named a neighborhood about twenty minutes away and I shook my head.
“My place is closer.”
Chapter Four
Lars
* * *
Mavericks Group Text
Wes: Am I the only one still up at 1:06 a.m.? Benny is teething and he only sleeps for two minutes at a time. I just offered him five grand to sleep for four hours.
Wes: Hello…? Anyone. I’m bored as hell here, guys.
Wes: Lars, wasn’t your date with the supermodel tonight? How’d it go?
Wes: Or is it still going…?
* * *
“Wow,” I said as Sheridan led the way into her apartment.
It spanned the entire twenty-third floor of a renovated downtown St. Louis warehouse building and had an industrial feel, with high ceilings, exposed ductwork, and red brick walls.
She secured two dead bolt locks on the black steel door that she slid closed behind us as I admired the bold artwork on her walls.
Her apartment wasn’t what I expected. I thought it would look like an interior design magazine, with high-end antiques on display. Didn’t all super rich people like antiques?
Sheridan didn’t seem to. Her furniture was leather and looked very comfortable. There were blankets and pillows all over the place, bookcases filled with books, candles, and framed photos.
“I just need to text my head of security real quick and tell him I made it home okay,” she said, typing on her phone.
“Wow,” I said, picking up a framed photo from a shelf so I could see it better.
It was Sheridan, looking fresh faced, a little younger and absolutely stunning in a red two-piece swimsuit, her dark hair wet and slicked back. She was standing in knee-deep, bright turquoise water, the setting sun painting the sky shades of orange, pink, and purple behind her.
“That was in the Maldives,” she said, walking over to me. “It was taken five years ago by Harry LeCompte. He was a legendary photographer—my absolute favorite to work with. That was our last shoot together before he died of a heart attack.”
“Oh.” I turned to look at her, momentarily stunned by the color of her eyes—a mix of caramel, gold, and dark green—which were framed by thick, dark lashes. “I am sorry.”
“Thanks.” She gave me a soft smile and I returned the frame to its place on the shelf.
“And this one?” I asked as I pointed to another framed photo.
It looked like she was in a jungle, but she was dressed in a white sleeveless pantsuit and red patent heels, looking off to the side with a pissed-off expression on her face.
“Oh, yeah.” She groaned. “That was a high fashion shoot at Tongass National Forest in Alaska. It was absolutely freezing, and the photographer took forever to get what she wanted.”
“Is that why you were so angry?”
She laughed. “No, that’s just how high fashion poses are. We’re supposed to look borderline angry or distracted. Kind of like how you never see the Kardashians grinning.”
I considered this for a moment. “I thought they were always angry.”
Sheridan moved a few inches closer to me, her eyes bright as she tipped her chin up so we were eye to eye. “You’re kind of a serious sort, Lars Jansson.”
“I have been told that before.”
“But you also happen to be sexy as hell.”
My blood pumped hard as she licked her lips. I’d never met a woman who was so confident, but also not full of herself. I’d seen how beautiful she was the first time I looked at her that night at the auction, but tonight, seeing her smile as she filled in the gaps in our conversation, I got to see the part of her that had nothing to do with her looks.
Conversation wasn’t my strong suit. But making a woman feel good—that I was damned great at, and I knew it.
“You are also sexy as hell,” I said, brushing her hair back from one shoulder and laying my hand against her neck. I stroked her cheekbone with my thumb.
She gasped softly. “That feels good.”
“What do you want tonight?” I murmured.
“You.” She put a palm on my chest, her eyes widening. “Holy shit, it’s so hard. It’s like…” She moved her hand to the side, and then down to my abs. “Like rocks. You know I don’t have abs, right?”
Her tone was teasing, but still, I had learned from experience that anytime I was with a woman and she asked me a question, I should compliment her, just to be safe.
“I like that you’re soft,” I said, putting my free hand on her back and leaning closer. “And you are also…curved. It’s very good.”