Davis answers his door in nothing but a towel wrapped low at his hips so it’s just high enough to keep him decent, but barely. Barely. That bastard.
He knows what he’s doing—that much I’m sure of. He’s not even wet anymore. His hair is a little damp, sure, but the man is dry and moisturized and has clearly been lounging around in his stupid fluffy towel, knowing that I would lose my mind the moment that I laid eyes on him.
“You’re late.” He seems genuinely annoyed by this, which is confusing to me because he hasn’t bothered to speak to me for twelve straight days, not since our phone call two Mondays ago. Aside from the weekly deposit that arrived on Saturday, Davis has essentially pretended that I don’t exist.
“I am late, sure. And somehow you’re still not dressed,” I point out as I step into the apartment. “I walked here.”
Davis swings the door shut behind me and curses as he comes around to face me. “Why the hell would you do that?” he demands, his cheeks darkening with flush as he knots his brow. As he waits for a response, he grips his towel tightly and takes a half-step towards me, but stops himself.
Unimpressed, I shoot him a dismissive look. “Because nobody is going to jump me. I’m clearly the least wealthy person in the neighborhood tonight.”
His eyebrow ticks upward. “Take a car next time.” It’s clearly an order.
“Like an Uber?”
“Or, like, a car,” he repeats, frowning at me with obvious confusion on his face. “You know, an SUV or a town car.”
“Are you naming types of cars, Davis?” I probe, using the best smart ass voice I can deliver. “Would a reasonable sedan be okay?”
“I’m talking about a car service.” Again, the confusion doesn’t leave his face.
Oh. It suddenly dawns on me that this thirty-year-old billionaire’s son doesn’t realize that normal people don’t regularly use a car service. That revelation is equal parts disturbing and endearing in a weird way.
“My chauffeur is on vacation,” I reply as I slide off my purse and place it on the bar counter off of the entryway.
I know I’ve crossed the thin line between sarcastic and straight-up bitchy because Davis is at a loss for words. He simply rests his hand on the tucked edge of his towel and gives me this flat expression that just says Okayyy then.
“So, where are you fucking me tonight? That is, assuming you’re fucking me,” I continue with obvious condescension. As I’m speaking, I can feel my neck growing hotter. While I didn’t come here to fight, my brain and mouth clearly want to.
“How are things feeling down there?” he asks in reply, ticking his attention down to my crotch.
“Oh.” I glance down, as if there’s anything to see when I’m fully clothed. “Healing, but healing well.”
“So sex is off the table.”
“Not necessarily.” I move my head side to side as I weigh pros and cons. “You just can’t touch my clit.”
He tightens his expression in a spot-on impression of the Statue of David. “Then it sounds like we’re holding off on sex.”
“What do you care if I can use my clit or not?” I fold my arms, allowing my stance to be petulant. “I didn’t realize you were in the business of planning magical nights that I’ll never forget.”
“I care about your clit because I intend to make you come so hard that you’ll forgive me for whatever you’re so angry about tonight.” Knowingly, he gives me one of his obnoxious, practiced smirks.
Busted. Although, I’m not surprised he can tell that I’m upset; I haven’t been subtle about it.
Softening his expression, Davis steps forward until he’s close to me. “What’s wrong?” he inquires as he puts his hands on my bare shoulders. They feel so big on me, and when he stands this close I have to look up at him. “You’re angry with me. Tell me how I screwed up from a different state.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s clearly bothering you,” he presses, right as he begins to rub my shoulders in a slow caress that feels too natural for me to ignore. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. And don’t push me on this. You have no qualms staying quiet and keeping your feelings hidden, so I expect the same privilege.”
He doesn’t stop his massage as he replies, “I don’t have an honesty clause.”
“Well, I’m not lying. I’m just not talking.”