Silence greets me.
It’s almost deafening. Intrusive. Maddening.
I clear my throat, the sound echoing in the entryway. Nothing. Curiosity has me walking toward the open living room. The design in here is much different than his office or this apartment building. It’s ridiculously expensive—everything from ornate, artsy light fixtures to the unusual dark wood floors that curve in strange patterns but somehow slot together perfectly. Where his office is bright, his home is dark.
Fit for a villain.
I can’t help but smirk as I take in the beautiful living room space. The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s impressive because the ceiling in this area is at least thirty feet high. The walls and ceiling are painted a deep navy blue, reminding me of his eyes.
Stop.
Yuck.
I’m not going to compare walls to his eyes. That’s sick, infatuation type of behavior. I’m absolutely not infatuated by this motherfucker. Rather than think about his eyes, I stare up at the massive light fixture that looks like a network of lit-up nerves with tiny bulbs at each end. A web of light and metal. It’s beautiful.
“My favorite part of this room,” a deep voice rumbles from above me somewhere.
I follow the sound to find him standing at the top of his stairs. He’s dressed down in a pair of gray slacks and white button-up shirt. The sleeves have been rolled to his elbows revealing muscular forearms, and his top two buttons are undone. His hair is perfect as ever, and he wears a shiny pair of black shoes. Without a care in the world, he descends the stairs at a slow, infuriating pace. As though he enjoys making an entrance and forcing me to notice.
To piss him off, I look away and walk over to the windows. The view is breathtaking, but I won’t tell him that.
“Are you hungry, Miss Elliott?”
I tense up and turn to face him. “I’m here for dinner, aren’t I?”
His dark blue eyes sparkle at my bitchy tone. It’s as if he delights in my attitude. I’m annoyed that rather than pushing him away, it only excites him further. Fucking freak.
“Come then, little girl,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Francis already set the table, and Hans is ready to put our steaks on.”
Of course this spoiled bastard has a waitstaff and chef on hand. Of course he does.
Despite nerves twisting in my gut, I am hungry. The Terror Triplets were causing a ruckus in the kitchen earlier, so I skipped lunch to avoid dealing with them. That’s the only reason I’m complying with Mr. Kinky Fuck.
He shows me into a dining room that’s surprisingly small. I’d expected a thirty-place-setting table. Not a simple bistro-type table with four chairs. It has me relaxing a bit. He pulls out a stool and then offers his hand. Reluctantly, I take it and allow him to help me onto the high seat. His touch is warm, firm, and oozes power. I hate that a thrill races down my spine quickly followed by the hollow feeling of loss when he lets go.
He takes the seat beside me and then calls out to Francis.
A gray-haired woman with hair pulled into a severe bun walks in with a bottle of wine. She fills our glasses with the red liquid before hurrying away. Winston picks up his glass.
“A toast,” he says, raising the glass. “To new adventures.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Right.”
We clink our glasses together, and he flashes me a devious grin. My body warms several degrees. I quickly down the bitter wine, eager to distract myself from his penetrating stare.
“You look good enough to eat tonight,” he rumbles.
“Lucky for me, we’re having steak instead.” I smirk at him. “Cut the crap, Winston. Tell me what you want from me.”
“Eager to make money, I see.”
I flip him off. Big mistake. He grins wide, revealing each perfect white tooth in his stupid-hot mouth.
“I find your middle finger very sexy,” he drawls out, eyeing me over his glass. He sips it, his gaze never straying from my lips. “I find your lips even sexier.”
Francis appears with a basket of breadsticks. She uses tongs to place one on my plate. It glistens with melted butter, making my stomach growl.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
She gives me a polite smile and then serves Winston one before exiting again.
He reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet. My eyes drift to the way it bulges with money. After he pulls the wad out, he sets it on the table.
“This belongs to you.” He pushes the stack toward me. “For dinner.”
I stare at the two thousand dollars we agreed upon. It doesn’t feel real. Since meeting Winston, I’ve made over four thousand dollars, kicking me up to eleven grand in my college fund. It’s annoying the relief I feel. It would have taken me months to make that much at FGM Services. I know Manda offered to pay, but I’d feel much better if I could somehow pay for it myself, even if it’s just books and supplies. I hate having to be indebted to her.