"We could."
"Could we?"
His eyes bore into mine. "I could pull strings. Minimize potential consequences."
I nod.
"But that isn't what you want." His fingers skim my thigh. Higher, higher, higher. "You want the danger." Closer, closer, closer. "The thrill." He presses his palm against my sex. Over the mesh. But still so, so close to where I need him. "The risk of getting caught."
I swallow hard.
"Tell me." He brings his other hand to my cheek. Tilts me so we're eye to eye. "Do you want the risk, baby? Do you want the entire world to see how well you take my cock?"
Fuck. "It's a fantasy."
"But you do."
"I do. But the… practicalities."
"Fuck the practicalities."
"Ty—"
"We're going to my place. The practicalities don't matter. Not now."
Later.
"Now… I want to know exactly what you want. Every dirty fantasy. And I want to fill them all."
My sex clenches. "It's your turn."
"It is." He rubs his palm over me, pressing the soft fabric against my clit.
The friction is divine. So different than his hand. Softer and rougher at the same time.
Pleasure floods my senses. But still, my body whines for his touch. I need the fabric gone. Need everything else erased.
The rest of this is complicated.
But sex?
That makes perfect sense.
"But I'd rather show you." He pulls his hand away, right as the car stops. "If you're ready to play."
I swallow hard.
"Are you?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
Indigo
Am I ready to play?
It's a good question. Simple and enormously complex.
It's one thing to invite him to fuck me.
But to cede control? To let go completely?
Ty waits for my answer. As he helps me out of the limo, guides me into his apartment building, past a knowing security guard, into the elevator.
This tiny space that's all ours.
The shiny silver walls. The turned key. The illuminated Penthouse button.
At a glance, we look like a normal couple on our way home. He's in his suit, no hair out of place, no visible tattoos, no sign of the aggressive, rough lover I know.
And I'm leaning against the wall, my leather jacket covering my cocktail dress, my lipstick smudged, my hair a little messy.
The normal wear of a night out.
No sign I was on my knees, begging for his cock.
No sign I'm wound so tight I'm going to break.
No sign I'm about to offer him every ounce of control.
I want to. I do.
But I'm not sure I can handle it.
The elevator door slides open. Ty presses his palm into my back. Leads me down a short hallway. Unlocks the door.
"After you." His voice is soft. Gentle.
He knows I'm nervous.
He's waiting for me.
Or maybe his accent is masking his intentions. Maybe I don't have a fucking clue who Tyler Hunt is or what he wants.
He's offering me ten million dollars for ten years of marriage.
He's paying me to marry him.
I believe him. I believe his reputation is tarnished—I've read the gossip blogs too. I believe this is the easiest fix.
I believe he's sure love is done with him.
But he chose me.
I'd like to think it's because of my strength, my wit, my discretion even.
But it's not. It's this.
Ten years because he wants to fuck me.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Step inside.
He follows. Closes the door. Locks it behind us. "A drink?"
I nod.
He moves to the kitchen. It's on the right side of the massive living room slash dining room slash den.
Fuck, it's huge. Gorgeous.
A thousand square feet, easily. Hardwood. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A glass coffee table in front of a sleek leather couch.
A corner view. Southwest. The Hudson, a deep, almost black-blue, reflecting the crescent moon and the yellow light of the city.
And there. A sliding glass door to the balcony.
I don't wait or ask or speak. I move across the room, through the door, onto the wraparound balcony.
Great food is one thing. Fancy clothes are another.
But living someplace like this?
Money buys so much.
My knees knock. I reach for the railing. Steady myself.
We're up high, forty stories maybe, and the air is clear and warm.
"You'd prefer a view of the city?" Ty's voice flows into my ears.
"This is beautiful." I turn to him. "Perfect."
He holds out my drink. Another Manhattan.
My fingers brush his as I take it. "Thanks." It's such a small, simple touch, but it warms me all the same.
He slips his hand around my waist, motions follow me.
When I do, he leads me around the corner, up a small set of stone stairs, to a rooftop terrace.
It's simple. A small couch with weather-proof fabric, a side table, a few potted plants.
A three-sixty view of Manhattan.
I nearly drop my drink. "Ty… holy shit."
He watches me stare. "You like it?"
"Do I like it?"
He nods.
"Of course." I turn, do my own three-sixty, stop at him. "It's perfect. It's… you… I… do you own this?"
"Yes."
"Since…"
"A year now. Give or take."
I turn toward the Empire State Building. The lights are purple today. Is it NYU graduation already? Or are they purple just because? "So it was after…"