Thirst (The Calvettis of New York 1)

Hours later, as I enter my apartment after having dinner with Sophia, my mind is racing.

I took a call thirty minutes ago from a woman named Lenore Halston. She apologized for bothering me on a Saturday evening before she explained that she was reaching out on behalf of a group of angel investors.

r /> My hand shook as I held the phone to my ear and stared down at the linen tablecloth. I couldn’t look across the table at Sophia because I knew that I’d tear up.

We’d spent all day talking about all the what if possibilities.

I’ll get my chance to pitch my handbag design business in less than a week to a group of strangers. One of them may change my future.

I glance over at the six purses that Sophia and I chose earlier. I needed her expert eye to help me wade through the sea of emotions I was feeling. She’s objective and explained the reasoning behind each of her suggestions. I agreed with two, but ultimately picked the ones that I feel best represent my brand.

In just a few days, I’ll show those designs to the investors. With any luck, I’ll leave that meeting with a business partner.

I walk over to the lamp and turn it on. It’s early evening, but it’s been overcast all day. The low hanging clouds have stolen all the natural light from this space.

A clap of thunder draws my gaze to the windows.

Time stops when I look over at the building next to mine.

He’s there, standing in the window as rain beats down on the city.

I stare at his face before my gaze drops to his muscular chest and the white towel wrapped around his waist.

He must have just showered. I can’t tell from where I’m standing if his hair is wet or not. It’s pushed back from his forehead.

I wonder what his hair feels like, what his skin smells like.

I look at his lips and wish, more than anything that I knew what it feels like to kiss him.

His hand drops to his waist and the top of the towel.

“Drop it,” I whisper against the glass. “Please, drop it.”

His hand trails up his toned stomach to his chest before it lands on his chin.

My eyes meet his again. He smiles in a devilish way that tells me that he wants more from me.

I understand. I’ve watched him often enough that I recognize the subtle nuances in the way he looks at me. I see the fevered desire that is there in his eyes.

I drop my hands to the front of my short pink sundress.

I unbutton it, taking my time to reveal the pink lace bra and panties that I put on earlier.

His head is slowly bobbing up and down when I reach the last pink pearl button. My lingerie is sheer. When I open the dress, he’ll see everything.

I hesitate briefly, not because I don’t want this man to see my body, but because I know, full well, that other eyes may be on me.

I scan the building looking for any shadowy figures standing near windows, but I don’t see another soul.

When my gaze meets his again, I start to open my dress, confident that he’ll want to come over. I’ll agree this time.

I crave this man’s touch, even if I don’t know anything about him other than what he looks like.

His expression shifts as the front of my dress parts. I study his every movement, waiting for him to show me, with his body, that he wants me as much as I want him.

I stop breathing when he glances over his shoulder.

His head drops, his hand fists against the glass and when he finally looks up at me, I see defeat where I want to see desire.