But her lucky stone is in my trouser pocket. Her pretty eyes are in my head.
The promise of a second round on her tight little cunt has my dick standing to attention before I’ve even fastened up my cufflinks.
I feel the ridiculous urge to buy her something. A beautiful bouquet of orchids like the ones downstairs. Belgian chocolates maybe.
But cliché gifts seem cheap and unoriginal, and a girl like Amy is anything but cheap and unoriginal. I have a half a million shaped dent in my bank account to prove it.
I take a bundle of notes from my safe and slip them into my jacket pocket, Claude’s ridiculous compulsory tip sorted.
There’s a niggle in my gut as I say goodbye to Brutus, and that niggle won’t let me cross the threshold.
I already know what I’m going for as I head upstairs. I input the code to my cabinet and my eyes sweep immediately to the second shelf down. A polished fire opal, its colours so glorious in the light.
This stone transfixed me, captured my eye at an auction in Dubai almost a decade ago.
I had to have it, at any cost. I paid well over the fucking odds for it, but I didn’t care. I felt nothing but relief as that gavel came down.
It’s a fitting gift.
I wrap it in a burgundy silk handkerchief, slipping it into my pocket along with the cash.
The niggle in my gut is gone when I face my front door for the second time.
But not the nerves.
The nerves are still right fucking there.
MELISSA
I HAD to buy a dress today. I chose a pretty red number that fits tight at the bust and flares over my hips. Dean approved in the store this morning, and even Joe clapped. A definite win.
And so was the red lipstick to match.
I picked up the shoes and handbag at a discount store on the way back home, and they may have been bought on a budget, but I feel just fine as I head on through Delaney’s reception with a smile on my face.
Round two.
I’m really going in for round two.
I’ve had a smile on my face all day, and I’m happy. Lighter than I’ve felt since… just since.
It feels so strange to feel this light inside.
I count down the minutes in my assigned room on the first floor, my eyes twinkling through my last second mirror check, and then I’m up and away, heart pumping as I make the ascent to the top floor.
Mr Brown in suite seven tonight – Claude’s confirmation email told me so.
I count down the doors. Ten, nine, eight.
Seven.
Door number seven is in an alcove on its own.
It swings open as soon as I knock, and I’m not looking at the floor today. My eyes meet his in a heartbeat, my smile bright as he stands aside to let me in.
“Amy,” he says.
Black suit, white shirt, black tie. A ghost of stubble.
“Hi,” I say, and the flutters in my tummy are too much. I take a breath.
“You look considerably more at ease this evening,” he says, and there’s a smile there, just a hint. I can’t stop staring as he crosses the room. “Champagne?”
He pulls the bottle from an ice bucket before I’ve answered, pouring me a glass even as I’m nodding.
“Please.”
I notice the case on the bedside table. I notice how his scent lingers in the air between us. I notice the way he’s looking at me, as though he’s a cat about to pounce.
It’s familiar here, the layout of this suite is similar to the one previous. Virtually identical.
I drop my handbag on the dresser.
He already has a tumbler of water. “Cheers,” he says, and I raise my champagne.
“What are we toasting?”
“A long and mutually beneficial working relationship,” he tells me.
Long.
“To us,” I say simply, and his jaw tightens. He closes the distance to clink my glass, and stays there, his body so close to mine.
The scent of him makes me heady, and so do the bubbles on my tongue.
I want to kiss him, but I don’t know how.
I want to slip my hands inside his jacket and hold him close.
I want to feel the hardness of him against my belly.
But I stand still. Waiting. Wanting.
“I’m assured you’ve accepted a six-month exclusivity term,” he says. His voice is super professional. Guarded.
“Yes.”
“I trust you read the small print?”
I attempt to recall the bits I noted, but my mind is fuzzy. Excitement and nerves aren’t the greatest recipe for flawless recall. I tell him so with a smile, and hope that excuses my ignorance.
“Excitement?” He seems taken aback, even though his gaze is steady and his jaw is firm. It’s just something in his eyes, something I can’t put my finger on.
My cheeks are burning, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t have a smart quip to hand, or some sexy one-liner that makes me sound like a sex goddess. I don’t have anything to offer him but the honest truth, which is such a joke in itself given the route I’ve taken to get into his bed in the first place.
My eyes are on his, my throat dry as I cough up my answer.
I hope he can’t see my pink cheeks under my foundation. “I, um… I wanted to see you again.”
No. That’s not the truth. Not anywhere near.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. I can’t stop thinking about you.
I’m Melissa Martin, the girl who bought you a cupcake. The girl who ironed the shirt you’re wearing. The girl you bummed a cigarette to outside my school gates.
He reads people for a living, and I know it. I can feel how he’s reading me right now.
His eyes are dark and fierce, the steel of his jaw just as intimidating as it was in the meeting room weeks ago.
My confidence deflates, my breath unsteady as I dip my head. I’m back to staring at his feet, the mirror shine of his brogues so stark against the cream carpet.
I feel the heat of him. I feel his breath on my hair.
And then his fingers are under my chin, tipping my face to his.
“Flattery is unnecessary.”
My eyes widen. “But… it’s not…”
His stare could cut me in half and leave me bleeding on the floor.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to wrap his fingers around my throat and take away my ability to speak any more stupid words.
But he doesn’t.
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out an envelope.
“I like to get the practicalities out of the way first,” he says, and I feel weirdly sad as I take the mone
y from him. Feel strangely deflated as I thank him and drop the bundle in my handbag. He finishes up his water as I clasp it shut. “I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced in the aftermath,” he says.
“Tender,” I admit. “But it was no problem.”
“Good to hear.” He clears his throat. “In other practicalities, you’ll be staying until morning. We’ll meet at this time every weekend.”
“Okay.”
“If you’ve revised your hard limits after our last encounter, now is the time to air them.”
I shake my head. “No revisions.”
He doesn’t understand me, and I know it. I can see his mind whirring behind those dark eyes, digging and reasoning and trying to fit my pieces together. I feel it. I feel him.
But he won’t. He can’t.
He’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. Without any of them.
“You’re quite extraordinary,” he tells me, and I feel that, too.
“So are you, Mr Brown.” I can hardly breathe. I can hardly think. I can hardly do anything but yield to the way my body feels when he’s near.
I watch his throat as he swallows. I watch his mouth as he takes the breath I’m craving.
My body moves as his does, my tummy fluttering as we meet in the space between us, and my hands really do slip inside his jacket, my mouth already open for his as he lowers his face to mine.
I’d burn all the cash in my handbag for one single moment like this.
I’d give him everything I owned just for one breath of his breath.
And I think he knows, somewhere deep inside. I think he knows this isn’t Amy Randall, some random girl being paid for sex with a stranger.
I think he knows he knows me, because he groans when his fingers twist in my hair, and I feel his heartbeat against my shoulder. It’s fast, it’s really fast.
Nearly as fast as mine.
He tugs my dress up and over my head, and unclips my bra and drops it loose. His fingers hook inside my knickers and shimmy them down my hips, until there’s only me, naked in discount shoes. He parts my thigh with his, and the fabric of his trousers is so soft against my pussy. He hitches my ass and holds me tight, and I rock against him, loving the swell of his crotch against my belly.