Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard 1)

I paused as I realized that I wanted to. Would he want me to?

It struck me that I was stalling and I continued searching through his clothes before finally settling on a charcoal Helmut Lang suit, white dress shirt, black silk tie, boxers, socks, and shoes.

Putting everything back where it belonged, I gathered up his clothing and headed for my room. I was unable to stifle my nervous laughter as I walked into the hall, shaking my head over the sheer absurdity of the situation. Thankfully, I managed to compose myself as I reached my door. I made it two steps inside before I froze.

He stood in front of the open window, awash in morning sunlight. Each beautiful line of his chiseled form was accentuated in perfect detail by the shadows cast across his body. A towel hung indecently low on his hips, and there, poking out just above it, was the tattoo.

“See something you like?”

I reluctantly returned my attention to his face. “I—”

My eyes drifted back down to his hip as if pulled by a magnet.

“I said, did you see something you like?” He crossed the room, stopping just in front of me.

“I heard you,” I said, glaring. “And no, just lost in thought.”

“And what exactly where you thinking?” He reached out, moving a piece of my damp hair behind my ear. Just that simple touch caused my stomach to jump.

“That we have a schedule to keep.”

He moved a step closer. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re self-absorbed?” I suggested, meeting his gaze.

He quirked an eyebrow and watched me for a moment before taking his clothing from my hands and placing it on the bed. Before I could move, he pulled the towel from his hips and tossed it to the side. Sweet mother of God. If there was a finer specimen of man on this earth, I’d pay big money to see it.

Picking up his boxers, he began to step into them before he stopped, looking at me. “Didn’t you just say we had a schedule to keep?” he questioned, eyeing me humorously. “Unless, of course, you see something you like.”

Son of a—

I narrowed my eyes and turned quickly, returning to the bathroom to finish getting ready. As I dried my hair, I couldn’t get past the unsettling feeling that he was trying to say something more important than “Look at my naked body some more.”

Before I could even untangle my own emotions I was trying to guess at his. Was I worried he would want to leave or stay?

When I returned to the bedroom, he was already dressed and waiting, looking out the large window. He turned, walked to me, and placed his warm hands on my face, staring at me intently. “I need you to listen to me.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to walk out that door and lose what we found in this room.”

His simple words rocked me. He wasn’t declaring, he wasn’t promising, but he said exactly what I’d needed to hear. We might not know what was happening, but we wouldn’t leave it unfinished.

Letting out a shaky breath I brought my hands to his chest. “I don’t either, but I also don’t want your career to swallow mine.”

“I don’t want that either.”

I nodded, feeling like words tangled my thoughts and I was unable to think of anything articulate to add.

“Okay then,” he said, looking me up and down. “Let’s go.”

Fifteen

The theme of the conference this year was The Next Generation of Marketing Strategy, and as a way to embrace the new generation, the organizers had scheduled a poster session for students getting their degrees. Most students from Chloe’s program were here, standing straight and eager beside their poster boards. In fact, presentation at this venue was considered a requirement for Chloe’s scholarship, but I had applied for an exception for her given the size and confidential nature of the Papadakis account, her primary project. No other student here was managing a million-dollar deal.

The scholarship board had been happy to grant the exception, practically drooling over the prospect of putting Chloe’s success story in their program brochure once the design was completed, signed, and released publicly.

But although she had no presentation at the meeting, she insisted on walking through every aisle and looking at every poster. Given that I was apparently incapable of being more than four f**king feet away from her and didn’t have a meeting until ten, I followed her around the entire time, counting posters (576) and staring at her ass (perky, fun to spank, currently wrapped in black wool).

She’d mentioned in the elevator that her best friend, Julia, provided a majority of the wardrobe I loved/hated. This morning’s selection of a fitted pencil skirt and deep blue blouse was now also on my list. I tried a couple of times to convince Chloe that we needed to go back to the room to get something, but she’d only raised an eyebrow and asked, “Get something? Or get some?”

I’d ignored her, but now I wished I’d admitted I needed one more round before conferencing. I wondered if she’d have gone for it.

“Would you have gone back to the room?” I asked into her ear as she carefully read an undergraduate poster on a rebranding idea for some small cellular company. Graphs were taped to the poster board, for crying out loud.

“Shhh.”

“Chloe, you’re not going to learn anything from this poster. Let’s go get a cup of coffee and maybe a blow job in the bathroom.”

“Your father told me it was impossible to predict where I’d get my best ideas, and to read everything I could find. Besides, these are my student colleagues.”