Filthy Rich (Filthy Rich 1)
* * *
The Parisien hotel was beautiful—five stories, built of cream stone, with doors of rich wood reinforced with black iron. Medieval and modern and classic, all in one. I would have looked out of place there in my jeans and tee, but I kept my head held high and my back straight as if I belonged there. It was all in the attitude.
When I told the desk clerk who I was, he slid a key card across the desk to me. “Merci, mademoiselle,” he said politely. I was almost at the elevator when my phone rang. It was Aidan.
“Coming to my hotel, Samantha?” he said when I answered. “That’s a bold move.”
My heart was racing, but I tried to sound cool. “What can I tell you?” I said as the elevator doors closed. “You’re an excellent salesman. You’ve almost convinced me, even though you never found me.”
“Almost?”
“You said something about talking to me in person,” I said. “I’m almost in your room, Aidan. Where are you?”
“Ten minutes,” he said, and for the first time he sounded leashed, as if he was keeping control. “I’ve been out searching for you, but I’ll be there in ten minutes. Go in my room and wait for me, and don’t take your clothes off.”
“I never said I was going to.” I was totally going to.
“You can’t wait to be naked,” he said. “But I’m telling you not to strip. Not because I don’t want you naked—I do. I’d just rather take your clothes off of you myself. And believe me, I’ll do it slowly just to torture you.”
I swiped his keycard and opened the door to his room. “I see. And who takes your clothes off?”
“Eight minutes,” Aidan said, and hung up.
He had a luxury room, with a soft sofa and dark wood desk. A bank of windows looked over the 7th Arrondissement. A bedroom opened off to one side. I dropped my messenger bag on the sofa, sat down, and relaxed, toeing off my shoes and flexing my tired tourist feet.
Eight minutes later, the door opened and Aidan walked in. I had to catch my breath. I loved Aidan in a suit, and I definitely loved him naked, but something about Aidan in jeans and a tee made a pulse start deep in my belly, my nipples going raw inside my bra. Our eyes caught, and he ran a hand through his hair, looking me up and down where I lounged on the sofa—fully clothed, as instructed.
“I win,” I said.
He shook his head. “Sarah the CEO,” he said. “I should have guess
ed.”
I felt myself smiling, a giddy feeling going through my blood. This man just got me. Pieces and all, he got me.
He held out his hand, and I took it, standing up. He swung me over his shoulder as if I was weightless and carried me into the bedroom.
“What are we doing?” I said.
“What I promised,” he replied.
He dropped me on the bed on my back and looked down at me. “No shoes,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll deal with the rest. Slowly.”
He undid the button of my jeans and pushed the hem of my shirt up an inch, trailing his fingertips along the skin of my belly. Already I bit back a moan.
“Be quiet,” Aidan said. “You’re going to be waiting.”
He had two days of scruff on his jaw, which was so sexy it drove me crazy. When he tugged my jeans down, his biceps flexed, along with his forearms. “You’re in a very good mood for someone with jet lag,” I said as the denim slid down my legs.
“I’m going to be inside you shortly, so of course I’m in a good mood,” he said.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Your pants are already off,” he pointed out. “Any objections?”
“Not that I can think of.”
He slid a hand up my bare calf to the back of my knee, making me shiver. He moved my leg wider and bent to my inner thigh, running his tongue over one spot, then sucking on it, pulling the skin between his teeth. I gasped at the sting, going hot and wet in my panties.