Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(43)

We climbed the narrow stairs inside, switching back on themselves over and over again, until we reached a door at the top. Malcolm put another key in this door and unlocked it before pushing it open and bowing to me with a flourish.

“Our accommodations, my lady.”

I couldn't help but inhale sharply as the rooms beyond were revealed to me. The entire top of the floor of this house was Malcolm's. Blonde wood floor, clean white walls, sparsely populated with furniture... it was how I had imagined his house would look, or how it would look after he was done purging his actual house of stuff. It was beautiful, elegantly appointed, and yet somehow also homey. Photographs and works of art hung on the walls here, too, though they clustered and didn't sprawl over every available space. A wall of windows, barely concealed by flowing sheer white curtains, opened out onto a terrace. I crossed the floor and peered out.

“Oh, wow,” I had to say.

The red roofs of Dubrovnik's old town swept down and away from us, and I could catch a glimpse of the gray winter sea beyond the castle walls. In the summer, this place would be stunning. As it was, I wanted to make myself a cup of hot tea, wrap myself in a blanket, and just stare out at the sea from the comfort of the warm penthouse, curled up on the white overstuffed couch facing the windows. Maybe read a good book. Maybe write one.

Maybe draw a bit.

“This is exactly what I needed,” I said to Malcolm.

“Yes, I thought you might,” he replied. “I am glad I brought you here.”

I turned and studied him. He seemed very pleased with himself, a beautiful smile gracing his full lips, his sandy hair falling in messy locks against his forehead and curling over his ears and the collar of his jacket. He was still a mystery to me... but a mystery that I was content with for now.

“Did you plan this?” I asked. It was stupid, but he seemed to have known just what was in my heart, even when I didn't know it myself. I was being stifled by the city, by my responsibilities. He'd seen that.

My heart gave a little flutter. Stop that nonsense, I told it, but it didn't listen to my brain. It never did. I turned back to the sea so Malcolm wouldn't detect the sudden, disquieting turmoil in my chest.

“I didn't quite plan it,” he said, coming up behind me. His hands slid over my shoulders, his fingertips brushing against my neck and through my hair as he helped me out of my coat. “I've been wanting to... get away for a while. And I decided I wanted to take you with me. Yesterday. I thought it would be fun. Though I didn't think that we would be coming here so soon.”

My leather jacket slid down my arms and he tossed it onto the couch. Turning, I smoothed my palms over his chest, under his own coat, sliding my hands up and over his shoulders, slipping the fabric from his body. He felt good and warm. I had the sudden impulse to lean forward and press my forehead into his chest and just let him cradle me in his arms. “And why did we come here today? Why not next week?” I looked up at him.

His dark cherry wood eyes bored into mine. His fingers found their way to my scalp, running through my hair.

“Because I didn't want to lose you,” he said. “Whatever line I crossed, I wanted you to know I was sorry. I don't want to cross it again, until you tell me it's all right.”

For a terrible moment I thought I might cry.

“Shut up,” I told him. “Can we please just fuck now?”

His mouth broke into a grin. “You are so eager,” he said. “And yes. We are going to fuck. I think it might be my masterpiece. Let me show you how.”

I wanted to fuck him, not just fuck him as part of his art, but the way he said the word fuck, lingering on the f and drawing it out before cutting it off abruptly had gone straight down my spine to my pussy.

I had it bad for Malcolm Ward. I didn't like it, but, well, can you blame me?

Linking his fingers with mine, Malcolm led me away from the windows, through the kitchen and dining area, and then around the corner where a piano sat in a room lined with bookcases and full of books. Then we turned and circled to the back of the flat, into a narrow hallway. At the end of it I saw a large, open room with a bed in it. The master bedroom. Two other doors in the hall were open, letting light from the small windows fall inside, and we entered one.

It had been turned into a studio. A sculpting studio.

It looked remarkably like Felicia's studio, except there were no tables of tools, only a large lump of red clay in the middle of a plastic tarp in the middle of the floor with two buckets of water beside it. Wet towels mostly covered the clay, and the air in the room was almost uncomfortably warm. I stood just inside the door, wondering how badly my clothes would be ruined this time. It would be a shame; they were so new and so lovely...