Easy Come(Plaything #1)(6)

Noah pulled the car around a fountain and parked in front of a large contemporary style house. He opened the door and I stepped out. It was a balmy night with only a slight breeze to tease the palm trees lining the driveway and house. The house was more glass than walls. Sitting at the top of a hill as it was, it seemed there would be views from every room.

Tall cherry wood doors, both polished to glossy perfection, beckoned me up the stone steps. Trey met me at the door. He'd traded his suit and tie for a black t-shirt and jeans. His arms bulged with muscles and a smattering of ink covered each bicep. I was quickly trying to decide if he was more stunning in a suit or in casual attire, but I gave up because there was no right answer. He was just plain stunning. In fact, his all around gorgeousness might very well have been the deciding factor for me going along with this crazy idea.

The interior of his house was just how I'd expected it, masculine, minimalist and modern. Which meant no woman. Or at least that was what I was hoping.

"Follow me." Trey led me from the foyer to a hallway. "I thought a drink or two might help you loosen up."

"Absolutely. It's a warm night. I wasn't sure what to wear and after a few choices ended up on the floor of my bedroom, I ended up with this dress. I wore it to my grandmother's funeral, so it's probably the wrong choice for tonight. In fact, the more I think about it and her, my grandmother that is, it's a supremely bad choice. She was one of those super sweet granny types." We turned the corner to a big room. He stopped at a wet bar but that didn't stop me from prattling on with my nonsense.

"I'd tell you that you have a lovely home, but it seems kind of silly since you probably realize that it's lovely." I knew I was rambling but couldn't stop myself. Now all I needed was a good loud batch of hiccoughs to really make me look ridiculous.

Rather than stop my longwinded blathering, he listened with those dark smooth brows and that non-judgmental gaze.

So I stopped on my own, deciding I was done making a fool of myself. "I'm so sorry about that. As you might have guessed, I'm a little nervous."

Trey had a confident smile that revealed some highly sexy creases on each side of his mouth. This afternoon, at work, he'd been clean shaven, but tonight, a dark stubble had sprouted along his strong jaw. Thankfully, he hadn't taken the time to shave it off. It suited him very well. Oddly enough, my mind went straight to imagining that beard stubble chafing my chin and even my nipples as he kissed me.

Trey's hand lifted, and before I knew what was happening, Trey was pushing a strand of my hair back off my face. "I don't want you to be nervous. Which is why I've prepared a shaker filled with a Manhattan . . . or two."

"A Manhattan or two just might do the trick. At the very least, it will stop me from spilling out all my deepest secrets." I shrugged. "Not that I have many of those. Oh my gosh, drink, please, so I can shut up."

Trey poured a rose pink Manhattan into a martini glass, and I sipped it like a kid drinking Kool-aid. I winced as the drink burned my throat. It was extra strong, which would help soothe my nerves.

"Too much whiskey?" he asked.

"Normally, I'd say yes, but—" I lifted the glass and clinked it against his glass. "Bottoms up."

Trey's eyes gleamed. "Bottoms up." He reached behind the bar and found a pen. He pulled out a napkin and wrote down the phrase. "I think you just came up with a theme for a box."

"Did I? Clever me." Then I replayed the phrase in my head. "Oh, well, that should be an interesting box of goodies."

"I'll make sure you're the first to get one since you came up with the theme."

"Thanks. I think." I dropped back the rest of the drink and pointed at the shaker. Trey poured me another drink, then I followed him into a room with soft leather couches, a fireplace, a wide screen television and a view of the entire city.

It was impossible not to notice that some heavy duty panting and porn action was happening on the television. At least half a dozen DVD boxes were strewn out on the glass coffee table. Two women, a curvy red head and a thin brunette were assisting a cowboy in a hayloft. The grunts and moans coming through the speakers sounded so manufactured, it was hard not to laugh.

Trey grabbed a remote and turned the movie off. "Yeah I was laughing too. I'm trying to find a good one to include in the next box. So far, they are all the same."

"What, you mean no unique plotlines?" The liquor had already helped calm my nerves some, and I was feeling slightly more relaxed.

"Nothing that stands out as Academy Award material yet, but you never know." He motioned toward the couch and I sat down. He sat several cushions away. I was slightly disappointed. It seemed he was planning to stick to his promise not to be included in my sexual self-awareness experience. This was strictly business for him, a chance to get his company talked about in a national publication. I swallowed back the second drink to wash away the unexpected bitterness that realization left me with.

Trey turned toward me and rested his arm along the back of the couch. "Another drink?"

"In a second. I'm just letting this one percolate first."

He laughed.

"Am I still babbling? I'm having a hard time hearing myself over the buzz forming in my head."

He shook his head. His gaze stroked over my body and legs before lifting back to my face. "You're not babbling. Excuse the phrasing. I don't know any other way to say it, but you're fucking adorable, Georgie."

My face warmed, and it wasn't just the Manhattan. "I'm not sure if this plan will succeed. I'm not exactly the wild, uninhibited type."

"How do you know? Maybe you just haven't had a chance to test that theory yet."

"Good point. Are you always so logical and scientific?"

"Only when the situation calls for it." His hazel eyes seemed to darken as his gaze dropped to my breasts again. "And when other situations don't call for it . . ."

A heated silence fell between us, and it seemed we were both brazenly checking each other out. I was sure if thought bubbles popped up over our heads, the words inside of them could give the porn flicks on the table a run for their money. Yep, the booze was getting to me. And suddenly, the demure dress was feeling warm. I fanned myself.

"If you're warm, I could find you something a little less—well a little less—to wear. It might help shake loose some of those steadfast inhibitions. In fact, the Easy Come box has something the women at work picked out for this month. They said it was—and I'm using their words—'super comfortable'." As he spoke, he'd taken hold of my glass and went back to the bar. He returned with another drink, which I quickly sipped. I was feeling the effects of the alcohol, the main effect being that Trey was making my head spin even more. Did he always have that incredibly sexy scar next to his eye? It's like everything about the man was coming clearer into focus through my boozy haze. Holy shit was he hot.

"You know, I think I will change into the super comfortable . . . thing. What did you say it was?"

"Follow me." He reached for my unfinished drink, but first, I snagged one more big sip. He placed the glass on the wet bar as we walked past it. With three Manhattans sloshing around my brain, my balance was off just enough that I managed to trip when the floor changed from wood to carpeting. My right foot went forward, then gravity kicked in and pulled the rest of me along with it. Not surprisingly, Trey had quick reflexes. He grabbed hold of my arm to steady me.

"Maybe two drinks was enough," he quipped, but as he gazed at me, the light moment turned much more serious. His brows flattened and he stared at me, taking extra time on my lips. He released his grip as if my arm had suddenly turned glowing hot.

The edge of his jaw looked set in stone and he was clenching it as he dragged his gaze away. His broad shoulders were set hard and rigid in the tight black t-shirt. I followed, feeling a little less giddy than a few minutes earlier. By the time we'd traversed the entry and walked down another hallway, his mood seemed to have eased again. Or at least it seemed he was no longer gritting his teeth.

Trey opened a door. It led into a massive bedroom, with floor to ceiling windows. A modern four poster bed with clean, straight lines sat in the center of the room. A white linen bed canopy was drawn back with gray ropes. A mound of pillows were pushed up against the headboard.

My eyes flitted around at the manly, expensive looking furniture in the room, including the sitting area with a couch and television that was bigger than my entire apartment. "It's a bedroom," I said, lamely.

"Yes, the bed sort of works best in a bedroom." His lighter mood hadn't returned yet. His jaw was no longer clenched, but there was still something harder about his tone than earlier.

I followed him to a sleek, dark wood dresser. The Plaything box was sitting on top of it. He motioned toward it. "Go ahead and check it out."

I lifted the top off the box and was greeted with a variety of items, including a tube of lubricant, a mini book featuring—of all things—vintage erotic photos, some perfume and a music CD.

I reached in and lifted a silky blue bag out of the box. Beneath the bag was a folded cotton shirt that resembled a man's undershirt, the tank style that had at some unfortunate point in its history been nicknamed the wife-beater undershirt.