“That’s not the point.”
“But it is, Hannah,” he drawls, using my name as if he’s savoring the feel of it on his lips. “I think you know I want you. I think you want me too.”
“So? Wanting doesn’t make it the right thing to do,” I insist, trying and failing to sound resolute.
“Perhaps not, but it’s better than dancing circles around each other for weeks while the sexual tension builds. I’ll make this easy for you. You come to dinner with me, and we continue to play this game where you resist me before eventually falling into my bed.”
I wait for the ‘or’ and frown when he just smiles.
“Or?” I prompt, breathing in shallow pants at the thought of falling into bed with him, on him, under him.
“No or. This will happen, darlin’, make no mistake. It’s up to you how long you think you can torture us both.”
“I don’t—”
“I dreamed of you last night,” he cuts in, silencing me. “I had you under me, your lithe body bared and spread open.”
Oh, God have mercy.
“You were writhing into me, your hands pulling at my hair as I buried my head between your legs—”
“Stop,” I whimper, squeezing my thighs together as a deep ache sets in.
I’ve always loved sex, always craved the rush of pleasure and adrenalin that comes from sharing intimacy. That’s what drove me to marry. My ex is a douche, but he is no slouch in the bedroom.
But sex does not rule my life anymore.
“Think about it, darlin’,” he whispers as he leans close and sighs against my lips.
I taste his breath, wanting to lean closer and taste so much more.
“I’ll give you till tonight, and then I will be at your apartment to take you to dinner. And dessert.”
I watch in a daze of desire as he straightens and gives me a smile before turning on his heel and heading for the elevator.
“Tonight, Hannah. Wear something sexy.”
And then he’s gone, the sound of his jaunty whistling cut off by the closing doors.
I slump back in my chair and let out a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than a cold shower and a glass of wine as the desire that has pooled low in my belly lets off a disappointed cry.
Gregory Lucas is right. I do want him.
I just don’t want to want him.
Chapter Five
At five that afternoon I am done for the day, having outlined a decent first draft for the campaign, put it on Jordan’s desk, and swept through the countless other tasks he’s sent my way. I’m surprised to have done so much, considering how tied up and on edge I’ve been the entire time.
When Jordan popped his head out the door and asked me to run to the deli and get us both a sandwich and a water, his treat, I just about fled outside and onto the packed sidewalk, I was so restless.
Now, as I step off the elevator and exit the building, I am tempted to run back inside just to hide from what I know is coming. At one point I convinced myself I have nothing to worry about because Gregory Lucas doesn’t have my address. Of course, then I realized the man is a billionaire and has so many resources at his disposal that getting the address of one measly woman is child’s play to him.
The sidewalk is bustling, and I welcome the intense concentration necessary to navigate my way to the subway and procure a seat before one of the thugs can grab the seat I usually sit in.
I don’t see the streaker anywhere as I make my way to my apartment, and I’m almost disappointed. Maybe a good flesh show will put me off to the point that the desire that’s been slowly fizzling in my blood all day will die an ignominious death.
My apartment is as spick and span as usual, thanks to my OCD cleaning skills, so distracting myself with a good scrub up is off the cards. Instead I change into sweats and flop onto the sofa with a frustrated huff.
A minute later I am up and in the shower, scrubbing myself with a peach scented exfoliator and strawberry scented shampoo. That done, I dry my hair, adding a slight curl to the chestnut brown locks, and then I’m perusing my closet for something, yup, you got it, sexy.
I want to cry when I see what’s on offer and curse myself for tossing anything even close to nice or revealing in the trash the day my divorce was through.
All I’m left with now are drab office skirts and shirts that would make Nana shudder, they’re so schoolmarm-ish. Shit. What to do, I wonder while steadfastly counseling myself against the foolishness I am practising.
You don’t want this, Han, remember that. You’re in a good place now. Don’t ruin what you’ve built for a quick, emotionless roll in the sack.
But he is so… I sigh as I picture those golden locks and the dimples I want to lick like a favorite treat.