Now I do grab her hand, planting a kiss on the smooth skin of her knuckles. “You’re a goddamn peach.”
Jessica laughs. She’s the kind of woman I could be friends with, if I wasn’t so sure she’d eventually fall for me, and I can’t get involved in a disaster like that. And it’s always a disaster. Most men want gorgeous women to fall in love with them, but I’ve seen what happens when you allow yourself to give up self-control.
She pulls her hand back and heads for the door, looking over her shoulder one more time. “See you around the city.”
“Don’t worry about calling your driver. Peter is waiting downstairs to take you home.”
Jessica blows me a kiss and disappears into the hallway.
Alone at last, I roll out of the bed and head for the master bathroom. It’s a cavernous space—I could have an orgy in here, if I were so inclined—and every detail has been engineered to my exact specifications, from the Raindance Royal shower heads to the shade of the marble countertops. The condom is off my cock in a matter of seconds, and I turn the shower on full blast and step in.
I let the water run down over me, run my own hands through my hair.
Somehow, I’m going to have to get Catherine out of my head.
But if screwing women won’t work, what will?
Chapter Eight
Cate
In the night I dream about him. About the cut of his suit, the line of his waist, the muscles moving underneath the fabric. The scent of him.
His eyes, gray-blue and electric.
His hands on my breasts, sliding down my rib cage, pressing firmly against my hips. His mouth hot on the side of my neck, sending shivers to shake my entire body.
When I wake up at 6:00 on Tuesday morning, I’m completely disoriented from the strength of the dreams. The space between my legs is hot and slick, and between waking and sleeping I can’t resist it, don’t want to resist it, and I slide my fingers underneath the silky fabric of my pajamas, underneath the tight-fitting stretch of my panties, and over the smooth skin, fresh from a recent wax, until my fingertips make contact with the throbbing button.
I don’t have a lot of time for dating, so I’m very, very practiced at getting myself off.
Afterward, cheeks flushed in the cool of my apartment—thank god for central air—I curl around one of my pillows and squeeze my eyes shut.
Leave the phone, I tell myself. Don’t look. The office is closed today.
Every ounce of my energy goes into falling asleep, and for a while I doze, but each time I start to drift off my heart begins to pound.
I know exactly why.
The instant a thought of him crosses my mind, my mouth waters for a taste of his full lips. Then, cruelly, thinking of him makes me think of the office. Holiday’s aren’t sacred to Sandra.
It’s just past 7:00 when I toss back the covers and throw my hair up into a loose bun, the urge to check my phone finally mollified.
To my shock, there are no messages from Sandra. I have a few emails from people at Basiqué confirming appointments for tomorrow, but that’s it.
Aside from the hum of the air conditioner, my apartment is silent.
Manuel asked me what my plans were yesterday, and now that I’m here, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee on my couch, I wish I’d made some.
I while away the morning, eating breakfast at the cafe on the ground floor of my building and then standing in the shower for a full forty minutes.
For once, I linger over getting ready, straightening my long, dark hair until it falls shining over my back, then pulling back sections and holding them with strategic bobby pins. It feels good to have most of it loose. I leave my makeup simple and fresh, which still takes twenty minutes.
It’s best to be prepared.
By noon I’m ready for anything, my bright red sundress the perfect outfit for the holiday.
The only problem? I still have nowhere to go.
After another fifteen minutes flipping through the channels and trying to choose one of my New York acquaintances to text in hopes that they’ll be doing something I can attend, I can no longer stand to be in the suffocating emptiness of my apartment.
Up until yesterday, it seemed like a safe haven. Now it’s missing something.
Hunter.
No—not him.
Purse tucked under my arm, I’m about to step out of my apartment when my cell phone rings, sending my heart rate into the stratosphere. But when I pull it from my purse, it’s not Sandra who’s calling but my sister, Bee, inviting me to video chat.
For an instant I hesitate. I don’t want her to know that I’m spending the holiday alone. It only takes one rush of hot shame before I’m speed-walking back to the couch, raising the phone to a flattering angle in front of my face, and pressing connect.