“I still can’t believe he actually said that,” Laurie says without taking her eyes off Adam Levine being super sexy on The Voice.
“Me neither.” I frown into my box of Chinese takeout. “I mean who even says stuff like that?”
“What exactly do you have a problem with?” Brett asks. He’s sitting beside Laurie on the couch, feeding her from his own takeout. “Is it the wording, or the intention conveyed?”
I scowl at him. “I have a problem with everything—getting me to go his lounge under false pretenses then pretending he didn’t know who I was. Just who does he think he is anyway?”
“Hush,” Laurie complains as some teenage girl with knee-high suede boots starts to sing a country number.
“I think you should fuck him,” Brett whispers. “You obviously want to, and you already did before, so…” He shrugs.
“I agree,” Laurie adds, looking away from the screen long enough to give me an encouraging smile.
“Definitely not,” I reply, getting up. “I’m going to bed. Apparently, you two have no idea what a one-night stand means.”
“There’s no law that says you can’t have a repeat,” Laurie calls after me. I ignore her and dump my takeout box in the trash then go to my room to get ready for bed. When I finally lie down and close my eyes, all I can think of is Landon, and those words repeating in my ear like an erotic refrain.
I want to fuck you again.
In a shameless part of me, I admit that I want the same thing. I’ve wanted it since I set my eyes on him at the Insomnia Lounge. Thankfully, there’s another part of me that’s sensible enough to be infuriated at him.
I always get what I want.
“Well, good luck with that,” I mutter to myself, tossing on the bed. I’m most definitely not going to sleep with him again. I’m not interested in a guy who thinks he can own the world just by wanting it. It doesn’t even matter how sexy he is. I won’t be adding myself to the list of women he can get into bed just by saying something as raw as ‘I want to fuck you again.’
Out of curiosity, I open the browser on my phone and run a search on him with ‘girlfriends’ as one of the keywords. The articles that come up in the results are mostly from the New York gossip sites, with pictures of him with various women, including a few famous ones. The articles allude to romantic connections between him and some of his dates, but most of the allusions seem to have been based only on rumors. I wonder if he approached all the other women as directly as he approached me.
I want to fuck you again.
Jesus!
I put the phone away and close my eyes. There’s no point in reading about his past relationships when I should be banishing him from my mind, memories of great sex and all.
The first step is to stop thinking about him, and I will, starting tonight.
I try my best, but by the time I finally fall asleep sometime later, I’ve already failed miserably.
I do better the next day, burying myself in work and writing up a storm. At lunchtime, I walk down to a nearby deli with Chelsea and Sonali Nagra, a cute new Indian intern who speaks with a British accent despite growing up on Park Avenue and who insists that her home is in Mumbai even though she’s been there only once in her life. Her dream is to work at Gilt Style, the most popular of the Gilt magazines, and after that, to launch her own couture line. Over lunch, we gossip about people from the office and laugh about the more ridiculous articles Chelsea has had to write lately.
“I finally saw Jack Weyland yesterday,” Sonali exclaims at some point, running perfectly manicured fingers through her coal black hair. “He looks even better in person. I swear when I got scorned at Gilt Style, I accepted the position at Traveler just so I could work with him.”
Chelsea looks from Sonali to me, and I shrug, making it clear that I don’t care if we talk about Jack.
“You shouldn’t have taken the position then,” Chelsea says sympathetically. “He never dips his dick in the office ink.”
“Plus he’s engaged now,” I add, chuckling silently at Sonali’s obvious disappointment.
“I’m more worried about his attitude about office relationships than his engagement,” she replies, her eyes serious. “Claudia Sever has broken three engagements in the past two years, and everyone knows the person she really wants is Reese Fletcher, the billionaire. They’ve been on and off for ages.”
I wonder if she could be right. When it comes to gossip and fashion, Sonali always knows what she’s talking about. However, instead of the sick relief I would have felt in the past at the knowledge that Jack might soon be available again, I just feel uninterested.
“Speaking of hot men, I saw Landon Court in the building yesterday,” Chelsea grins. “Now that’s a big girl’s Jack Weyland. I wonder what he was doing there.”
I feign ignorance by keeping silent as they both speculate about the person whose name I’ve already decided to banish from my thoughts.
“I wouldn’t mind the brother,” Sonali says with a sigh. “He’s doing a play on Broadway right now, though it’s still in the preview stage. Some of my friends went, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.” She lowers her voice. “There’s something about guys with tragic stories. My mom says both brothers were in the car with their mother when she had the accident. Landon pulled Aidan out and then had to watch as the car burned with his mother inside.”
“That’s so awful,” I exclaim, unable to imagine how painful it must have been, how painful it must still be for him.
Sonali shakes her head. “Yes, but they were both uninjured. Poor things.”
“Yes, poor things,” Chelsea says. “But enough with the sad stories. I still want to know what Landon Court was doing in our building.”
“Maybe he’s planning to take over Gilt,” I quip. “Takeovers are the new conquests.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind working for him.” She grins. “Or under him, depending on what he prefers.”
It’s an innocent statement, but my reaction to it, a mixture of possessiveness and fierce jealousy, startles me. I shouldn’t care if my beautiful colleague finds Landon attractive. He’s nothing to me.
“I doubt he’s available,” I point out, unable to let it go.
“Yeah.” Chelsea sighs. “But a girl can dream.”
WE walk back, with Sonali doing a running commentary on every hot guy we pass on the street. By the time I get to my office, I’m still laughing a little, but my thoughts soon go back to Landon and the things Sonali said about his mother’s death.
I do a quick search on my computer, looking for old archived news reports from twenty years ago. It’s not hard to find a report on the accident.
Even before I start to read the article, my heart breaks at the picture of two boys—both wrapped in blankets, the little one looking confused while the older one, Landon, has the most heartbreakingly sad expression. Next to that is a picture of a beautiful couple, his parents.
I start to read the article. The car skidded off the road and somersaulted a couple of times. According to an eyewitness–a teenager who stopped his car a few minutes after the accident occurred and called an ambulance–Landon emerged from the car carrying his little brother, but the car started to burn immediately after, and by the time the ambulance reached them, it had been too late for Alicia Creighton Court.
Oh Landon. To witness all that! He must have been devastated.
My desk phone starts to ring. Reluctantly, I abandon my perusal of the article and answer the call.
“Hello.”
“I’m just confirming that you’re back from lunch.” Carol Mendez’s voice is, as usual, brusque and efficient.
“Why?”
“Jessica wants to see you.”
I frown, a sense of déjà vu creeping into my spine. “Now?”
“Well, not tomorrow.” I hear her say something, not to me. Then her voice comes back on the line. “Sit tight. She’s on her way.”
I hear a click as the line goes dead. Jessica Layner is coming to see me? If that isn’t strange, I don’t know what is. I close the browser and arrange a stack of sheets on my desk, wondering what she wants. I just know, somehow, that this has something to do with Landon.
Jessica pauses at the door to my office, her eyes taking in the space as if she can’t quite believe how small it is. She looks stylish in a cream sheath dress and scarlet heels. There’s a rumor that the powerful women in the Gilt organization are perpetually in competition, which is why they always look on point and demand perfection in every single aspect of their magazines.
She takes a step inside the room and closes the door behind her. I get up from my seat, and she waves a hand. “Oh sit,” she says lightly. “I’m not the president.”
I sit my ass back on the chair, confused. She walks to the window and stares out. “You haven’t got much of a view have you?”
“It’s adequate.”
She shrugs, then turns around to looks at me. “There’s a hotel in San Francisco, the Gold Dust Hotel. It’s one of those old, classy places.” She looks at me to see if I’m following. “Landon Court purchased it some time ago from the original owners, and it’s been undergoing renovations ever since.”
I wait for her to continue, not sure where I come in but already knowing deep down that Landon has initiated something I won’t like.
“I’ve already heard that it’s going to be a top destination in San Francisco, and he has the most renowned interior designers as part of the project team,” she says. “About a month ago I approached him about doing an article in Gilt, a glimpse into the new hotel for our readers. He wasn’t interested.” She pauses. “Then last week, his assistant calls to arrange a promotional article for a lounge he owns. And yesterday, he was here, asking to see you and offering me the article about the Gold Dust.”
I frown. “I’m not… I don’t think it has anything to do with me.”
She raises her perfect brows. “You don’t?”
I shake my head. “Maybe he decided he needed the publicity for his hotel after all.”
Her eyes assess me for a moment. “When you applied to Gilt, you wanted a position at Gilt Review—why?”
I studied English Literature, and I’ve always wanted to have a career that had something to do with books and literature. “I thought it would be the right fit for me.”
She waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “There’s no such thing as a right fit. You have to take ownership of wherever you find yourself, make it fit you.” She stops and gives me a look. “You’ve applied yourself very well here. You won’t have a problem going to San Francisco to write about the transformation of the Gold Dust, will you?”
I choke on air. “You want me to go to San Francisco to write about Landon Court’s hotel?”
“Don’t you want to?”
I swallow. “I’m not sure… I’ve never handled anything like that.”
She gives me a questioning look. “I would have thought you’d be sick of all those promotional articles by now. You’re not a hack. This is a real assignment. It’s going to be a main feature.” She walks over to my desk. “I’m not in the habit of visiting associates in their offices, but I want to know if there’s a conflict, any reason you can’t do it.”
I hesitate. Do I really want to tell my boss I don’t want to take an assignment because I think the owner of the property I’m going to be writing about, a billionaire with properties around the world, wants to get into my pants? And Landon, God! I wonder if writing the feature would mean seeing him again. I can’t lie to myself—I want to see him, especially after the article I just read about him. “I would love to do the feature,” I hear myself saying. “I’m glad you considered me.”
Jessica nods. “The travel arrangements are being made on his end. You’ll be meeting with Tony Gillies at the Swanson Court Tower to discuss logistics. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine.”
‘That’s all then.” She taps a perfectly manicured nail on my desk. “All the best.”
An hour later, I’m climbing out of a taxi in front of the impressive mixed-use office and residential high-rise that is the SCT building. As I walk toward the revolving doors, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass walls. I’m wearing a gray pencil skirt, a light green silk blouse, and black pumps with my hair held back on one side with a rhinestone barrette. I pause for a moment to check that the little makeup I applied before leaving the office looks okay, and then I mutter an unladylike curse and keep walking, unwilling to accept that Landon is the real reason I’m so concerned about my appearance.
Screw him, I think resentfully as I give my name to the security at the front desk. They’re apparently expecting me, and they hand me a visitor’s pass to enable me to cross the turnstiles between the doors and the elevator bank.
“Sixty-second floor,” one of the guards informs me.
“Thank you,” I reply, still thinking of Landon. I have no doubt he has engineered this whole thing because he thinks he can use it to get me into his bed, but I’m determined to disappoint him.
On the sixty-second floor, the elevator doors slide open, revealing a spacious reception room with a large marble desk and a TV screen overlooking a plush seating area. I step out of the elevator a second before an almost invisible glass partition between the elevator bank and the reception area slides open, allowing me to walk toward the reception desk. There, an immaculately dressed girl with cropped black hair and glasses is waiting for me with a friendly smile.
“Good afternoon, Miss Foster,” she says cheerily.
“Good afternoon,” I reply, waiting as she scans my visitor card. While I wait, another set of glass doors slide open and a sharp-looking guy steps into the reception area. He’s about my height, and like the receptionist, he’s perfectly dressed in a trendy suit, his short curly hair neatly framing his face.
“Hello,” he starts, extending his hand. “You must be Miss Foster from Gilt. I’m Tony Gillies, Mr. Court’s assistant. We’ll be discussing the logistics for your trip in his office. Please follow me.”
In his office? “Landon—Mr. Court is going to be there?” I ask, suddenly tense.
“Yes.” Tony nods and then starts to walk, giving me no choice but to follow him through the sliding glass doors into a long wide corridor with glass partitioned offices on one side and conference rooms on the other. At the end of the corridor, there’s another set of glass doors that lead into a large office with two desks and a sitting area. One of the desks is occupied by a woman speaking into a set of headphones in a language that sounds like Italian, though I can’t say for sure because I’m totally hopeless at any language that’s not English. She doesn’t look up when we enter.
“Please take a seat,” Tony says, the picture of formal efficiency. He glances at his watch. “Mr. Court is in a meeting at the moment, but it will be over in a few minutes. Would you like anything to drink?”
I shake my head. “No.”
He nods then retreats behind the second desk in the room. As I wait, I use the time to look around. On one side of the room, there’s a wall of some sort of frosted glass with a door in the middle. I’m guessing it’s the door to Landon’s office when it opens and three men pour out of the room beyond, talking quietly among themselves. Through the open doorway, I catch a glimpse of Landon seated at the head of a conference table. He’s looking at some papers on the table, a frown of concentration on his perfect face. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I would keep on staring, but the doors close, blocking him from my view.
“We can go in now.” Tony is already standing by my side. I also stand, nervously smoothing my skirt. Why am I so anxious? I have nothing to be worried about—nothing apart from being in the same room as Landon again.
I follow Tony to the door, waiting as he holds it open for me to walk inside. Immediately, my eyes settle on Landon. He’s now standing beside the conference table, tapping an impatient finger on the glass surface. He’s removed his jacket, which is now hanging off the back of the chair he just vacated. In just his light blue shirt and slim black pants, the strength and fitness of his perfect body is obvious—much too obvious.
I step into the office, and he looks up. His hair is slicked back, making him look even more intense. As his blue eyes land on me, he breaks into a smile. My heart misses a beat at the transformation of his face, and my steps falter.
“Come in Rachel.”
I steady myself and keep on walking. The office is easily larger by far than any I’ve ever been in. Aside from the conference area, there’s a sitting area with plush leather chairs and a glass coffee table. A large desk sits on a slightly raised area, almost like a dais, with the skyline of Manhattan as a backdrop. There’s a wall covered with screens, which, at the moment, are all tuned to different news channels and financial reports from around the globe.
He has already pulled out a chair, and he stands behind it as he waits for me to sit. I walk toward him on shaky legs, cursing myself for the uncontrollable effect he has on me. One look and I forget all my resolutions.
Tony busies himself with setting up the projector, oblivious to the tension between Landon and me. I take the offered seat, trembling slightly when Landon’s fingers deliberately brush my shoulders before he returns to his own seat. After a few seconds, Tony joins us at the table and starts up the slideshow of pictures of the new hotel, showing the stage of refurbishment already accomplished. The décor is a little more light and modern than the New York hotel, with more glass and brighter colors, but whoever the interior designer is, they sure know what they are doing.
Landon doesn’t say a word as Tony goes over the description of the amenities being provided, the design firms involved, and what Swanson Court International hopes to achieve with the new hotel. Then he goes into the history of the property. Formerly known as The San Francisco Gold Dust hotel, it was built in the twenties and has been in the Sinclair family for generations. Landon recently acquired the property from Evans Sinclair and will reopen it as The Gold Dust, a Swanson Court Hotel.
I take notes, asking questions and documenting the clarifications as well as highlighting areas for further research. Tony has done a great job on the presentation, showcasing the extensive and indigenous art collection that’s part of the property, the high-class spa, the famous chefs, and the celebrity fitness trainer who will be joining the hotel. I have no doubt that for the people who can afford it, it’s going to be worth every penny.
Finally, we get to the end of the slideshow, and I look away from the screen to find Landon’s eyes on my face.
“Is that all?” he asks. He’s talking to Tony.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. You can leave us now,” he says. “Miss Foster will communicate any requests for additional information or clarification.”
Tony nods and exits the office, leaving me alone with Landon. I avoid looking at him, feeling the tension in the air thicken with each passing second.
I start to get up. “I should be going.”
His hand on my arm stops me. “No, don’t.” He moves his chair from the head of the table to directly beside mine, arranging it so he’s facing me. “We should talk.”
“I know what you’re doing,” I say heatedly. “You engineered this assignment so you can get me to spend time with you.” I glare at him. “Well, guess what, this time you’re not going to get what you want. You’re wasting your time. I’m not going to let you get away with manipulating my job just so you can fuck me.”
His eyes flare at my heated words, but instead of responding, he presses a button on the desk, turning the frosted glass of the office walls even more opaque. “Let’s see,” he starts, “I generously agreed to a request your boss made a long time ago. How is that manipulating your job?”
“And the article about the Insomnia Lounge?” I challenge.
“I brought you there to give you a chance to tell me the truth, which you didn’t take, for whatever reason.”
“Maybe because I didn’t want to. Maybe because I was perfectly fine with you thinking I was a hooker. Maybe because I had no intention of ever seeing you again.”
He leans forward, his hand still on my arm. Suddenly I feel helpless against the magnetic pull from his body. Who am I fooling? I want him. I want him so badly I can taste my desire.
“Quit lying to yourself,” he says quietly.
I let out a soft breath through parted lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tell me the truth, Rachel,” he challenges. “What do you want?”
I don’t answer, so he continues. “You see, I know what I want. I want you. I didn’t ask Jessica Layner to give you the feature, but I hoped she would, especially after I told her I was a fan of your work. I’ll be in San Francisco for a week, and I want you there with me. I want to fuck you every day we’re there. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that night at my hotel. I want to make you come until you beg me to stop, and I know you want the same thing.”
I swallow hard. His words are doing something to me. Already, my nipples are hard and aching, pressing insistently against my bra. I wonder if he can see them through my blouse, even as I hope desperately that he can’t. He hasn’t even touched me and yet, I already feel breathless with desire. My cheeks flush and I close my eyes, frustrated by my inability to control my body around him.
“But if you’d prefer not to,” he continues, “then we won’t see each other in San Francisco. You’ll do your work, return to New York, and probably never see me again. Is that what you want?
I want him to kiss me, that’s what I want. I want to lean forward and close the gap between our lips. I want to taste the warmth of his mouth. I feel bewitched, confused, a second away from forgetting my own name. I can hear my breath coming in soft little pants, like there’s no longer enough air in the room.
“What do you want?” he repeats.
I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say, and immediately his lips close over mine, warm, demanding, and skillful. His tongue traces my lower lip then dips into my mouth, teasing, caressing, stroking the desire that’s already burning inside me into a frenzy of hot, uncontrollable need.
He pulls away and I moan in complaint, leaning forward, aching for more. “This is what you want.” His voice is warm and seductive. I stare at him through glazed eyes, wondering why he’s stopped kissing me. “Your nipples are hard, Rachel.” He lifts one hand to stroke one of the hardened nubs through my top, as if to prove his point, and a low moan of pleasure escapes me. “Between your legs, you’re wet and aching for me, aren’t you?” His eyes are blue fire burning into mine. “I know you want me to fuck you, right here, in this office, on the floor, on my desk, against the wall—anywhere. You wouldn’t care. You just want me inside you, right now.”
At his words, acute desire shoots through me like a lightning bolt. My body clenches needily, helpless against the mental assault of his words. Almost as if I’m under a spell, I reach for his face, pulling it down toward mine.
He claims my lips hungrily, getting up and pulling me to my feet in the same movement. He lifts me up, pulling my skirt up so I can wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me over to his desk.
As soon as my butt touches the surface of the desk, his tongue plunges into my mouth, tasting and plundering while his hands cup my breasts through my blouse. I reach for him, my hand moving from the hard slab of his stomach to the perfection of his chest. Loosening his silk tie, I toss it away and start to unbutton his shirt, but he stops me, holding both my hands to my sides while he bends his head to my breast, grazing my aching nipple with his teeth.
My skin is so sensitive it feels like it’s on fire, and the throbbing between my legs is making it impossible for me to think. I groan, freeing my hands from his so I can thread my fingers in his silky hair. I want more than just this teasing. I want him inside me, as soon as possible.
I arch my back, lifting my breasts closer to his face. He groans, coming back up to cover my mouth with his, his tongue mating with mine as his hands move down to my hips to push my skirt up around my waist, exposing me from the waist down.
He strokes warm fingers over the damp lace of my panties, finding my pulsing clit and rubbing it through the lace. I tear my mouth from his, unable to hold back a small cry of pleasure.
“Do you like it when I touch you like this?” His voice is rough, his eyes blazing with desire.
“Yes,” I whisper helplessly, rubbing my hips against his fingers.
He smiles and pushes my panties aside, giving his fingers access to stroke me. I’m already so wet, they slide easily through my folds, slipping inside to tease me with the promise of what will come later.
I brace my hands on the desk and spread my legs for him, inviting him deeper, but he pulls his fingers away and drops to his knees in front of me.
He’s still holding my panties aside, giving him access to lick every inch of me. I cry out at the warm touch of his tongue, gripping the edge of the desk tightly. He pulls back then hooks his fingers into the lace of my panties. In the next moment, I hear a ripping sound, and then his lips touch me again, followed by his tongue, the sweet velvety warmth sending me straight to heaven.
“Landon.” His name comes out of my lips in a long moan. His tongue flicks over my clit then travels down to the quivering entrance of my body, teasing me and making me want more. “Oh God, Landon.”
He responds by sliding two fingers inside me, teasing my pulsing walls and making my body clench and shudder. His tongue continues to tease my clit, bringing me to the brink of orgasm time and time again until I’m crazy with the desire to have him inside me.
I rock my hips against his mouth, begging him with my movements to give me more. He pauses long enough to look up and grin at the desperation on my face before he starts to torture me again.
“Landon,” I beg. “I can’t…”
He ignores me, sucking on my clit as he crooks his fingers, finding the tiny mass of nerves along my walls and stroking it masterfully. My body tightens, spasming uncontrollably as I cry out, losing myself in a hot pulsing orgasm.
Almost immediately, he’s on his feet, my face in his hands. “I love the way you taste, Rachel,” he whispers before sucking on my bottom lip. “I want to lick every inch of you. Tell me you’ll come with me.”
My eyes are still dilated, almost unable to focus. Somewhere deep down, I remember that I shouldn’t be doing this.
When I pause, he kisses me again, his tongue delving into my mouth. His fingers find my nipples, swollen and aching in the confines of my clothes. With an impatient sound, he rips the front of my blouse open and pulls down my bra, exposing my aching breasts. His mouth covers one nipple and I almost weep with pleasure. I hear him undoing his belt, then his zipper, and when he releases my lips again, I look down at the perfect length of him, aching to have him inside me.
He reaches for something inside his desk, and the next moment I hear the sound of foil tearing. He knew this would happen, I think through my aroused brain. He knew and he prepared for it, even when I was lying to myself, telling myself I wouldn’t sleep with him.
I watch him put on the condom, the need and excitement stronger than my thoughts.
“I want to fuck you without one of these,” he says softly. “Will you let me, once I prove that I’m clean?”
I nod, desperate with need. Right now, I just want him inside me. I’d say yes to just about anything if it meant he’d enter me again.
He positions himself at the quivering entrance to my body. “Tell me you’ll come with me to San Francisco,” he whispers again, his voice rough.
I roll my hips, hungry for him. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”
His hands find my waist and he moves me toward him. At the same moment he pushes forward, sliding slowly inside me and filling me completely.
“Yes!” I cry out as the first immediate pulse of my orgasm rolls through me. My legs weaken, and I moan helplessly, coming apart at the seams. He grips my thighs, pulling me to the edge of the desk as he pulls out, almost to the tip, then plunges into me again. He lowers his head to my breasts again and I groan, my body clenching almost unbearably around the sweet, hard strokes of his cock.
I brace my hands on his shoulders, feeling the tense, bunched up muscles even through his shirt. He lifts his head to look at me, and his eyes are focused on me, the intensity almost blinding. His expression of clear and utter arousal feeds the unbearable heat between my legs. He starts to move faster, his pupils dilating as he drives mindlessly toward orgasm. Heat fills my body as another climax builds, the whole world turning to nothing but the sure strokes of pleasure between my legs. My head rolls back and I cry out as my body stiffens, my orgasm seizing me as Landon plunges wildly into me, all control gone as he rides the waves of my climax to his own. He comes with a loud groan, his whole body shuddering with his release.
My heart is racing. I take deep gulps of air. The air in the office is cool, but we’re both sweating. Landon expels a deep breath and slowly pulls out of me, making my body shudder as residual tremors shoot through me. My face is buried in his neck, and as I catch my breath, I inhale his spicy cologne, hot sex, and a scent that’s just him. I have to restrain myself from placing kisses all over his face. I close my eyes, trying to weigh the languid satisfaction I feel against the mortification of the knowledge that I just slept with him, even though I told him I wasn’t going to, even though I know I shouldn’t have.
He starts to adjust my skirt, pulling it down and smoothing it. My panties are ripped and unsalvageable, and he just takes them off me and puts them away in his pocket. He adjusts my bra and tries to do the same with my blouse, but with two buttons missing, there’s nothing even he can do. There’s no way I can go outside looking like this.
He leaves me on the desk and wraps up the condom in a tissue before tossing it in the trash. By the time he turns back to me, he’s already fixing his clothes, and there’s no sign that he just fucked me senseless on his desk. He looks as immaculate as he always does, and I look like a wreck.
He comes back to the desk and takes my arms, gently pulling me to my feet. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get you decent.”
“Unless you have a blouse exactly like mine somewhere in this office, I don’t see how you can manage that.”
His fingers touch the silk of the blouse. Then he smiles and takes my hand. “I doubt a blouse like that would look as good on me as it did on you,” he says before pressing a button on his desk.
“Mr. Court?” Tony’s voice flows into the room through a set of speakers I can’t see.
“I’m going out,” Landon says curtly. “Reschedule the Clifton meeting.”
He presses the button to end the conversation without waiting for a reply, and then he leads me toward a door I hadn’t noticed before. It opens to a small but airy room with a set of seats and large windows that share the same view as his office. A stairway leads from the room to an upper floor.
“Don’t tell me you have an apartment here as well,” I say, following him up the stairs.
He frowns. “I do.”
“How many apartments do you have?” I ask, curious.
“A few.” He’s smiling. “The apartment at the hotel belongs to my family, and I spent some of my childhood there. This is where I mostly live these days, especially when I’m busy with work.”
The apartment is smaller than the one at the Swanson Court hotel, but it’s still large. It’s evidently a bachelor pad, simply but tastefully furnished with a few personal touches.
“This is convenient,” I comment. “Every workaholic’s dream. Why leave work when you can live at work?”
“One more dig at me, and I’m going to have to fuck you again, just to keep your mouth otherwise occupied.” His expression is bland, as if he’s only commenting on the weather, but stupidly, my body responds by remembering the pleasure of a few moments ago and wishing for more. “Make yourself comfortable,” he offers, gesturing toward the living room. “There’re drinks in the fridge, over there.” He points in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves me and disappears inside the apartment. I walk over to the kitchen, which looks modern, if underutilized. Retrieving a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, I uncap it and take a long drink. I’m twisting back the cap when Landon returns with a deep green sweater.
“You can wear this,” he offers, handing me the sweater.
I take it from him. The material is soft and smooth to the touch. I remove my blouse and shrug it on. It’s a little big, but it smells like him and feels heavenly against my skin.
Landon folds up my blouse and hands it to me. “It looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
I scoff. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“I love it when you pay me compliments,” he says with a heartbreakingly beautiful grin.
“I was only making an observation.”
He shrugs. “I love your complimentary observations.”
I chuckle despite myself. “So what now?”
He takes a strand of my hair and curls it around his finger. “Now that there’s no question of how good we are together, I hope you’ll finally agree to spend more time with me.”
I look up at his face. “You mean sex.”
“Lots of it.”
I shake my head. “Actually, I meant, what happens right now.”
He chuckles and releases the tendril of hair, letting it fall back to my face. “Now, I take you home.”
There’s a private elevator from the apartment to the garage on the ground floor. He left his jacket and tie behind in his office and in just his tailored shirt and pants, he looks more casual, but still sexy as hell.
He leads me to a sleek silver Jaguar convertible, low to the ground with leather bucket seats and a softly purring engine.
He keeps the top up, sliding on a pair of dark glasses as he navigates the car out of the garage. Even driving, he’s powerful, controlled, his fingers light on the steering wheel as he moves through the late afternoon traffic.
In front of my apartment building, he turns to me. “About San Francisco,” he says. “I want us to go together. I want you to stay with me, spend the whole time with me when you’re not working. If that’s not what you want, you don’t have to do it because of what happened today.”
I nod, knowing I want that trip with him. I want it so much it hurts. “What happens after it’s over? When we come back?”
He taps a finger on the steering wheel, making me wonder what he’s thinking. “What do you want to happen?”
My mind goes to Jack and all the feelings, which are hard to recall at the moment, but still there, unresolved. “I don’t want a relationship,” I tell Landon. “This is just sex, and I don’t want to pretend it’s anything more.”
He doesn’t reply, so I continue.
“I also want exclusivity, for as long as it lasts.”
“Not a problem,” he says with a shrug.
How long will that be, exactly? I wonder. How long until he gets whatever desire he has for me out of his system and moves on? I don’t want to be rejected again; I won’t be able to take it. I swallow.
“And it lasts only as long as we’re in San Francisco,” I add quickly, before I change my mind.
“A week?” The words are accompanied by a frown. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He nods slowly. “All right.” He looks down at his sweater hanging off my shoulder, and then glances at his watch. “Why don’t you go up and change. I’ll take you back to the office.”
I glance at the clock on the dashboard—it’s almost five. “I’m done for the day.”
He gives me a suggestive look. “So are you going to invite me up?”
I smirk. “Don’t push your luck. I don’t even like you yet.”
“But you will.” His voice is confident. I climb out of the car, already regretting not inviting him up, but I just want to hold a little back, at least for now. “Tony will let you know the travel details,” he says, starting the engine. “See you soon.”
With that, he’s gone, the car purring softly as he drives away, leaving me wondering what on earth I’ve gotten myself into.