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I tremble. Grey holds me so close it’s hard to breathe, slamming into me again and again until he spills inside me with a growl, his deep, male groan echoing in the limo.
My heart still beats frantically like it’s searching for a way out of my chest.
Grey’s breath calms slowly like mine. We’re in a post-sex haze as we look at each other, recognizing a visceral, unexpected part of ourselves in the other. We don’t speak. There’s no energy for anything other than breathing.
“We’ve arrived,” announces the driver, his clipped tone reaching us through the intercom.
I blink a few times, willing myself to land back in reality.
Looking out the window, I see my apartment building and realize what he meant. Of course. This is my home. Where I belong. Not in a limo with a hot billionaire—at least, not this one.
Grey has made it clear he wants to rent a date to face his ex. He’s probably still in love with her. I sigh, reaching for the door handle.
Grey holds my wrist, surprise flickering in his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I-I need to go,” I stammer, shaking his hand from my wrist. “I need to go,” I repeat, louder, with more determination.
“Sylvie, we need to talk.”
Do we? What’s there to say? A current of shame washes over me. I asked for this guy's help, and the first thing I do is sleep with him. Shit. Not even sleep—fuck him in the car. And now his driver has stopped at the front of my house in a silent confirmation that this ride is over. Another wave of embarrassment fills me.
“No. Listen, I need to go,” I say, too overwhelmed to elaborate. “We’ll talk later,” I add, opening the door before he gets the chance to.
I scurry out of the limo and dash into my apartment complex without looking back.
6
Grey
“A wedding guest?” my mother repeats on the other end of the line. “How interesting.”
“Yes, Mom,” I say and sigh into the phone. “Let’s not make a big deal.”
I emailed my sister about bringing a plus-one the day before, but she must have told Mom, who has called me. My driver drives the limo through the elegant polished black wrought-iron gate. The daycare where Sylvie works.
“Oh, honey, of course not.” My mother’s cultured, musical laugh echoes. “Greyson, is she someone I know?”
Thank God, no. My mom was good friends with my ex’s parents, and her meddling only made our divorce proceedings harder. Dating someone my mom knows well is the last thing I need.
“I doubt it. I met Sylvie through friends.” I don't give her surname on purpose, and if she asks, I won't give it to her.
A moment goes by, and I can almost picture my mother tapping her manicured nail on her chin and thinking.
My driver parks in the visitor’s parking space, and I slide out of the limo, closing the door behind me.
“Nice. Tell me more about her,” my mom says.
I hear the implied questions burning on the tip of her tongue. What does this Sylvie do? How long has this been going on? What’s her last name?
“I’ll pass.” I refuse to give in. She’ll try to grill Sylvie in person, and I’ll be by her side to keep a lid on it. “You’ll meet her yourself in a few days.”
“That’s right. I’ll grill her then.”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Sylvie doesn’t deserve any bullshit.”
“Honey, watch your language.”
I change the subject until I'm at the front entrance of the Little Munchkins Daycare. It’s a polished red brick building that could pass as an upper-class home. I spot a sleek intercom by the large French doors. I click it, and soon, someone picks up.
