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Why do I love seeing her wrapped in my family designs so much?
The scoop neck and tiny straps against her olive skin are going to turn every head in the room because the dress is stunning, but on Payton Mills it is impeccable.
The impact isn’t over yet.
I know this dress. It’s one of my favorites from the collection. The moment she walks past me, I’ll get a glimpse of the low-cut back and the simple string of pearls draped across the middle.
No bra.
Meaning...those globes of hers sit naturally in their current fucking position and are going to taunt me all damn night.
I obviously had no idea what I was doing when I invited Payton to join me tonight. She’s no kitten. She’s a seductive goddess that tempts me to risk everything for one night of passion.
I’m not going to lie, every day is getting more and more difficult.
Unlike a lot of women in my life, Payton has made no attempt to flirt with me or get my attention. Which leaves no one to blame except me.
Or rather, my cock.
“Nice choice,” I say, clearing my throat, and indicate the waiting vehicle with my hand. “We should get going.”
Payton clutches her purse and walks past me.
Fucking hell.
I’m the first man on earth to get a hard on from a woman’s back, I’m sure of it.
I climb in after her and as the driver pulls us away from the curb, I start counting down the minutes.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Payton says.
“Drink?” I ask, lifting my whisky from the drink holder.
“Do you have anything else?”
I open the small fridge. In there I find a small bottle of champagne. I lift it in question. When she nods, I open it and, after waiting to make sure it doesn’t spill over the edge, I hand her the bottle.
“Oh, wait. We have these. Glass?” I pull out a flute.
When she nods once more, I take the bottle and slowly fill it, my eyes straining to stay away from her cleavage.
Or her thighs wrapped in my company’s silk.
Or the way she has her hair coiled up, with a few strands teasing her slender neck.
God, I was wrong about the thirty minutes being painless. It’s torture. I can’t exactly pull out my phone and ignore her—I could, but even for me that would be a prick of a thing to do. I decide conversation might be a good distraction.
“So, Payton, tell me about yourself.” I hand the glass to her.
She sips it and the smile on her lips tells me she likes the expensive bubbly stuff.
“I’m not very interesting. You have my resume. I grew up in Philly,” Payton says. “That’s about it.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Fuck, don’t ask that.
Why the hell did I ask that?
