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Reese opens his door, but I don’t turn to face him. I stare into his dark apartment.
“Cat,” he compels softly. “Look at me.”
“No,” I say, and it’s not defiance. That’s not what I feel. It’s simply a negative that is perhaps an inherent need to challenge anyone who might have the ability to control me without me realizing I’ve allowed it to happen. Reese is one of those men who sneaks up on you and does such a thing, so yes, I decide. I need him to know that every bit of control I give him tonight is my decision, not his.
Which is why I move forward, entering his apartment on my own, my feet traveling a dark hallway. I make it all of three steps before a light illuminates a path paved with mahogany hardwood floors, which curves left and forms what is nearly a half-circle. On either side of me there are arched alcoves filled with books, and my mind craves a peek at each title, but that would mean discovering more about this man outside pleasure. I know this isn’t what we’re about, but I still find myself glancing at a shelf filled with books on art, a few of my favorite artists featured.
I shake off the idea of mutual interest that could be more show for him than it is enjoyment for me. I exit into a living area that is a wide tunnel of floor-to-ceiling windows framing gray couches, a round coffee table in the center. A flat screen television hangs from a built-in drop in the center of the front window. The room is stunningly elegant and decidedly masculine. A room decorated simply, with no place to hang a painting. Nor are there photographs of family anywhere in the room. Despite this, it feels like Reese.
I ponder why this is, but without a definitive answer, as I walk to one of the two white pillars dividing the glass left and right, and rest my hand on it. Stars speckle the sky with white lights, while below them the colorful painting that is New York City’s lights in the night sky. Music begins to play, a song I do not know, soft, sexy, edgy. Reese could be described as hard, sexy, and edgy.
Those nerves I’d hoped to leave in the hallway are alive and well, in residence in my belly with a few flutters rising to my chest. It’s adrenaline. It’s anticipation, which we’ve worked as one might believe an artist would work to master the colors on a canvas. And we’ve done so with apparent attention to dramatics, considering the turbulence of our week-long connection. Goosebumps rise on my nape, beneath my hairline, a prelude to Reese stepping behind me. I face him to find that his suit jacket and tie are gone, and there is a drink in his hand. “Johnnie Walker?” he asks, offering his glass to me.
I stare down at his hand where it holds the glass, a strong hand that is free of any jewelry, anticipation fluttering through me with the certainty that it will soon be on my body. With that thought, my gaze pulls up and collides with his, the impact of that connection not only stealing my breath. I can’t just look at him and not feel him everywhere. I can’t just speak to him and not want to know more.
He arches a brow, indicating the glass he’s still offering me. “No thank you,” I say, shocked at how breathless I both sound and feel. “I don’t drink well.” And I want to remember this night, I add silently. Every moment.
“Meaning what?” he surprises me by asking, when I’d expect him to just get on to the naked part of this encounter.
“Meaning I’m a cheap date. Half a glass of anything and I’m on my ass.”
“A few sips will calm your nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
He leans in, and suddenly his breath is warm on my cheek, his hand right there with it. His lips are a lean from mine. “Liar,” he whispers, before his mouth caresses mine, a barely-there touch before he pulls back, one hand on the pillar above me. “A few sips,” he urges.
My hands press to the concrete at my sides, rather than to his chest, where they’d rather settle. “I don’t like whiskey.”
“You don’t like feeling out of control,” he accuses.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“You know what that tells me?” His hand is suddenly scorching my waist, his cheek against mine as he says, “I’m not the only one who’s been burned.”
“That’s not what you said earlier.”
“I was wrong, Cat, and I’m sorry. See?” His lips quirk. “I have manners. All for you. But if you’re honest with yourself, and me, you’ve been just as guilty of judging me like someone in your past.”
Guilt stabs at me, and I think of my many assumptions about him the first time I met him, and actually since. And because he’s being honest, I don’t deny him the same from me. “Yes,” I admit. “You’re right. And I was wrong. And I’m sorry. Since I said that, does this mean I get to make you say please, too?”
His lips curve. “Sweetheart, when it comes to you, you got it. Please. And I repeat—please to everything.” His voice lowers, turns gravelly. “I want you. Really fucking bad.”
There is something so raw, and yes, again I think, honest, about this man, and I want to believe that’s real, not a façade. I really want it to be real. “I want you, too,” I say. “Please. And now that you have your please, what next?”
“The hard part. Trust.” He shakes the ice in the glass. “Just a few sips.”
The drink is a request for that trust he’s just mentioned. I know it. I see it in his eyes. Or I’m overthinking one night. I suddenly decide that taking the edge off might be just fine right about now. I reach for the glass, and the touch of our fingers is a charge up my arm. And for the first time since I met him, I cut my gaze and tilt back the glass, letting the rich, spiced liquid touch my tongue. I manage all of two deep drinks and his hand is on mine, pulling the glass from my lips. “Enough,” he says roughly. “I want you to relax. I don’t want you numb. I don’t want you to forget.” He downs the drink and sets the glass somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe on a ledge wrapping the window, before his hands are above me on the pillar.
His eyes are fixed on my face rather than my body, and while there is no place where we are touching, I can feel the warmth of his body radiating against mine, which promises heat where there is a mere simmer.
“One and done, right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“How many one night stands have you had?”
“One and done means you don’t get to ask those questions,” I counter.
