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Gus leans against the edge of the door, hand resting on the doorknob. Four months have passed since the first and only time I saw him in the flesh. Once again, I’m taken aback by how handsome this man is.
So handsome. Criminally, inexplicably, mind-fuckingly handsome.
He stands tall and composed in a sinfully well-made suit that accentuates his height and his muscles. No tie—just a white button-down shirt with a couple of buttons undone at the top. In the soft lighting from his penthouse, his medium tan skin brims with warm tones that offset his icy persona. Cerulean blue eyes meet mine, assessing me the same way I’m scrutinizing him. His expression has no give whatsoever. His high cheekbones and trademark glare make him look dangerous and delicious all at once. When he tilts his head to the side in pensive appraisal, I spot a dusting of gray hair amid jet black. It works for him—hell, works is an understatement. He looks fucking magnificent.
Is it possible we’ve only ever spent five minutes in each other’s presence? I’m inexplicably comfortable, like he’s not a stranger at all.
Screw him for that.
“What kind of American immigrates to London?” It’s an opener I came up with on the plane ride over, while I wondered why I was being exported to England like chattel.
“We use the term ‘expatriates,’” he answers in his low, scorching voice, still surveying me with lethal focus. He must like what he sees because he licks his lower lip, sending a jolt of a thrill through me.
“Because immigrating is beneath you?” I challenge, refusing to miss a step, refusing to let him notice that seeing him after so long has made my anticipation bubble up into reluctant desire.
He sighs with his entire chest. Apparently, my comment is so annoying, it finally distracts him from how badly he wants me. His eyes tick upwards to meet mine in a glare. “Welcome to London, Julia.” He motions for me to enter.
“Believe it or not,” I say as I push past him, “I’ve been to London before.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly Gus Winter is at my back. His proximity lights me up, making my breath hitch involuntarily when his nose and his lips come close to the shell of my ear. He smells marvelous—masculine and clean from his subtle cologne. His hands go to my shoulders, inciting a wave of goosebumps that travels down my forearms.
But just when I think he’s going to get right to business, I realize he’s taking my coat.
Get it together, get it together, get it to-fucking-gether, Julia. You do not let men get the best of you.
Before my cheeks flush, I step away from him and venture further into his sprawling penthouse. The place is stylish, but nothing I haven’t seen before. Cold, white, and sterile—how I imagined it would look before I ever stepped foot inside. Classic billionaire bullshit, likely right from the mind of an overpaid interior decorator.
But the incomparable view of Hyde Park from his full-wall window greets me, and as I stare out at the park I realize he dimmed the lights low enough for us to take in the view without leaving the room too dark. And once I’m paying attention, I notice there’s soft music playing and candles flickering around us, making the place look every bit a sultry sex den. …Oh, and there are fresh flowers on every table—did he do all this? Is he…courting me? God, this is such a mindfuck.
Gus returns from hanging up my coat and stops several feet away from me, slipping seamlessly into a casual stance that radiates raw power: big hands in his pockets, heavy shoulders back, and his unflappable expression flat. For a few beats, we stare at each other in silence.
Those few beats shift into an entire minute. I’m not sure if we’re engaging in a standoff, or if we truly have so little in common that we can’t find anything to talk about. All I know is I won’t give in—oh hell no. I’m not going to be the one to make an awkward comment to break the silence. He wanted me here, so he can entertain me.
“I’m drinking wine. Does that interest you?” he finally asks, his tone even, like we didn’t just engage in a two-minute deadlock.
Damn it—he’s good. I’ve never turned down a glass of wine. The offer is either good instincts, or this man knows me. Both possibilities annoy me for no reason.
“Fine. I’ll join you,” I answer coolly.
“Take a seat anywhere,” he instructs before he heads down the hallway, where I catch a glimpse of an impressive glass wine room.
On the plane ride over, I wondered how tonight would go. I wondered if he would treat me like any other impulsive purchase, like a shiny new toy, and pounce on me the moment I walked in. I wondered if he would get his and leave me unsatisfied and desperate to come. If that were the case, I was ready to leave his apartment and to say fuck it to my NDA—the entire world could know what a lonely pervert Gus Winter is. But I take a seat on the couch, eyeing the flickering candles dancing around me, and I decide it feels…romantic.
I should appreciate this, I realize. I should be grateful for the expensive penthouse and the jazz playing in the background. Most women would love it. They would relish the chauffeurs and security couriering them around like a precious parcel. They would adore the gorgeous view of London from an ivory tower. The wine, the candles, the flowers—all of it is objectively lovely, I know.
It’s forced though. Artifice. This isn’t a date, and shows of wealth don’t impress me. I can do all this on my own any day of the week. There’s nothing real about this evening, and dressing the deal up with bells and whistles is embarrassing for both of us.
This is a business transaction. That’s it. We need to get it over with.
Gus returns with a bottle and two glasses. I immediately recognize the label—one of my favorite red wine producers. A nice bottle is easily north of a thousand dollars.
He takes a seat on the other side of the coffee table, putting space between us. To my relief, he doesn’t offer a toast or indulge in any fanfare over the thousands of dollars we’re about to drink. He literally just starts drinking, barely acknowledging me. It might be the first authentic moment to transpire between us tonight.
“So, when are you going to fuck me?” I finally ask, imbuing challenge into my voice. Once the words pass over my lips, weightless anticipation surrounds me like vapor in the air.
His expression remains flat, completely unmoved. “Whenever I feel like it.” There’s a cockiness to his words that makes me want to pour my wine all over his pristine white couches—but lucky for Gus, I would never waste a drop.
“When will that be?”
