Page 12 of Holden

Holden crosses the foray to the kitchen, and flicks on some lights. White appliances. Light oak cabinets. Holden’s entire space is beautiful, but clinical, almost as though it’s barely been lived in.

I get it.

My grandmother’s house was like that. A constant tidier, she was always dusting, washing, perfecting her home to the point I was even nervous to leave footprints on her carpet.

But while my grandma woke at five each morning to make her home presentable for guests, I have a feeling Holden hires out that particular service, along with a few others.

“Would you like a drink?”

I nod. “Wine if you have it.”

He stops me before I can slip off my heels. “Leave them on. White or red?”

My stilettos click across the hardwood floor as I make my way to the kitchen. “Merlot.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t challenge the request. I sink into one of the bar stools—dear God they’ve got plush seating—and watch as he roots through a small wine rack for a bottle of red. I recognize the label—Screaming Eagle—and as such, know all about its staggering price tag. Lindsay and I bought the cheapest bottle once, and it almost bankrupted us.

Holden uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass.

He swirls before taking a sip. “It’s good.”

I take that as permission and echo his movements, swirling the liquid high on the glass and then swallowing a mouthful. It glides down my throat. “Decadent.”

Decadent? Sudden heat crawls up the side of my face. I’ve almost forgotten that this isn’t a date. I’m terrible with small talk at the best of times, but here, in this fantasy suite with last year’s People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, my tongue works its way into a knot.

“Good,” he says, curtly, and lifts his drink in mock toast.

I expect him to sit beside me, but he flicks off the lights and heads to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and then points to a spot across from him. I carry my glass and set it on the side table beside a Tiffany lamp.

“Spread your legs.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

Irritation creases his face. “I’ve made no pretenses about this evening, Miss Faber.”

I swallow the lump of unease lodged at the back of my throat. So much for small talk.

“I want you to uncross your thighs, and spread them apart.”

I lick my lips, and do as he commands.

This is what he said I needed to do to prove myself, right?

A breeze from the air conditioning blows between my legs, cool against my clit. My bald pussy clenches in response. Holden slumps down in his seat, and puts his hands behind his neck, like he’s settling in for a show. A smirk plays on his lips.

“Very nice, Miss Faber,” he says. “I appreciate that you shaved for the occasion.”

I smile thinly. “I anticipated that’s what you would expect.” Not that he left me much time. In my haste, I nicked my upper thigh, and wasted five minutes trying to get the blood to stop flowing.

“Initiative,” he says, with a wink. “I like that.”

His gaze moves to my breasts, where my tight nipples poke through the cotton of my T-shirt. I flinch under his scrutiny.

“Take off your shirt,” he says. I hook my fingers under the edge and begin to pull upward. Holden wags a finger. “Slowly, Miss Faber. I want to savor the reveal.”

With shaky fingers, I inch the shirt up over my stomach, my ribcage, and finally over my breasts. They spring free, perky and smooth. Through hooded eyelids, I see the outline of each nipple, tight, pink, and aching to be touched. I finish taking off my shirt and let it drop to the ground.

“Nice,” Holden says, his voice low with approval. “Very nice. How do you feel?”