"You've never said anything."
"You either."
That's true. But I'm not the one making the offer. "Why now?"
He hails the bartender. "You want the truth?"
"As opposed to what?"
"A lie."
"Has anyone ever said, yes, I want a lie?"
"No. But they did."
"And you're kind enough to give it to them?"
"Yes." He holds strong and sure.
I don't agree with him, but I can't argue with his conviction. "What's the lie?"
"You don't get both."
"Why not?"
He chuckles. "You're a demanding woman."
"Thank you."
He nods to the bartender, orders another round, closes his tab.
He's leaving after this. With or without me, I guess.
My heart thuds against my chest. I'm a thirty-one-year-old woman—almost thirty-two.
How am I this nervous around a boy? A man, a man with all the power in the world, yes.
But it's not about that. It's not about Simon's money or status or company.
It's about how much I want his hands on my skin.
How terrified I am to feel his hands on my skin.
How terrified I am I'll miss the feel.
Or miss out on the feel.
I finish my drink. The bartender takes my glass. Drops off another round.
Simon motions to the balcony. "It's more private outside."
The view is better outside. All steel and glass. The blue of the Manhattan sky against the pockets of yellow light.
With the breeze, the August heat feels temperate.
Warm enough to undress.
Cool enough to soak up the heat of his skin.
We find a couch around the corner. A leather loveseat far from prying eyes.
He sits across from me.
I focus on my drink.
"I made someone a promise," he says.
"You promised them you'd fuck me?"
"Ask you."
"For sex?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Really." He looks to his drink. "My brother saw us together. Saw the way I looked at you." He takes a long sip. "He made me promise I'd seize the day."
"Those were his exact words?"
"In Latin." His smile is sad. "Carpe diem."
Simon Pierce saying carpe diem. It's absurd. Beyond absurd.
He's calculating, patient, still.
He seizes opportunities, yes.
But he's not living in the moment. He's not living life to its fullest.
Not that I can talk.
I love my job. I don't mind the way it consumes me, but it does.
That's why it's been a year.
That and my complete inability to let go of control.
But I won't let him best me there.
"When did you promise?" I ask.
"A while ago."
"Then why now?"
"I had a deadline. Midnight."
"It's ten thirty."
He nods.
"Cutting it close."
"I know."
"Will you tell him?"
"No." Something slips into his voice. Something I can't place. Then he shakes it off. "But I'm a man of my word."
He's hurt. It's there for a second; then it's gone.
It's strange on him.
I know he's human. I know he's subject to normal human frailties. I even know he's suffered horrible loss.
But he just—
He never shows it.
Even when we were kids, even when his father died—
He's always that same aloof, above it all guy.
"Is that all it is? A promise," I say.
"No. That's why I asked today." He turns toward me. "I asked because I want to fuck you. I've wanted to fuck you for a long, long time."
"I hate you."
"I know."
"You don't mind?"
"I do." He brings his hand to my cheek. "But I still want to fuck you."
"Oh."
"We don't have to go upstairs." He runs his thumb over my temple. "We can stay here."
"Fuck, here, on the balcony?"
"Talk."
No. I don't want to talk. I want to mount him.
"Or fuck, here, on the balcony." He brings his lips to my ear. "Is that what you want?"
Yes. Here. Now. Everywhere. Why are you still wearing pants? "Upstairs."
"Now?"
"Not yet." I reach for my drink. Bring it to my lips. Try to find some sort of conscious thought.
The gin isn't helpful.
It's a sledgehammer to my inhibitions. That voice, the one whispering how will you feel in the morning, is long gone. Replaced with a neon light flashing Fuck. Simon. Now.
He's sure and steady as he sips his bourbon. Settles into his seat. Watches me down half my drink. "You're nervous."
"You're unnerving."
"Why?"
"You're always in control."
"I like it that way."
"I do too."
He raises a brow.
"I do. Like staying in control. But I didn't mean—" With sex, too, but not in the issuing orders way. "I don't mean sex. I mean everything. It's your demeanor. Nothing affects you."
"It does. I just don't show it." He peels my fingers from my glass. Sets my drink on the table.
He brings his hand to my cheek. Runs his thumb over my temple.
His other hand curls around my neck.
He pulls me into a soft, slow kiss.
A light brush of his lips. The taste of whiskey. And, under that, something all him. Something equally masculine.
He pulls back with a sigh.
"You taste good." He runs his thumb over my temple again. "I've wondered for a long time."
He pulls me into another kiss.
His lips close around my bottom lip. He sucks softly. Then harder.
The light scrape of his teeth.
My fingers curl into my thighs. The smooth silk of my dress.