"Fuck, Vanessa, was I supposed to take issue with that?"
"Did you?"
"No." He leans down and presses his lips to mine. "You're too fucking sexy."
My cheeks flush. "I am?"
He nods. "Yes."
"Thanks."
"My pleasure."
"You don't think that," I say. "Even though you're… gifted. You're still goal-oriented."
"I am."
"Generous even."
"I try."
"I appreciate that."
"Appreciate it?"
"It's sexy." My flush spreads to my chest. "I, uh… you're very skilled. In this department."
"Thank you." He releases me. "You are too."
"Thank you." I rise to my tiptoes. Press my lips to his.
He kisses back with intensity, drawing circles with his tongue, groaning against my mouth.
He's claiming my body.
And asking for my heart and my soul too.
This is it. I can tug at his tie, tell him to take off his pants, ask to go to his bedroom.
I can make the rest of the night strictly physical.
I can run from my confession.
Or I can stand and face it.
It's up to me.
Do I offer my body?
Or offer everything?
Chapter Twenty-Six
VANESSA
My heart thuds against my chest. My stomach flutters. My toes curl.
I pull back with a sigh.
The words form on my lips.
Let's go to your room.
I want to touch you.
I want to fuck you all fucking night.
They never make it to my lips. I'm too lost in his blue eyes. They're deeper than the ocean. And a million times more inviting.
Is this why people want to swim in their lover's eyes?
I want to swim in him forever.
His hand cups my cheek. His thumb brushes my temple.
He looks down at me, about to say something, then he stops. Smiles. "Do you want something to drink?"
He wants to talk.
And I want to talk too. I want to tell him my secrets and learn his in return.
I just don't know how.
"Do you have anything besides whiskey?" I ask.
"I do." His expression gets shy.
But that can't be possible.
Simon Pierce isn't shy.
Fuck, he's blushing.
He's actually blushing.
It's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"I bought everything for an Aviation," he says.
"Really?"
He nods. "I tested the recipe last night."
"How was it?"
"It tasted like you."
"Good?"
"Fucking fantastic."
And, now, I'm so flushed I'm burning up. "Water first."
He nods and leads me around the corner to the kitchen.
It's beautiful. All new stainless steel appliances and shiny tile. Clean. Immaculate, actually.
Completely Simon.
Except for the touches of Opal.
The French Press on the counter is hot pink.
And there's a mug next to it. A pale pink printed with thick lashes and the words good morning.
There's another next to it. White with Hello Gorgeous in fuchsia.
"Opal's?" I nod to the cups.
"Mine." He holds up the Hello Gorgeous mug.
"Really?"
"You disagree?"
"No." I can't argue with the assessment.
He smiles. "We were at Target."
"You go to Target?"
"Where else would I go?"
"You wouldn't. You'd hire a decorator."
"I did, when I first moved in. But I wasn't going to ask her to rearrange the place for Opal when I could ask Opal what she wanted. She said Target. So we went."
"You in a suit?"
"What else?"
"Do you own other clothes?"
He smiles. "You want to see my bedroom already?"
Yes. "I want to see proof."
"You will."
"Not just the silk pajamas."
"If you stay until morning."
"Workout gear?"
"You're impatient."
"No." Yes. Extremely. "Do you really use the mug?"
"Every morning." He fills a glass with water and hands it to me. "Opal picked it up. She looked at me, looked right at my tie, and she said, 'this is perfect for you.' How could I argue?"
"The pink French Press?"
"I've had that forever."
"Really?"
"Years."
"You're fucking with me."
He nods. "I bought it for her."
"At Target?"
"No. They only had black at Target. Special order."
He's teasing again.
How did I ever find it annoying?
It's charming.
And sexy.
As sexy as other kinds.
I swallow a sip. Then half the glass.
He stands at the kitchen island. Sips slowly. "She wasn't comfortable here. Not just because the place was big and expensive. Because it was mine."
"Sparse and masculine?"
He nods. "She grew up with her mom. She was used to soft and feminine."
"Not leather and scotch?"
"Or cigars on the balcony."
"Do you smoke cigars on the balcony?"
"No," he says. "Our mother died of lung cancer."
Fuck. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that. And I'm sorry you lost her so young."
He doesn't fight me this time. He nods, accepting the condolences. "Thank you."
"Was it hard growing up without her?"
"You're going to laugh."
"I am?"
He nods. "Our housekeeper took care of us."
A laugh spills from my lips. "It's not that—"
"I'm a rich boy cliché. I won't argue."
"The hot pink French Press especially."
"Especially." He takes a long sip. Watches my lipstick mark the glass. "Is that where you went? Thinking about Opal?"
"Part of it."
"The other part?"
I'm not ready to talk about it. I want to be here. Where it's easy. "What is it like, having her here?"
"You have a younger sister."
"Three years younger."
"I try to do my best to look out for her. Teach her. Prepare her for the world. She doesn't always like it. She says I'm bossy and annoying. And she really hates my lectures. But that doesn't stop me."