14
They arrived in the Titanic Quarter, alongside a sweeping curve of glass-fronted apartments.
He buzzed the intercom and advised the receptionist that he required entry to the basement car park. The slow descent brought them near to the elevator doors, he parked the car, jumped out and jogged around to open the passenger door.
Offering his hand, she latched on, and he hoisted her out of the low seat, pulling her body close to his. Marcus lingered a fraction of a second longer than he should, then stepped back and slammed the car door shut.
The elevator stank of polish until the doors slid shut and all he could smell was the dominating heady scent of Lana Craig.
She remained at one side and Marcus at the other. With her eyes low, she didn’t look at him. The air crackled like a lightning storm and he found himself wishing he would touch her all over again.
Marcus hadn’t been able to think about anything else since he watched her leave Verto Veneri almost two days ago. She was a vision of natural beauty, with her creamy soft skin, enticing loose bed head curls and her mind blowing, tantalising taste.
He lay awake at night, replaying the idea of her hypnotic blue eyes gazing upwards while she licked and sucked him.
It was a rash decision to bring her to his city crash pad when she clearly belonged to another guy.
The truth was, he had to see her again, if only to banish the unusual feeling of permanent arousal that aggravated him every time Lana sashayed into his mind.
Women were indispensable, that’s the way it had always been, yet this woman drew him closer with her sweet smile and killer body.
He half hoped she would be really annoying or have a bad habit that would rule her out in two seconds flat. He sighed inwardly, doubting Lana would do anything to irritate him.
But he had to find out, once and for all.
The top floor apartment was light and airy, decorated in muted tones, with ceiling-to-floor windows drawing the Belfast Lough and the distant Isle of Scotland into the room like a magnificent painting.
After tossing his keys in a small leather-clad tray on the otherwise empty console table, Marcus strolled across the reflective tiles, towards the extensive open-plan kitchen.
On top of the white marble counter sat two bowls, two crystal glass flutes and a golden magnum of champagne decorated with a black ace of spades, submerged in a clear ice bucket.
The rest of the surfaces lay bare, apart from a black coffee machine.
He just wanted to have lunch with her—that’s all.