The Interview

“Don’t go to sleep on me.” With my lips pressed against Whit’s neck, I feel the vibration of his low, rumbled words. I feel kind of boneless and melty. My arms looped loosely around his shoulders like cooked spaghetti as he carries me along the mirrored hallway, his shoes quietly echoing. Honestly, I feel like I could take a nap. I obviously won’t. The man deserves better for an orgasm that literally took my legs out from under me.

“Better bring your A game.”

His chest vibrates with a chuckle at my sex-slurred words, my skin seeming to buzz from the slightest brush. That’s not quite fighting talk.”

“You can put me down, you know.”

“Maybe I don’t want to,” he replies as he adjusts his grip on me at his door. Hooking me higher against his chest, he inputs the code to the keypad with the hand under my butt. Whit pushes the door open, maneuvering my legs through first with a rumbled, “ladies first.”

“So polite.”

“Ladies should always come, Amelia.”

We pass through the lounge where the treetops outside look like spindly skeletons, framed by the night sky. As Whit moves into a long hallway, soft lighting illuminates at the floor automatically.

“Fancy,” I murmur, plucking at the button of his dark shirt, secretly inhaling the scent of him. Dark and spicy. It suits him. “You have light and sex magic.”

“Sex magic?” His eyes dance with amusement as he stares down at me.

“That would be the thing you pick up on.”

He chuckles as he carries me into a darkened room, and my stomach swoops as I realize this must be his bedroom. It’s not like I should be shocked. We’ve more than gone beyond the preliminaries, even if all the bases haven’t been covered. Yet.

Oh my gosh, I’m here in Whit’s bedroom, and we’re about to do the deed unless I’m very much mistaken. Unless there’s an earthquake or I suddenly drop down dead, which isn’t likely considering I can feel my heart tripping like a crazy thing in my chest. I’m about to get naked. With Whit! And I can’t wait to see what’s under that thousand-dollar shirt. I have seen him without his shirt, but it’s been some time. Something tells me it’s not a trick of my imagination that makes him look so much bigger now.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks as he lowers me to the end of a modern four-poster bed. It’s huge, the frame charcoal and the linens the color of clouds. Feels like a cloud, too.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Ducking my head, I fold my nervous fingers over the end of the bed, only to find my chin lifted by his finger.

“Sex magic makes me smile.” His eyes sweep down my body, the look bold and possessive. “That and imagining all the things I’m going to do to you with my wand.”

“You’re going to keep bringing that up, aren’t you?” My reply sounds so cool. Inside, I’m a pot of molten lava—a puddle of embarrassed and turned on.

“Keep bringing up my wand?” He chuckles as he presses a kiss to the top of my head, then steps back. “There’s no making it go down.” He slides out of his jacket, dropping it on a nearby chair. “At least you’re not likely to fall asleep now. I’ll be back in a minute.” He strides toward the door, pausing at the doorway, but if he was about to say something, he must change his mind. Still, it gives me a moment to drink him in once more. His dark pants still have knife-sharp pleats, his thin leather belt highlights his trim waist and his shirt the flatness of his stomach. How is it he looks completely unruffled? Meanwhile… I glance down and realize my dress is still around my hips. I begin to tug it down. At least he pulled my panties up.

“I’d say it’s a bit late for that now.” He pivots, his chuckle and his steps echoing along the hallway.

Holy heck. I’m in Leif Whittington’s bedroom! I must’ve died and gone to heaven earlier than I’m supposed to.

I take the opportunity to have a quick look around. The vast room is sparsely decorated. Like the lounge, one wall is entirely glass and overlooks the green space of Hyde Park. The bed is huge, of course, the nightstands housing nothing but space-age-looking Anglepoise lamps. The floor is dark parquet wood, a pale, fluffy rug placed between it and the bed. A massive piece of abstract artwork hangs on the wall opposite, a silver seam running down the middle. I guess it to be some sort of fancy TV cabinet. A couple of woven leather chairs, the kind you can only sit back on, or else risk tipping the chair from the front. An ottoman. A couple of chests. Doors to a bathroom and closet, at a guess. While there isn’t a lot of furniture or color (monochrome of grays and black with slashes of white), there is a lot of texture. The rug, the paneled walls, woven leather, the fur-like throw draped over an ottoman. The space is masculine and very sexy.

It’s also very tidy. Whit is a neat freak!

Pressing my hands under my thighs, I give a silent, excited squeal, kicking my heels back and forth like a kid. I stop abruptly, realizing he might come back in. I strain to listen but hear no footsteps. Or sound, really.

Where has he gone?

For props? Implements?

I press my fingers to my mouth, not sure if that excites me or not. Who am I kidding? We haven’t yet had sex but the little experience I have with him tells me I might be in for a few more surprises. I don’t have much longer to wait, for his appearance, at least, when he arrives back in the room, a bottle of water in his hand. Take away my sight and my sense of smell and I’d still recognize his presence because a million nerve endings begin to dance and shimmer whenever he’s near.

“Water from Finland?” I murmur, as I take it from his outstretched hand. I glance up from the barely-there label. “Fancy.”

“Very fancy. Springwater filtered through the ice layers.”

“Because…?”

“Because I asked the grocery service for water, and this is what they brought.”

“Should’ve gone to Tesco.”

“Mimi,” he chides. “I’m far too fancy to shop for my own groceries.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” I pinch in my smile. Too fancy to shop but not too fancy to chase his own dry cleaning. This man is complex. Fine. Grumpy and grumbly, yet too sweet for his own good

“Drink.”

Bossy. The man is bossy, and I like it, my skin prickling under his attention. “Should I stretch, too? Limber up a little?” I roll my shoulders, loving how he smiles at me. Just for me.

“Do you think you’re ready to stand by yourself now?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, unable to control my grin. “That was, er, some experience. You’re two for two, Whit.” I make as though to slide my hair behind my ears before realizing I’m wearing it up. I end up toying with my earring instead.

“You say that like you’re surprised.” He folds his arms across his chest as though to study me. “I might’ve strayed from the manual a bit, but you don’t seem too disappointed.”

“Manual?” My brow furrows.

“The guy manual, I think you called it. Or was it something from the internet?” Reaching up, he scratches his thumb along his jaw in an action meant to convey contemplation, I think. Not for long because it’s all part of the show as his eyes darken, and he swipes it against his mouth. “Sexual lore. That’s what you said.” Everything draws tight inside when he pushes his thumb into his mouth, the digit that was, not too many minutes ago, strumming my clit. He licks his lips as it retracts. “Your pleasure. So sticky and sweet.”

“I don’t think you need a manual.” My words are light and wavery. I think I feel a little faint.

“No, I don’t think so, either. Drink some water, Amelia,” he adds, turning from me. As he disappears through one of the doors, I twist off the cap and take a few sips. Not sure what to do with the bottle, I stand to place it somewhere less impolite than his fluffy rug; the condensation can’t be good for it.

Whit suddenly appears in front of me. His cuff links are gone, his shirtsleeves folded back. Like he’s about to start something. Or maybe finish it. His feet are also bare.

“I was just—”

My words halt, my breath half in and half out as he simultaneously grasps my wrist and takes the water from my hand. He throws the bottle onto the bed behind me. Without another word spoken, he begins to wrap my ponytail around his hand.

“I’m going to take you to bed now.”

“Good.” I try again, this time without the squeak. “I’d like that.”

“But there are one or two things we should discuss first.”

“Sure.” I’ve never touched him before, yet my fingers are drawn to his chest like iron filings to a magnet. He feels so solid under my hands, familiar yet strange, all kinds of wonderful, and not at all dream-like. I want more, I think. As my fingers reach to loosen the buttons of his shirt. Like a cartographer with a new land, I want to chart every valley and hill of him. Every dip and peak. “Oh.” The sound is low and not at all pained, my head pulled back thanks to Whit’s quick tug.

“Pay attention, Amelia.”

“I am,” I almost moan. Who knew my hair follicles were connected somewhere south of my torso?

“You shouldn’t be here, but I’ve realized I’ve been fighting the inevitable since you found yourself in my living room.”

“Still not sorry.”

“Yes. That’s still apparent. It’s also part of the problem. You should be sorry, and I don’t know why you’re not. And I shouldn’t be thinking of little else but making you come again and again.” Holy heck. I like confessional Whit. “I don’t profess to have the answers, but I think I have the solution.”

I make a noise that sounds like do tell. Or maybe just do me.

“If you’re going back to Florida in six months—”

“I am.” I try to nod, but ow! The sensation is not the same. “I am going back.” I don’t really have any choice. “Less than six now.”

“Then I think I can teach you a few things.”

“Oh?”

“Wipe the smile off your face,” he says, smiling himself. “I really can’t believe I’m suggesting this,” he adds a little more unhappily.

“You haven’t said what you’re suggesting yet. Maybe I won’t agree.”

“Amelia.” There he goes making my name a reprimand again. “I wrapped my fist in your hair while you stood as meek as a lamb, and not ten minutes ago you let the inhabitants of this very prestigious building know you were experiencing the orgasm of your life.”

“But the elevator isn’t for public use,” I answer uncertainly. “There were no cameras.” Were there?

“The car might’ve gone down. God knows I can’t wait to.” The first part of his answer bypasses my brain as the second twines around my insides like lustful ivy. “The doors could’ve opened at the foyer. Regardless, I’m sure your cries carried to the concierge and security teams.”

I eye him narrowly. Is he trying to scare me off? I’d raise my chin, but I’ve already made that mistake once. “Why do I have to be the only one embarrassed? It took two of us to make that noise.”

His mouth twitches though he masters his smile. “You’re such a pretty little thorn in my side. But we’re getting off track.” Being on track apparently includes kissing, his hand finding my hip, his head bending to mine. Warm lips feather and tease, nipping my bottom lip before withdrawing just as quick. Thanks to how he holds my hair, I can’t follow, but that doesn’t stop my protest as I fasten my fingers around his bicep. He abandons his retreat, his mouth returning. His second kiss is firmer, his tongue tasting faintly of me. The thumb he licked. Why is that such a turn-on?

“Six months.” His words skate over my jaw, and he molds his lips over my pulse point, still holding me immobile by the hair. As though it wasn’t already stuttering enough. “Or what’s left of it.”

“Yes.” I’d melt against him if only he’d give me the opportunity. “Six months is long enough.” Six months are all I have.

“Professionalism in the office. No more tricks.” His lips skate over my jaw, his tiger eyes shining as they flick up and meet my own before his lashes drop as though to veil his thoughts.

“It was a nail,” I protest even as I feel the shape of his upturned lips.

“Outside of that, I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you the experiences you want. But make no mistake, it can only ever be sex.”

“That’s all I want,” I breathe, wondering how much longer before my knees give out and my hair is yanked from the roots. That’s all it can be.

“That’s settled then.” I feel the loss of his heat immediately when he releases my ponytail and steps back. “Take off your dress.”

A cold, clinical command, contradicted by his heated expression and the proud outline of his cock in his pants. His cock. How many times have I imagined it? Let me put it this way: if I had a dollar for each time I’d closed my eyes and conjured it, I’d have a very fat piggy bank.

“If you stop trying to imagine my cock, we might get to the part where I get it out.”

“Do I only get to look at it?” I ask in a soft tease.

“By the time you take that dress off, it might be too old to work.”

“I’m doing it,” I announce with a soft giggle as I twist one arm behind my back and the other over my shoulder.

“Turn around.” His hand loops my waist as he turns me with an air of frustration.

“Whatever you say… Daddy.” The words drip like ice cream from my tongue.

He makes the kind of sound I find hard to categorize. Pleased? Gratified? Turned on? The important thing is the way my skin heats and the stirring of the soft wisps of hair on the back of my neck the minute before his lips brush there. I feel all hot and shivery and all kinds of treasured, and I’m glad there isn’t a mirror in front of me now because I’m smiling stupidly. Meanwhile, Whit makes quick work of the fastenings.

“What is it about that you like?” he asks as he slides my dress over my shoulders, pausing mid-bicep.

“Daddy Whit?” I glance over my shoulder, but I can’t see his expression and get the sense he’s avoiding my gaze. “I don’t have daddy issues if that’s what you’re asking. You’ve met my dad.” I turn my head back with a grimace. Why’d I have to say that?

“I find it helps if you try not to think about family when you’re about to fuck.”

“That’s good advice.” I don’t want him thinking about Connor again.

“Daddy in this context is very different.”

“I’ll say.” Again with the smiling. “I guess it just reminds me of the first time. I would never have thought back then…”

“That it would’ve turned you on?”

That it would send a wave of excitement from my belly button to my groin. “I just found the whole thing so incredibly sexy.” Understatement of the year.

“Why do you think that is?” His thumbs glide over my bare shoulders, hooking my bra straps out of the way.

“Probably because you took care of me.” Which is weird because my family—nope! “I mean, you took care of me,” I add in a ya-know tone. “I felt like I was the center of your world. Does that sound silly?” I glance his way again.

“No.” His words are as soft as his stroking fingers. “Not silly at all. You were a gift.” His lips are a warm brush against my skin. As if I could somehow preserve the sensation in my memory, my eyelids drop like the shutter of an old camera. “Your enjoyment is my prize.”

“I’ve never felt like that,” I whisper, reveling in the contact. “You made me feel so safe.” A thought from my subconscious, but I realize it’s true.

“You’re always safe with me.”

“I know.” I really do.

My breath catches, my bones almost liquifying as he presses his teeth to the juncture of my shoulder and neck. “Safe with me to explore.” I’m so dazed, my whole being just lust-hazed. I almost don’t notice him sliding my bra straps back in place, but there’s no need to panic as my dress slips to the floor. “Let’s pick up where we left off in the closet, shall we?” He takes my hand, and I turn to face him.

He is so handsome, wild-eyed, and darkly stubbled. And he’s mine. Finally.