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I can only see into Mr. Suit’s place because of the angle of the corner apartment, and even then it’s not a full view. Only a sliver. But it’s enough for me to see the glow of a room inside the otherwise dark apartment. A door is open, and light spills from what looks like a bedroom. A shadowy figure emerges, momentarily blotting the light with its broad frame.
My breath catches in my throat as the figure stills. Can he see me peering in? For a second I freeze, mortified at being caught looking like some peeping Tom. What the hell am I thinking? It’s a total invasion of his privacy, especially after he said no to me.
He also said he was going to go home and get off while thinking about you.
Images swirl of him in the shower, water streaming over what I know will be a rock-hard body, while he reaches one of those strong, long-fingered hands down between his legs...
I shiver.
The figure is still standing there. Unmoving. Waiting.
Waiting for me?
It’s a silent standoff. I should go inside before I embarrass myself further in front of this guy...but something keeps my feet rooted to the ground. Desperate desire winds through my system, slow and steady like the drip of condensation down a glass on a summer’s day. I want him. I want the feeling of hot, confident hands roaming my body and stubble-roughened kisses on my neck.
When the shadow disappears into the darkened apartment, I think the show might be over. Disappointment stabs me in the gut. I’m definitely going to have to avoid this guy in the elevator until I skip town. Lord, what am I going to tell my friend when she comes back?
Hey, sorry if things are a little weird between you and the guy next door. I unsuccessfully propositioned him for sex and then stared into his window in the middle of the night.
But then a lamp flicks on inside the apartment. The warm glow grows enough that I can see more detail—the white towel around his waist, the shadow of definition in his muscular torso, the brooding expression on his face. In the dim light, his hair looks like burning embers, matching the intensity of how he watches me, watching him.
I swallow and find my mouth dry, waiting for him to wave me away. Or mouth an appropriate “what the fuck?” while glaring at me. But nothing like that happens. He takes a step forward, more fully into the light. I can see more detail now—the smattering of hair on his chest and the trail that winds from his bellybutton down to where the towel is knotted, riding low on his hips. Any lower down and I’d be able to tell whether the bulge there is from the material of the towel or something else.
Show him what he missed by walking out on you tonight.
There’s that dark little voice again. The one that urges me to make bad decisions and get into trouble.
I skim my hand along the edge of the T-shirt, fingertips dancing across my bare thigh. The hem barely covers the bottom of my cotton underwear—tonight it’s pink and red stripes—and I gently brush the T-shirt up enough to expose it.
Mr. Suit’s chest moves sharply, as though he’s sucked in a quick breath. The guy is so cut I second-guess my assumption that he works in an office. His shoulders are strong and round, his biceps deliciously curved, but it’s the flex in his jaw that does me in. Like he’s grinding his teeth, trying to hold his reaction back...and failing.
Emboldened by the fact that he’s still watching, I draw the hem of my T-shirt up higher. Cool air grazes my bare stomach, and I hold the material just over my breasts—teasing at what might be beneath without actually showing him.
Mr. Suit stalks toward the glass. Oh, yes, there’s definitely a bulge under that towel. His eyes are so strikingly blue that I’m captured for a moment. He’s much closer now, his face still shadowed by the dim light inside. There’s no balcony outside his bedroom—they stagger the rooms here, and his bedroom shares a wall with my living room. That means the balconies are spaced apart—probably so the residents don’t feel in each other’s pockets if they’re both outside. But it means I can’t hear him. The double-glazed windows keep all the sound inside. His mouth moves, but I’m too dazed to lip-read.
But then I catch one word: more.
He wants more? Am I really going to do this? Give a stranger a peep show while anyone else could come outside and see?
It’s late. Everyone is getting up early for work tomorrow. Nobody else will see you.
Won’t they? I swallow.
Mr. Suit nods. More.
Biting down on my lip, I drag the T-shirt higher up, exposing my naked breasts to the night air and to Mr. Suit’s hungry gaze. My nipples peak at the shock of the cool breeze and my sex clenches when I see his reaction—that single flame sparking and catching alight. Creating an inferno.
Holding the fabric with one hand, I let my other hand roam over my stomach and up to my breasts, squeezing and pinching. It sends arrows of excitement through me, heating up my blood and creating a dull pulse in my sex. I feel powerful like this—in charge and beautiful and naughty and brave.
Mr. Suit’s lips part and I imagine the sound coming out of him, letting my mind fill in the blanks so I get the whole experience. I’ve never done anything like this before—so brazen and bad. But it feels good. So good.
“More,” he mouths.
I dip my hand over my stomach and toy with the waistband of my underwear. There’s a little bow right below my navel, and I dance my fingers over it before snapping the elastic against my skin. But I don’t want to be the only one playing this game—if he wants more, then I need a show of faith. I need to know I’m not the only vulnerable party.
I nod toward him, to where he’s holding the knot at his waist. His eyes darken and he reaches down, squeezing himself through the fluffy fabric. I almost go weak at the knees; the sight of him handling himself is insanely hot. Not to mention it looks like he’s got quite the handful there.
I dip my fingers under the elastic of my underwear, finding myself wet and ready. A sigh slips out as I brush over my clit—the tight bundle of nerves sending a jolt of pleasure through me.
Oh, God, am I really doing this?
For a moment, doubt roars in my head. What would Perfect Presley think if she knew I was giving a stranger a peep show? What about the Stepford bridesmaids? What would Vas think? My thoughts darken for a second. Vas wouldn’t think anything because I was nothing but a toy to him anyway. A plaything. A disposable pleasure.
Fuck Vas. And fuck what other people think, too. I’m done with that. This is for me, because right now I feel good and I’m a grown woman who can make her own bloody decisions.
I touch myself again, circling my fingers over my most sensitive part and letting out a soft groan. Not too loud—because I don’t want anyone else but Mr. Suit to come outside and see the show. It feels so good, with his eyes on me, his mouth slack and his hand palming himself through the towel. I wish it was his hands on me. I let myself imagine what would have happened if he’d stayed and stripped me out of my fishnets and my leather skirt.
If he’d taken me to bed and laid me down, peeling the underwear from my body and sliding his hands back up my thighs, thumbs tracing circles on my skin. Getting higher, higher, higher...so close.
My eyes flutter shut and I’m lost. I imagine his big body covering me, knees pushing my legs apart as he presses his lips to mine. The fantasy plays out in vivid colour and a tremor rips through me. Everything is wound tight like a coil. I’m so close...so close.
I apply the right pressure and my orgasm breaks. Release is sweet and swift and I steady myself with one hand against the balcony railing. When I open my eyes, Mr. Suit is standing there—eyes wild and cheeks flushed, and he’s looking like a caged animal.
“This is what you missed,” I say, having no idea if he understands. But I’ll take that as my cue to leave—showtime is over and I’m feeling the warm burn of pleasure knowing he’s going to bed with me on his mind. Let him regret walking out.
I drop my T-shirt back down over my stomach and wink at him before scampering back inside, my heart pounding and my head swirling. I can’t believe I did that.
But there’s no denying I feel better than I have in weeks. Maybe I needed to act out a little after twelve months of minding my p’s and q’s and trying to be wife material. After twelve months of pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
I crawl back into bed with a big smile on my face and instantly fall into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER FIVE (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Flynn
WHEN I WALKED into the office at 7:00 a.m. with a spring in my step, Francis had assumed it was because I’d done exactly what she told me to do: rest, television, and takeaway food. Ha! The truth couldn’t be further from that.
After watching Blondie touch herself brazenly on the balcony of her borrowed apartment, that beautiful face screwed up with pleasure, I’d needed another cold shower to shake the desire creeping through my body. But even with the most monumental of teases, I still went to bed happy. When was the last time I slept soundly, fully engaged by dreams that had me not wanting it to end? That had me waking with a wicked smile? So long, I can’t even remember.
I’ve been thinking about it all day. For once in my life, I was the space cadet in meetings. I was the one staring into nothingness, my mind miles away from work. But the fantasy will have to keep me going, because I’ve got a full plate and a fuller head. When I go home shortly, I’ll have to force myself not to knock on her door. I can’t afford any distractions—no matter how tempting—to derail my plans.
And speaking of unwanted distractions...
I scrub a hand over my face and let out a frustrated groan when yet another email appears from the maid of honour about the Jack and Jill party we’re supposed to be organising. One, the idea of a Jack and Jill party is stupid. Two, I’d already asked Francis to take care of it so I didn’t have to waste time on party planning. But oh, no, Little Miss Warpath is nixing every single thing I say, and she wants to have...a costume party.
I shudder. Costume parties are the seventh circle of hell. I can’t think of anything worse than going to a party dressed in some crappy polyester version of what someone else wore. It’s tacky and I’m duty-bound to ensure my cousin isn’t photographed looking like an idiot. I’m not sure why he chose me to be best man, to be honest. We’ve never been close, not even growing up. But family is the single most important thing in my life, so I wasn’t about to decline when he asked, even if I had zero interest in the job.
But after the tenth email from Melanie D. Richardson, I’m about to throw my laptop out the window. Never mind that the windows in this office tower don’t open, I’ll make an opening.
Apparently, I’m being “overbearing” and “uptight” because I don’t want to go ahead with the costume party. Okay, and maybe it’s also because I told her she should step back and let me handle it all since I know what I’m doing (and by me, I mean Francis.) I disagree that costume parties are “fun” (they’re not) and “creative” (double nope) and “perfect for such a happy couple” (of course they seem happy, they’re spending an exorbitant amount of money to announce to the world that they’re in love...they have to seem happy).
Call me cynical—many do. But I’ve never understood the over-the-top nature of weddings. If you’re really in love with someone, why do you need all the fanfare? Why do you need the audience?
But I’ll keep that opinion to myself.
I fire back an email that shuts the discussion down. I’m happy to compromise on other things, but it feels like she’s being purposefully difficult.
A second later, Francis pops her head into my office. She’s wearing that lip-pursed, motherly face again. “That was a bit harsh, Flynn.”
“What? I told her it’s not happening and she’s wasting my time by being argumentative,” I reply, leaning back in my chair. “I’ve tried to compromise on something else, maybe the menu or colour scheme, but she’s stomping her feet like an angry toddler.”
“You’re used to people bending to your will.” My assistant smirks, like she’s got grudging respect for the other woman. “And she’s not.”
“She’ll run out of hot air eventually. This wedding is going to be enough of a circus as it is.” My cousin is a more is more kinda guy—as was evident by the enormous rock he gave his fiancée. And the fact that he proposed to her in the most outlandish way possible, with multiple hot air balloons custom printed with their names and “will you marry me?” on the side. “I keep thinking how much my mother would have loved it.”
“Is that why you seem so prickly about the whole thing?”
“No, I’m more worried about stuff ending up in the papers. He’s got a habit of making a fanfare and getting bad press for it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “And with everything hinging on these trials...”
“Ah,” she said. “So that’s what it’s about.”
I look at the picture of my niece. Zoe is seven and she was diagnosed with Batten disease two years ago. It’s extremely rare. Most people with Batten disease die in their teens or early twenties. There’s no cure. This is why I work as hard as I do. This is why I worry about things like my stupid cousin drawing attention to our family name for all the wrong reasons. I can’t risk people not wanting to donate money to our cause because they think we’re a pack of idiots.
Call me a bastard. Call me selfish and a killjoy. I don’t care, if it means my company might find some way to help people like Zoe. To help her dad, who’s already starting to grieve for all the time he likely won’t have with her.
“Let me take care of it,” Francis says. “I’ll sort it out so you don’t have to deal with it anymore.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Lord knows,” she mutters as she walks away, her low, sensible heels clacking against the hardwood floor.
Outside, the city is bathed in inky darkness. It’s almost midnight and we’re the last two left, like always. I tell Francis to go home every night around seven, but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am. I let her take every Friday afternoon off to pick up her grandson from school so they can spend time together, but that doesn’t make up for the hours she puts in. I make a mental note to write her a cheque this week as a thank-you.
Sighing, I pack up my laptop. I’ll spend another hour on the computer sifting through emails when I go home. I’m on pins and needles while we wait for results of a gene therapy trial that’s running currently, so it’s not like I’m going to sleep properly anyway. I head out of the office and stand by Francis’s desk, making sure she packs up, too.
Outside, I walk as though my body is being drawn by some magnetic force. The second I think about setting foot in my apartment, my mind drifts to Blondie. Knowing she’s on the other side of the wall is the purest of tortures.
I’ve never met a woman like her before—not one who was so daring and who didn’t give a crap what I thought about her. It’s refreshing, frankly, because most people are putting on a front, playing a role, trying to seem more important than they are. But Blondie is who she is.
I walk into 21 Love Street and nod at the security guy behind the desk. The building is quiet and my footsteps echo. I’m the lone passenger in the elevator. As I walk down the hall, my eyes linger on the apartment at the end—number 406. How easy it would be to keep walking past my door to hers, and knock.
I’m already imaging her answering in that flimsy, threadbare white T-shirt and pink underwear that had me salivating last night. I’d love to see that wild, white-blond hair tumbling over her shoulders and all around her body.
I shake off the feeling and head straight to my door, determined not to let the images distract me. But just as I’m about to reach for my keys I notice a little piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded in half and wedged between the door and the frame.
I pull it out.
Tonight it’s your turn. Call me when it’s late. D.
D. I wonder what her name is.
I push my front door open and stand in the middle of my apartment, my eyes still locked onto the note and the number scrawled at the bottom. Her handwriting is loopy and a little erratic, the g’s and l’s taking up more space than they should. There’s nothing efficient about her style. It’s wild and free, probably scrawled quickly and without much consideration.
I crumple the note, toss it into the wastepaper basket by my bookshelf and continue toward my bedroom. I shower quickly, intending to get into something comfortable and then open up my laptop. But when I come back out to the lounge room, my eyes immediately go to the wastepaper basket.
I won’t go to her apartment and I won’t invite her to mine.
No casual sex. That’s the rule.
But what about phone calls? It’s a loophole and my brain loves a flaw in a carefully formed plan. I dig out the crumpled paper and reach for my phone. And for the second night in a row, I ignore my instincts.
Blondie picks up on the third ring.
CHAPTER SIX (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Drew
“YOU SAID TO call when it was late.”
I’m hazy and still within slumber’s firm grip, but the sound of a gravelly voice that’s rich like dark chocolate and sinful as a forbidden tryst has me stretching my body. Waking myself. I’m a little shocked he called.
“What time is it?” I’m on the couch, wearing the T-shirt from last night under a blanket that’s cosy and warm.
“Twelve thirty,” he says.
“Did you just get home?”
“I did.”
“Why do you work so late?” I snuggle into the corner of the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin. There’s something nostalgic about this—a late-night call when I know I should be asleep. I feel like a naughty teenager, sneaking time away with her crush.
“I’m a busy man.”
“Not so busy that you don’t have time to watch a little live entertainment.” I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling a smile at the appreciative grunt on the other end of the line. I try to picture him. Is he standing by his window hoping I’ll be there again? Or is he in his bed, in boxer briefs and with his chest bare? Or maybe he’s in a towel.
“You put on one hell of a show,” he says. There’s a darkness to his voice and it’s making my heart flutter.
“It felt a little one-sided,” I admit. “I showed you mine, but you didn’t show me yours.”
“Is it so bad to watch?”
The question sends a delicious shiver through me. “No, I like watching. I like listening, too.”
When he chuckles it’s like someone is running a razorblade over my nerve endings. How can a laugh make me feel so much?
“I like knowing the women I have sex with,” he replies.
“Who said we’re having sex?”
