“Fuck,” he breathes, but by his tone, it’s not a curse. It’s a compliment.
I grind against him, only the thin sheath of his boxers and the sheet between us. He breaks his lips from mine and nips across my cheek and down my throat. I moan, my hips pumping against him so that he slides against me, the friction delicious. With a pained groan, he breaks us apart abruptly and rolls off both me and the bed.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks, his breath ragged as his cock tents his boxers.
I blink at him, wondering what just happened.
“Oh sweetness, we both know where that was going,” he calls, entirely confident as he turns and walks into the bathroom. “And although I would just about die to fuck you, I don’t think you’re ready to have me in your bed yet.”
I blink again. “Weren’t you the one telling me how much you wanted me last night?”
“I changed my mind.” He shrugs before he squirts toothpaste onto his toothbrush, wets it, and shoves it into his mouth. With a mouthful of mint, he adds something that sounds like, “Vut yghge merly inbissickle to wahdist.”
I raise an eyebrow. I debate standing up and sauntering over to him and tasting his toothpaste myself, but I am acutely aware of how butt-naked I am from the waist-down under the sheet.
He finishes brushing his teeth and calls to me, “But you’re nearly impossible to resist.”
He ducks inside his restroom again, and I scramble to look for my clothes. It’s not that I am nervous about my looks. Okay, well, I am, a little. I have scars from skinned knees and busted chins from climbing trees—and falling out of them—with William. I have tiny white stretch marks on the inside of thighs from growing pains. I’m too pale for my own good. Sometimes you can see my veins, like my literal veins, through my skin.
But I don’t scramble for those reasons. No, it’s because I really don’t know if it’s a good look for anyone to get caught head-to-floor, ass-in-the-air, looking under the sofa for one’s lost panties, so I’d rather avoid it.
I find them quickly at the foot of the bed and dart into the living room to find my dress. I shove it over my head just before Ian leans against the doorjamb and looks at me.
He is too delectable, the just-rolled-out-of-bed look suiting him well. His hair isn’t messy—it’s expertly tousled—as he rolls his burgundy cable-knit sweater down over his abs. He’s paired it with a pair of beige trousers, black loafers, and a lightweight black jacket.
Why does he always look like a Ralph Lauren model? It’s really not fair.
“Go get dressed,” he says. “I’ll meet you at the car in an hour.”
I give him a sloppy salute with my middle finger. “Yes, sir, Captain Demanding.”
He grins. “It’s Director Demanding, thank you very much.” He shrugs and it’s entirely unapologetic. “You never answered about where you want to go, so I made a decision.”
I take a step toward him, my chin tipped and my hands on my hips. “Oh, yeah? And where are we going?”
He leans in close. “On a date. You’re letting me cash in that favor once and for all.”
Then he kisses me and promptly steers me to the door.
— Harlow, 45 Minutes Later —
I check my phone. Technically, Ian is not late. I’m early, but I’m also freezing, and I desperately want him to appear and open the door so I can hop inside this ridiculously expensive piece of fiberglass. I lean against the car with a sigh. My joints are forming into icicles, refusing to bend.
His words, rough like they were raked over coals before leaving his mouth, startle warmth back into my bones.
“Stormy, if you don’t get off my car, I’m going to fuck you on it.”
I yelp, startling away from the car, and spin to find him at the rear of the Lamborghini, staring at me. There’s no humor in his expression at first until he cracks just a little and bites his bottom lip to stifle his smile.
“Is that supposed to teach me a lesson?” I quip as he hits a button on the key-fob and my door slides into the air.
“Sweetness,” he purrs with unspoken promises and salacious implications, “that almost sounds like an invitation.”
He starts toward me, and I duck inside the car.
“Nope! No way, mister.” I fumble with the five-point harness as he reaches my door. I refuse to look up at him, focusing on my seatbelt. Where does this clip thing go?
“You’re like a bad mailman,” I finally grumble and look up at him. I am all tucked in and feeling confident in my protection like he couldn’t undo the harness in five seconds flat. “Always late.”
Ian smirks, his eyes sparking with amusement, and looks down at his watch.
“I’m on time,” he remarks before dipping his head low and leaning in close. He braces himself with one hand on the doorjamb and the other against my headrest.
I go still. I stop breathing. He could kiss me, and I wouldn’t stop him.
His hot breath fans my face. My pulse throbs inside my ears. We are so close I could count the shards of blue that slice through his gray irises.
I stop breathing.
I stop blinking.
I don’t move a muscle.
He pushes away from me, shutting my door behind him. He looks over at me as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Not today,” he says as the engine rumbles to life. “But one day, you will scream my name in this car.”
I’m glad the whole car vibrates when it’s powered on because maybe he can’t see my shiver.
29
Ian
My car smells like leather and her, and I fucking love it. We glide down the highway, and out here, it’s almost deserted.
The Academy was intentionally built in the middle of nowhere, and the locals of the towns nearby don’t even bat an eye at expensive, exotic cars anymore.
