Page 22 of The Naughty Virgin

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Evie

I walked into the lobby of a nondescript building on the Upper West Side. The big grey block was mere blocks from Spencer Prep, within walking distance actually. I strode in, surprised to see a doorman waiting just inside the foyer, natty in a blue and red uniform. My brows scrunching, I frowned. That was weird, I didn’t know teachers could afford doorman buildings in NYC.

Nonetheless, I nodded at the old man, friendly and unassuming.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m Evie, here to see Stone Phillips.”

He automatically turned to a phone on the wall, picking up the receiver with a gloved hand.

“Mr. Phillips, an Evie in the lobby,” he spoke into the phone before listening intently.

That sounded off. “An Evie in the lobby?” Were there Amandas, Claires, Maggies and Joannes waiting in the lobby as well? But I brushed it off. The old dude was probably just cranky and tired from working all day, it was nothing.

“Go right up,” he said, his wrinkled face inscrutable and I nodded, walking to the gleaming metal doors. The lift itself was nothing, a little worn around the edges, a bit of dirt caked in the corners.

But when I arrived on the eighth floor, I gaped a little. Because the hallway to Stone’s apartment was really nicely done with gleaming parquet floors and a chandelier, facets of light sparkling everywhere. A little fancy for an anonymous building on the Upper West, especially someone on a teacher’s budget. Spencer Prep is a ritzy private school but I didn’t think they paid that well.

Plus, there were no other doors on the floor, Stone’s front door was the only one. How weird, where did his neighbors live? Or did they have hidden entrances? Shrugging, I shot one last look around, too excited to much pay attention.

And when Mr. Phillips answered the door, his dark hair ruffled, blue eyes gleaming, I almost melted because he was so cute. Like gorgeous, hot, sexy cute. The big man wore an apron over a grey t-shirt that hugged his chest and jeans that emphasized the length of his legs, his muscular thighs. My internal temp immediately zoomed up ten degrees, my cunt growing moist, knees feeling a little weak. But I made myself stay calm and smiled brightly.

“Nice apron,” I complimented sassily, looking him up and down.

And the big man just dragged me in, shutting the door before leaning down for a deep kiss.

I was breathless by the time he backed off, his strong arms cradling me, making me go weak inside.

“I know, right?” Stone said, lifting an eyebrow. His nostrils flared slightly, chest heaving a bit, and I realized he was just as affected. “You’d love to see me in nothing but this apron, wouldn’t you?” he joked.

And I had to laugh then because the apron was the silliest thing, although yeah, I was dying to see him naked already. Because the garment was straight out of the fifties, a black and white gingham print with a giant lobster on it that said, “Fill ‘er up!”

“What does that mean, even?” I asked, giggling again. “Why would a lobster say fill ‘er up?”

The big man just shrugged, a twinkle in his eye.

“Who knows?” he said gamely. “My mom gave it to me, it’s her idea of humor.”

“Oh your mom likes kitschy stuff?” I asked curiously. “Like random knick-knacks and cheesy souvenirs?”

And the big man’s face darkened for a moment before the cloud passed. I blinked, unsure if it’d been my imagination.

“My mom likes a lot of things,” he said lightly, “and this apron caught her fancy, who knows what she was thinking? She’s eighty already, probably has a couple loose screws,” he said with a wink.

I wanted to ask more, to ask about his family, what they were like, what they did when they were together, but Stone was already striding towards the kitchen, pulling me along behind him, his big hand warm on mine.

“Come on, you can help me cook,” he said. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on this roast chicken.”

And I gasped when I stepped into the brightly lit space because it was done up like a chef’s kitchen, no expense had been spared. Beautiful blue and white tiles lined the walls, there was a huge sub-zero fridge, as well as two counter islands which could have seated seven or eight each.

“You like to cook, I see,” I said softly, awed by the luxury, my eyes wide as I gazed around.

And the big man took my in his arms, bending to give me another kiss before swatting me on the ass and handing me a bunch of carrots.

“I love cooking,” he confirmed. “Now wash these babies, I’m going to toss them in the oven before they go in your little mouth,” he winked.

And obediently, I began scrubbing the carrots in the farmhouse sink, the giant silver square almost as big as a tub.

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