Page 63 of Seeking Vengeance

He entwines our fingers as we walk to the elevator, my tongue tingling, my chest throbbing. I wait for him to maul me inside the enclosed space, but there’s no voracious kissing session. He maintains his air of calm, not showing a hint of this obsession he spoke of, and takes me to the top level.

The penthouse.

I’d envisaged we would’ve been all over each other by now. Fingers clawing. Legs tangled.

It’s the opposite. He’s suave with his sickening patience, opening his front door wide to allow me to take the first step into his perfectly appointed space.

I’m not sure what I expected—maybe a bachelor pad with sleazy art or clothes strewn on the floor? But that isn’t what I stand in front of. This place is beautiful, the kitchen before me entirely spotless from the marble counters to the stainless-steel appliances, and all the way down the floor-to-ceiling wine fridge.

“Want another drink?” He closes the door behind me, then strides ahead.

“I’d love one.” I’d love anything that might taper the rabid beat in my chest.

“Do you have a preference?” He opens a cupboard and pauses, waiting for my response.

“I’m easy. You decide.”

He reaches inside for a glass and grins to himself, as if he can’t wait to test just how easy I am with a million X-rated surprises.

I place my cell on the kitchen counter and turn in a slow circle, taking in the home that suits him without flaw. The furniture is commanding and elegant. All polished woods with white coverings, from the lounge setting in the adjoining room to the dining table a yard to my left.

Everything is immaculate. No clutter. Not even dust.

Eclectic art lines the walls. From abstract to surrealism and pop. The different pieces draw attention to what must be expensive taste.

“Your home is beautiful.” I turn back to face him as he makes our drinks.

“Ourhome,” he corrects without missing a beat.

I chuckle, and slowly sidestep toward the mail farther along the counter. “Are you like this with all your women?”

“Allmy women?” He pulls out a drawer, the clink of liquor bottles following the movement. “You say that as if I’m not obsessively picky with who gets to share my time.”

“So I should be flattered?”

“Don’t go twisting my words, amore mio. You’re special. I think you know that.”

Arrhythmia takes over, the fractured heartbeats overwhelming me. I focus on the three letters on the bench as he pours alcohol into the glasses, and read the name on the top line of the address.

Matthew Langston.

I let the syllables roll around in my head with slow lethargy and fight the compulsion to sayLayla Langstonout loud just to hear how it would sound.

I may not have slept with him yet, but this is moving fast.

I’m picturing my life here, in this penthouse, in his world. Away from the drama of my family and the complications that always follow them.

“Here.” He rounds the island counter to hand me what looks like a glass of juice. “A screwdriver.”

“Perfect.” I take a sip and watch him do the same with his scotch.

For a few seconds we simply eye each other between subtle swallows of alcohol. No words. Only blazing attraction.

“I’m going to preface this next question by telling you I’ve never ended a work night on a better note,” he murmurs. “But why are you here, Layla?” He places his glass on the counter and cocks his hip against the marble, his full attention remaining on me.

My throat tightens, not only with the way he reads me, but in contemplation of the truth.

He’s opened the door to his life, allowing me free rein, and I’m still hesitant to unlock mine. Even just a little.

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