Page 54 of Tender Offer
Nerves crowd a sigh that slips out.
This is just another client.Nothing more, nothing less.
“You must be special.”
“Excuse me?” I muffle a gasp as Dayo smiles down at me like he knows a secret.
His dark brown gaze sweeps over my black turtleneck and plaid high-waist skirt. It stalls on my thigh-high vegan suede boots.
“You’re the first person to have a personal escort and access to the private lift.”
“We have history,” I say and face the doors, which are taking forever to open. How long until we reach the top?
The guttural chuckle at my side tempts a glare, but I roll my lips and keep my eyes ahead.
“Yeah, you special.” The doors open. “Through there. See you soon, Ms. Monroe.”
Polished stone the color of sand is my runway to what I’m assuming is Preston’s office. The hallway is light with wood and marble wall panels. Glass doors line the right side. There’s a gym, a sauna, and a full bathroom. The echo of my heels fades when I reach a weathered oak door. Next to it is a high-tech keypad.
Do I knock?
The door opens on its own, revealing a large room fit for a hotelier. The sun yawns through windows that are taller than the ones in my new bedroom and seeps over hardwood the same color as the door that magically opened. On the back wall is a gold shelving unit that extends to a black lacquered ceiling. In front of it is an oversized contemporary desk with enough space to seat eight. The black executive chair that faces a laptop and two screens is empty.
“Hey.”
If Preston doesn’t incite a heart attack from scaring me, his seductive stare will tempt me to check out what’s behind the curtain.
Lord, the way this man wears a suit.
He’s in the ink-blue one I found buried behind all the gray slacks and blazers in his closet. The merino wool outlines his shoulders, and a white dress shirt rests against the expanse of his chest. He’s tie-free, the top two buttons undone below the strong column of the neck I sucked in a previous life.
I’m so mesmerized by the sensuous glide of his mouth that I miss whatever he asks.
“Sorry. What?”
His tongue dips between the seam of his lips. “You okay, Puff?”
Focus.
“Never better.” I let out a breath to keep from inhaling his cologne. “Nice office.” I peer over his shoulder to study a random photo and not his textured dark waves, which tempt my fingers to stroke the edges.
“Thank you. I wanted it to feel cozy since I spend most of my time here.” There’s no anchor to support the weight of his appraisal as it drags up the flare of my hips to the swell of my breasts. His exhale is a suppressed moan once he reaches my lips.
“You’re breathtaking,” he whispers.
My “Thank you” is thick and unsteady. I haven’t been in his office for five minutes, and already I’m a pipe ready to burst.
Call him to come fix your plumbing.
Buying an adapter to accommodate English electrical outlets is at the top of my to-do list. The vibrators I packed are useless otherwise. If I’m not dating, I’ll need more than my hands to get through these next three months.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he smirks.
“I, um—Thanks. For the penthouse and the clothes. It was thoughtful of you.”
“You’re welcome.” He tips his head, a request for me to look at him and not the floor. His fingers squeeze around the door. They’re the same fingers that held me in place every time he—
