Page 94 of So Close

Ramin lives in the trendy Meatpacking District, in a three-story brick building that was once a warehouse. When the driver pulls over and says we’ve arrived, I search for the street number because I can’t quite believe it. I expected something sleek and modern, like his office, all chrome and deep, dark masculine colors: rust and forest green and navy. His building is more industrial, with awning windows that most residents have open.

I pause on the sidewalk, firming my balance and twisting my hair into a lobster clip to get it off my hot neck. Traffic was horrific, as it always is at this time of night. You’d never think two and a half miles could take forever to drive. It took so long that the alcohol has well and truly kicked in, yet it also feels like my buzz will disappear at any moment. I need another drink.

As I move toward the entrance, the doorman rushes to push it open for me. “Hey, Lily. How’s it going?”

I’m startled by being called the wrong name, not to mention the coincidence of being called the one he used. I look at his badge. “My name’sAmy, Dev. Can you let Ramin Ar—”

“I called up already,” he interjects, looking at me strangely. “He’s expecting you.”

My dry eyes burn, and I squeeze them shut for a minute. I have to open them again quickly because I’m a little unsteady on my heels. Why the fuck can’t Lily be of average height?

I start through the lobby, but it branches off to each side, with two different elevator banks. “Um … which way?”

Dev frowns back at me, his big grin gone. “To the left.”

“Okay …” I wave at him over my shoulder and veer to the left. I recheck my phone for the floor and condo number.

The elevator is more like a service elevator than one for residents and guests. Since the doorman’s desk was also heavily industrial, I guess that’s the aesthetic. Once I exit the car, I see concrete floors treated to look like stone lining the hallway. My heels click like gunshots. It takes me a minute to figure out if I should head left or right, then I’m standing in front of Ramin’s with my finger arrowing toward the doorbell.

Before I can push it, the door swings open.

“Hey.” Ramin is positively commando in jeans he hasn’t bothered to button; the carefully groomed dark hair at his groin is visible. “I was getting really worried.”

“Huh?”

He steps into me while I’m still too baffled to ward him off, slinging one hard arm around my waist and tugging me into him, his lips sealing over mine. I stand frozen, shocked, disoriented as he takes my mouth as if it belongs to him, his tongue thrusting deep and circling. He groans softly, and his chest vibrates against my breasts.

“It’s been almost two weeks,” he complains, resting his forehead against mine.

“Get your hands off of me.” Come to think of it, he’s been weird at work, too. Stopping by my office and asking how things are going. Every. Single. Day.

He pulls me inside and shuts the door behind him. “What did I do to piss you off? Because I don’t have a fucking clue, and I’m sick of being punished.”

I step into the living room. It’s a loft space, massive, with awning windows on three sides. He must’ve bought the apartment next door and combined them. In one sweeping glance, I can see his bed against the far wall, the dining table and kitchen, and the space he’s mapped out as the living room with a rug, sectional sofa and open-cubicle entertainment center that serves as a divider.

Candles flicker on the coffee table, and two glasses wait, with a bottle of wine in an ice bucket.

I spin around, wanting to get on my way before his latest slut shows up. “I won’t keep you long.”

Ramin’s gaze narrows. “That’s what you’re going to say to me? You don’t come over. You don’t call. I’m stuck here thinking about my brother fucking you, and when you finally show up, you’re already planning to leave?”

My whole face pinches tight with confusion. “Are you on something?”

“I wish I was.” He goes into the kitchen.

I follow. He pulls a glass out of the cupboard, grabs a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and pours himself a drink. He doesn’t offer me one.

“I don’t know how long I can do this,” he says wearily, leaning his hip against the island with one ankle crossed over the other.

I’m not a nun. I’ve slept with the man before, so I know what it’s like to be under him. Ramin fucks like he’s making porn. I can’t say I didn’t find it exciting in its way. And he’s attractive, I’ll give him that. Cuter than Darius, nothing like Kane. He’s more compact, his body thickly muscled. He wears his hair in a rakish sweep across his forehead and usually has a three-day beard shadowing his jaw.

Reaching down, he pushes his hand into the open fly of his jeans and adjusts himself with a taunting stroke. “You just come over to stare?”

“For fuck’s sake.” I turn away, taking in his condo again, even though what I want is his drink. The sounds of the city at night pour in through the open windows. There’s something visceral about the noise. It makes me edgy. “You drafted the agreement to acquire Social Creamery, right? Or was that someone else in Legal’s job?”

He doesn’t answer right away, so I turn back to him. He’s straightened and put his drink down. The lazy challenge is gone.

He’s sharply watchful. “I wrote it up. Why?”

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