Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(49)

Too much, man. Chill.

She primly unfolds her paper napkin and glances around the kitchen. “You have a lovely place.”

“It’s home.” I sit opposite her. “Hope bottled water is okay. I didn’t take you for a beer drinker.”

She eyes my water and shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

Damn her for removing her jacket.

“You are very fine and so much more.” I’m grinning, loving the blush that keeps reddening her cheeks.

“I’m impressed you cook.”

I affix my napkin to the collar of my shirt and love it when she looks appalled. “We make do on this side of the tracks,” I tell her.

“Don’t do that.” She studies her fork before using it. After a moment of silence, she says, “Never be ashamed of who you are or where you come from.”

“Says the woman who’s trying to change me.”

“Change you? No. I’m working for gradual upgrades. That’s all.”

“I’m not an automobile.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

I laugh. “‘An upgraded model’ insinuates that only a tweak or two will be needed to achieve perfection.”

Silence.

“How long before I’m perfect?”

“You almost are already,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, laughing. “Tease me now, and see how far that gets you later.”

“I’m scared,” she says, shuddering.

“You should be.” I’ve walked around with blue balls while imagining what that tight little pussy might feel like clenching around my cock.

I pretend to be interested in my food but can’t seem to eat when all I want is to take this girl to my room.

She.

Rocks.

My.

World.

“Why didn’t you let me come over Saturday?”

“Maybe because . . .” She looks at me. “You scare me.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you deliberately wouldn’t. But this is messy. My dad hardly ever approves of any man I bring home, and bringing you—”

I wait for her to say it. That people on this side of the tracks will never be good enough. She doesn’t, though. She just freezes, as if she has no idea how to continue.

“Do you always jump when your dad says?”

“Most of the time.”

“Do you jump for anyone else?” I ask.

“No,” she says quietly.

I’d like to change that. I will change that. “Would you jump for me, Elizabeth?”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you would,” I whisper, smiling to myself when she has no response.

She’s silent.

We eat our meal with polite conversation, a bit of business, and a lot of flirting.

While we’re doing the dishes together—which is kind of cool—she talks about a few shows that we’ll be attending, the first one at the end of the week in Los Angeles, then asks if I have a passport.

“I always hoped to do some overseas stuff with my YouTube channel, so I have one. I just haven’t used it.”

“Like what?”

“Are you making fun of me now, Lizzy?”

“No. Really! I’m interested. Like what?”

“Like . . . jumping off the Eiffel Tower?”

We laugh.

“What’s your dad think about you traveling with me?” I ask.

“He won’t question it. It’s business.”

“I’m not the kind of guy a wealthy businessman hopes to find at his daughter’s side, much less in her bed.”

“You’re not in my bed.”

“Maybe not yet, but that’s what I’m aiming for, and I always hit my mark.” I put away the dishes and turn to face her. Butting my hips against the kitchen counter, I cross my arms and say, “When we stopped in the back seat of your car . . . I’m surprised we could both do it. But I’m not up for either of us stopping again.”

She waves her hand in front of her face, blushing.

I know Elizabeth’s type. It took a long time to get her to a place where she trusted me enough to touch her, see her. It could take twice as long to get there again.

Either way. No matter how long it takes. We’re still a done deal.

My hand is in hers, and I’m leading her away from the kitchen before I realize that our hands are still adjoined, our fingers laced together.

“I guess I’ll go.” She thumbs the air over her shoulder. “Walk me to my car?”

No. I’d like to see her sprawled out on my bed, waiting for me, watching me as I fuck her. But that’s not going to happen. Not yet. “We could hang out here.”

“I can’t stay with you.”

I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t ask you to stay. I suggested that we hang out awhile. I can mix up an appletini. Isn’t that classy enough for you? Maria keeps a bottle here somewhere.”

“I think . . .” She glances around at our small living room, the one with a lone sofa and beanbag. “Maybe we could do it another time?”

“Because we have work to do?”

“Yes. The photo shoot starts early tomorrow, and we need to be ready for LA.”