Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(56)

He tilts his head back, then lets out a laugh of pure masculine confidence. “All right. What about the best lay you’ve ever had?”

I roll my eyes. “Do you put notches in your bedpost, too?”

“Maybe.” He gives a quick wink.

He rolls toward me until I’m on my back once again, and his eyes return to mine. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what? Worst lay you’ve ever had?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells. Ask me the other one.”

“Best lay you’ve ever had? You just said a gentleman never—”

“You.” He stamps a kiss on my lips.

When he pulls back, I mean to roll my eyes again and call him out on the line. But then I see it . . .

Embarrassment. His cheeks are just the slightest bit pink, and he looks at me, and he’s . . . fidgeting. There’s a sweetness to his nervousness that undoes me.

I set both my hands on his face. “Ian.”

“Yeah?”

I lift up slightly to brush a kiss across his mouth. “Me too.”





27

IAN

Week 5: Sunday Morning

I’m halfway down the hallway to my apartment when I realize I’m humming.

For fuck’s sake, get it together, man.

Stacking one Starbucks cup on top of the other, I dig my apartment key out of my running shorts and push open the door.

And smile even wider.

There’s a woman in my kitchen wearing one of my T-shirts and tiny little sleep shorts.

No, not a woman. The woman.

Lara glances up from whatever she’s whisking and adjusts her glasses, taking in my running clothes and slightly sweaty state.

“Is getting up at four a.m. a regular thing for you? To exercise? On a Sunday? If so, I have very serious doubts about our compatibility.”

I grin. “That’s crazy talk. My alarm goes off at four thirty on weekends.”

“And on weekdays?”

I grin wider. “Four.”

“Oh, Ian . . .”

“What? I’ve got a lot of shit to get done before the market opens.”

“I would have thought you don’t get home until four.”

“Well, that, too,” I say, kissing her as I hand her one of the coffees. “Not as much as I used to, though.”

“Getting old?” she asks, taking a sip of the coffee.

I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her back to my front and nuzzling her neck.

More like getting domesticated.

I don’t say it out loud. It sounds absurd. I’ve known this woman for all of a month, had her in my bed only two consecutive nights.

Which is one night longer than my previous record.

After our Friday date night, she slept over (out of sexual exhaustion, I’d like to think). And as fantastic as Friday night was—and it was fantastic—Saturday was even better. It never occurred to me before that spending an entire day with a woman could be centering, but I can’t remember ever enjoying a weekend day so much.

Or enjoying a woman as much as I enjoy her.

“You mentioned yesterday you had some work to do?”

“Mm. A little,” she says, her head falling back onto my shoulder as my tongue finds a sensitive spot behind her ear.

“I’m behind on e-mail as well. How about we eat whatever you’ve got going on here, take a couple hours for work, then brunch? There’s a place uptown near the park—”

She stiffens slightly and eases away before turning to face me. “Ian, we still can’t be seen together. Not yet.”

I tamp down a surge of frustration, even though I understand. The woman’s already gotten a delay on her dream job. The last thing I want to do is threaten her day job as well.

It just fucking figures that the first time I actually want to spend time with a woman, I feel like her dirty little secret.

But if we’ve got to be dirty . . .

I set aside my coffee, then gently ease hers out of her hands and set that aside, too.

“Hey,” she says in a warning tone. “Taking caffeine out of a woman’s hand is very dangerous business.”

“I’ll give it back. Eventually.” I settle my hands on her waist and hoist her up onto the counter, much as I did that first night.

“Okay, new plan,” I say, nudging her knees apart and stepping between them. “We eat whatever deliciousness you’re cooking up. I’ll go get us some orange juice and champagne for mimosas later—we’ll sip them on my balcony and pretend we’re someplace exotic. But first . . .” I run my palms up her bare thighs. “I’m thinking an appetizer.”

“There’s no such thing as a breakfast appetizer,” Lara says, adjusting her glasses in that way that makes me crazy with lust.

“I beg to differ,” I murmur, capturing her mouth with mine as my hands continue their leisurely stroking over her thighs.

When my fingers find the top of her underwear and hook inside just slightly, Lara pulls back from the kiss with a narrowed gaze. “I don’t mean to be prudish, but one of us just got back from what was probably an obscenely long run; the other is already showered.”

“I don’t need to be clean for what I have in mind,” I say, raining kisses down her neck. I bunch my shirt up around her waist with my fist, then bend and lick just below her belly button.