I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(76)
I can drown out the worry with touch. Pierce can make me forget all my fears, at least for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll open the door to the closet of my past and deal with the consequences. I slide a palm down his chest, skimming past his belt buckle to cup him through his dress pants.
He’s lightning quick, fingers circling around my wrists as he spins me around, clasping them in one hand behind my back. “I thought the only hand that was touching my dick this weekend was mine.” He sinks his hips into mine.
“It’ll be Monday in an hour. Technically that means the weekend will be over.”
His grin is almost evil. “That’s going to make the next hour interesting then, isn’t it?”
“I like interesting.” This is what I need, what I want. A distraction from what’s happening in my head and in my heart.
The elevator doors slide open and I find myself lifted up. A seam tears somewhere on my dress as I wrap my legs around Pierce’s waist. He carries me through his condo—penthouse, whatever—I don’t remember him unlocking a door, and then I’m laid out on a bed. A big one. One that smells faintly of him, his body covering mine.
The next hour isn’t interesting—it’s torture. The best, most amazing torture, full of the most insanely teasing orgasms. And when midnight hits, Pierce is in me, on me, owning me, and I’m falling.
Falling.
Falling.
And I never want this to stop.
CHAPTER 26
UN-KNOW
RIAN
Pierce is the picture of sexy sweetness sprawled out on the mattress, pale-blue sheets hanging precariously low on his hips. He’s out cold. Which makes sense since it’s eight in the morning and he’s been asleep for less than five hours.
I should close my eyes and try for a few more hours of rest, because I’m grossly underslept these days, but my brain is already on sprint mode, reviewing last night, the conversations, the sex, the everything. I shouldn’t have said anything about the Mission Mansion. But I’m tired of hiding. Obviously I’m scared that he’ll walk like everyone else has in the past, but if that’s the inevitable end, it’s better it happens now than later when my heart is totally locked up in him.
I glance around his bedroom. It was dark when we arrived last night after dinner and my focus was on Pierce. The mattress I’m lying on is cloudlike, and the bed frame is solid cherry. The sheets are satin soft, the pillows definitely feather. This bedroom screams money. Lots of money.
I throw off the covers and carefully leave the bed without disturbing Pierce. Nabbing Pierce’s shirt from the floor, I pull it over my head. I need to use the bathroom, but I don’t want to risk waking Pierce, so I slip out the door and wander down the hall. The floors are dark hardwood. Possibly Brazilian cherry. I find a second bedroom two doors down, smaller than the master, but at least three times the size of my own.
I use the private bathroom before I continue my self-guided tour.
The morning sun almost blinds me when I enter the living room, the wall of windows showcase a gorgeous skyline. The décor is a fusion of modern minimalist and antique rustic. It’s very Pierce. I run my hand along the back of the vintage leather couch—at least it looks vintage, but based on the buttery smoothness of the leather it can’t be very old, and like everything else in here, it’s expensive. I need to look up this building. My purse is where I dropped it when we arrived last night, by the dedicated elevator to his penthouse.
That’s right. A dedicated elevator. That small detail tells me all I need to know about how much it costs to live up here. I root around in my purse and find my phone. I log into my account on the listing site and punch in the address for the building. Only two condo units are currently available for sale. They aren’t corner penthouses and they’re listed at two million dollars each. “Good God,” I mutter, flipping through the pictures. Based on square footage and location, this has to be at least twice the cost.
I rub my forehead, my stomach knotting. A patent lawyer salary can’t afford this penthouse. I mean, I’m sure he makes excellent money as a patent lawyer, and the rental properties are probably helpful, but this doesn’t quite jibe.
I continue my exploration of Pierce’s penthouse. I stumble across his office, which is a grand, gorgeous space, one wall lined with ornate, hardwood shelves filled with legal books. On each shelf is a wooden sculpture of some kind, and I have to wonder if they’re Pierce’s creations. His office desk faces the wall of windows. I cross over to the executive chair and drop into it. This is where lawyer Pierce must sit and do lawyery things.
I picture him dressed as he was when he approached me in the grocery store. Tom Ford suit hugging his sculpted body. Tie begging to be yanked. I run my fingers along the edge of the desk. I bet it would be fun to play lawyer with him in here. He could wear his suit; I could be his naked desk ornament.
I sigh and swivel in the chair. There are several folders stacked to the right, all labeled with his neat printing. A few pictures line the shelves to the left—of him and his family based on Amalie and Lawson’s presence, and there are a couple that seem to include his brother-in-law-to-be.
On his desk is a copy of The Moorehead Review, a magazine dedicated to the upper crust and their financial dealings. It’s not the most reputable news source, but there are some interesting, although biased, articles in there on occasion. I flip to one about real estate in the Hamptons.