Mogul (Manhattan #2)(22)

I don’t want to go home. I just want to drink in the feeling of this guy’s big, warm body tangled with mine and his delicious scent all over my skin. My sexually satisfied body spoons his as he relaxes against me. He asks what I’ve been doing since I left the concierge job, and listens when I tell him about Bryn’s new business. I’m surprised Ian hasn’t pulled the same stunt he pulled the last time, where he wanted me gone the instant after we came. This time, we actually slept for a few hours—something I’ve never done with a guy—before I woke up to feel his mouth doing wicked things between my thighs. Now I’m spooning his side and it’s sooo nice.

“I’m acting as her PA, and I sometimes model for her online catalogue. It’s only temporary until I get a big break, but she needs all the help she can get to launch her business and I like having something to offer.”

He scrutinizes me in silence, his hands linked behind his head. “What’s this business called?”

“House of Sass.” I grin, stroking a finger along his chest, down the line of hair that leads to my happy place.

“Your idea?” he asks, brows raised.

“No.” I laugh. I prop up to my elbow. “But I like it.”

He reaches out, stroking his thumb along my bare arm. My body tingles. God, I’ve never had sex this mind-blowing in my life. I’ve never craved a guy the way I crave this one.

“I’m getting us coffee before round two.” I grin sheepishly and rise from the bed, stealing the sheets away from him and leaving him with only the duvet. “How long are you staying in New York?”

He lifts his brows.

“So I can make time to see you again.” I smirk. “Get a little more out of you.”

He shifts forward in bed, his expression darkening.

“I can’t offer you more than this.”

I stare. “I know,” I whisper. Do I?

“Do you really, Sara?” He watches me.

“Yes. I mean, you never called. But I know you wanted to.” I wink. “You just showed me in numerous ways how very much you wanted a redo of our night at 1103.” I smirk again and turn back for the coffee.

“I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

I freeze, my fingers clutching the sheet so tight my knuckles turn white. My eyes fly back to his dark ones, and though his are narrowed, mine are wide and round. My vision blurs. I can barely breathe.

I look at my Dirty Workaholic, his mussed-up hair. Mouth reddened by me. Hell, he’s got claw marks of mine on his biceps and shoulders. And he’s… taken?

“What? You’re married?”

I drop the sheets, my body going lax with fear and horror. Because am I this girl? Am I the girl who sleeps with other women’s men? Oh my God!

He kicks the duvet off and starts to stand. “Only technically. Not in any way that counts. Not for a year and a ha—”

“You’re fucking married?” I repeat, storming forward.

I make out to punch him somehow, but he catches my wrist and halts me, his voice a warning. “Sara.”

I turn away, so hurt I feel an instant sting in my eyes.

He squeezes my wrist, gently, tugging my face back to his. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low, rough, and apologetic as he turns me around. His eyes glimmer with regret and frustration. His forehead hovers over mine as he tugs me closer. “Actually, I’m not sorry,” he says, searching my eyes as if hoping to find that I am not sorry, too. “I’m not sorry about that night at the Four Seasons. And I’m not sorry about tonight, either.” He takes my chin and rubs my lower lip with his thumb when it starts trembling with panic.

I remember how elusive Ian was when we met. How he didn’t “do this,” he’d said. I admire that he didn’t make any false promises. I still like him. But I’m scared.

“What am I doing here?” I ask, suddenly pushing at his chest. Mad at him. At myself. At this whole situation.

“Fuck,” he swears behind me as I start getting dressed.

“I can’t do this.” I shake my head. “I don’t have torrid affairs with married men.”

“I’m not married—not in any way that counts.”

“Wow. I’m such a stupid… ugh. Now it all makes sense. Why I never, why you never…” I look at him, and he looks distraught. His jaw clenched tight, his eyes gleaming in frustration, hands fisted at his sides.

I don’t know why, but I just stare at him. Ian. He has a name now. And why does that just make it worse? He’s the guy I’ve dreamed of for forever, it feels. I wanted to know more of him, everything about him. But I’m not sure what the hell has happened that ended up with me here, drinking in my last glimpse of him, because my parents are going through a divorce, and I don’t want to be the woman on the sidelines.

“I’m sorry I never reached out. I can’t offer you more. I didn’t want to give you false expectations.”

My eyes sting a little, but I blink back the tears. “I had no expectations. Or actually, I had plenty, but you fulfilled all of them exceedingly well.” I smile and finish dressing, hating how emotional I’m getting. This isn’t me.

“Goodbye, Ian,” I whisper, fetching my purse.

“Sara.”