Truth & Temptation

by Riley Edgewood

  "Wait till you see the inside," Miles says, a smile in his voice.

  I turn toward him as Frank unfolds himself from the car, all long legs, long torso, long body in general. Wide shoulders. Muscular neck—this dude definitely works out. Face like…well, I've given his face more than enough attention tonight. It takes me a moment to remember what I was going to say. "Miles, thank you." I dig through the pockets of Cassidy's blazer and pull out the rest of my crumpled wad of cash. A whopping fifteen dollars. I hold it out to him.

  He grins and—adorably—blushes in the bright light of the overhead archway, gently pushing my hand to the side. "I couldn't take that, but thank you."

  The thought of ever brushing off a tip is foreign to me. I push the money toward him again. "But you gave such nice service."

  "That's why I'm paid a salary," he says, ignoring the money. "But again, thank you."

  I guess he doesn't work on commission, but still. Who turns down free money?

  Then again, he works for Frank, who I'm beginning to think might be kind of loaded. This condominium building is fancy. Like, there's a doorman waiting for us. In a polished black suit. And there's a row of chandeliers hanging above us—outside—that look like they're made of diamonds. I mean, probably not though, right? Because that'd be ridiculous.

  "You're sweet, you know that?" Frank chuckles as Miles drives away.

  "You're probably the first person in my life to accuse me of it," I tell him, honestly.

  "Accuse you? I meant it as a compliment."

  When we're close enough, the doorman opens the door for us, saying, "Good evening, sir, miss."

  "Good evening." Frank motions for me to go ahead. "Where's Matthew tonight?"

  "Family emergency, sir."

  "His daughter?" Frank sounds so genuinely concerned that I turn to him—and his expression matches his tone. "Is she back in the hospital? I thought she was feeling a little better?"

  "I wouldn't know, sir." The doorman's stiff as a board and staring straight ahead. Clearly, he takes his job as seriously as the Queen's guard in England; all he needs is a red outfit instead of his all-black, and one of those tall fluffy hats. The thought has me stifling a giggle.

  Frank takes the man's hint and wishes him a goodnight, and then puts his hand against my lower back to guide me into the foyer. Like last time, his touch sends sparks shooting up my spine, and I resist the urge to arch like a cat against his palm.

  "Is Matthew your regular doorman?" I ask.

  He nods, his eyes far away for a moment. "His daughter's been sick a lot the past year."

  "I'm sorry."

  "So am I."

  There's a huge bronze light structure attached to the high-rise ceiling above us; my eyes follow it to the end of the foyer, where it slides down into an extravagant marbled water fountain. The walls are painted in vertical stripes of mint and white, and the entire space feels polished—and so spacious I bet my voice will echo when I speak. Which I do as casually as possible, like this is nothing new. "Nice place."

  He glances around, his expression impassive. "My father picked it."

  "You live with your parents?" The thought hadn't even occurred to me.

  "God, no." He mock-shudders. "They foot the bill."

  "Oh." How one single word can come out as judgmentally as mine does, I have no clue. I clear my throat. "I mean, must be nice." Nope. Not any better. What is wrong with me? "Are you close with your parents?"

  "We participate in each other's lives." For the first time, he seems uncomfortable, so I let him lead me toward the glass elevators against the wall without asking him any of the follow-up questions I'm dying to ask. Instead, I focus on the way the palm of his hand keeps the spot on my back warm against the chilly air conditioner of the lobby.

  I focus on the way that heat's keeping me warm everywhere else, too.

  "You could get very naughty in these," I say—or, rather, evocative Cindy says—with half a smile, gesturing to the elevators, making the tension in his eyes drain away.

  "If you're into letting people watch." His hand slips a little lower, right above my ass and my skin's starting to burn, hoping he'll slide it all the way down. "Let's see… So far, you're into biting and public shows of affection…"

  "Maybe with you I will be." I'm not sure if I'm teasing or serious, but there's a wild energy rushing through me because every step we take gets us closer to the moment he's inside of me, and I'm starting to imagine how it might feel. How he might feel, his body over mine, the grunts he'll make, the bend of my knees when I wrap my legs around him…

  Movie sex. That's what tonight will be like. Sheets wrapped around us. Sexy sweat raised on our skin. Perfect, sexy lovemaking. Someone like this guy? I bet it's how he does everything.

  Oh, God. Why didn't I bring that water in from the car? My mouth is parched now. And as the elevator slides down the glass shaft, Frank studies me in the reflection. Even in dimly lit glass, he's gorgeous. His eyes appear darker than the night and just as intense.

  When the door opens, I step in and try to look casual, leaning against the back glass wall.

  He follows me, but stands directly in front of me instead of to my side, like I figured he would. Like, directly in front of me. I doubt there's room for even a ruler between us.

  I can either stare at his chest, or look up at him. I choose the latter, even if it takes a few seconds to make it happen.

  No turning back now.

  Not that I'd want to.

  Not that any girl would want to.

  "You have very nice hair," he says, his breath washing over my face. It smells like mint, somehow, and citrus, like the faintest hint of the lime he bit into at the bar. I have roughly 0.06 seconds to process it though, because then he's twirling a strand of my hair through his fingers and the sensation of his skin brushing against my neck is dizzying. "Makes me think of summer strawberry fields, and it's so soft, I can't stop playing with it."

  "I have good conditioner." So smooth. But somewhere on the inside, I'm beginning to shake. Little vibrations that promise to turn into epic earthquakes.

  Okay.

  Okay. I can do this.

  I trail a hand up his stomach—holy shit his abs are freaking tight—and over his chest—and yep, equally muscular pecs—and wrap it around his neck. I run my thumb over his stubble. His breath catches, which makes mine speed up. Cassidy's brother was the last guy who affected me this way. I've waited almost two years to meet someone who excites me as much as Frank has in just a few hours. Finally, I don't have to fake it. Something tells me I won't have to fake anything with this guy.

  Well, except my name.

  Frank lowers his head, slowly, his eyes on mine the whole time. The air is so tense around us, it's like snapping elastics everywhere. So I open my mouth to whisper against his.

  "You didn't press the button."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Y-YOU'RE RIGHT." Frank blinks after I break the spell of our almost-kiss. "Damn it."

  Yes. Damn it. Why did I have to say anything?

  Nerves are so unbelievably annoying. I need to figure out how to slice away the ones making me jittery while protecting the ones making me as aroused as I am.

  There are so many areas of my life where my body has trouble differentiating between good and bad emotions. So many areas of my life in which I wish I could get the fuck out of my head for a little bit.

  Frank turns to press the button for his floor—followed by a code on a keypad beside the regular numbers.

  "Fancy security," I say.

  He shrugs, returning to me, sliding one hand up my side and around my back, placing his other palm against the wall beside my face. "Now. Where were we?"

  But this time we're interrupted when someone slams a hand in to stop the door. Behind Frank's shoulder stands a tall, thin, leggy blonde. She ignores me, but speaks to the back of Frank's head.

  "Alex." The word—his real name—cuts through the air and he turns around like a
shotgun's gone off.

  "Kelly." For the first time, there's zero warmth in his tone. In fact, as the door closes behind her, all the air in the elevator suddenly feels frosty—from the chill between them, not the air-conditioning.

  The ground falls away and Kelly slices her eyes over me and back to Fr—Alex. "New one tonight, huh? Not your usual fare."

  "Back off," he says, warily. "Don't be so—"

  "Um, excuse me?" I cut in, using what many might call my typical Teagan tone. God, it feels good to slip into me without feeling awkward. Bitch is easy. "Not his usual fare?"

  "I wasn't speaking to you, sweetie." She doesn't bother looking at me, just drills holes into Alex.

  "But you were speaking about me, sweetie. And I'm standing right here." I wait until her focus is on me. "I don't know if you're some scorned ex or whatever, but I do know your loss is going to be my gain tonight—probably multiple times. So maybe you should keep your snotty little mouth shut and get the fuck over yourself."

  "Well, well," Alex murmurs, sliding closer to me. "You do have claws. And some very high—and, I promise you, very attainable—expectations for our evening. And you," he says to Kelly, "should probably do exactly as my friend says."

  With perfect timing, the doors open onto her floor and she shoots us a scathing look before turning to walk—or glide, rather, with her annoyingly long, slim legs—away.

  "Yeah. That's a story I'm going to have to hear…Alex," I say.

  "About my name—"

  "Nope." I put a finger to his mouth. I only wanted to say it once, to let it travel along my tongue like an indulgence. "Tonight you're Frank."

  I can tell he wants to say more, but the moment passes and he nods, smiling against my finger—then he wraps his tongue around it and takes it into his mouth. And he uses his tongue to do things to my finger that make my panties wet, and the trembles from earlier are starting to echo outwards from the center of my belly, in rings of vibrations running through my arms and down my legs. Up my neck… Heat following their path.

  He pushes me until the glass is at my back and his body's pressed against mine and holy hell he's so hard. I moan, imagining more than my mind can handle.

  And I get a little nervous, too.

  Okay. A lot nervous.

  I slide my finger out of his mouth.

  "You taste salty," he whispers in my ear, with a low hum. "Delicious." He runs his hands up the sides of my legs, over my hips, wrapping around my waist. "But I bet I can discover where you taste the sweetest."

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  How should I respond? Why won't my brain work? Why am I turning to mush everywhere?

  The elevator dings, opening, and I sigh.

  "Damn we've had bad timing so far," he says, right as I think, saved by the bell.

  "S'okay." I clear my throat, trying to hide how relieved I am. "I'm thirsty anyway."

  Then I step off the elevator and discover why he needed the security code to get here. Because I've stepped into a foyer—his foyer. Right off of the elevator.

  "Wait. Is this the penthouse?"

  He walks past me—breezes past me—and simply says, "Yeah." Like it's no big deal. "What can I get you to drink?"

  The ceilings are so high in his entryway, Frank couldn't even touch them if he jumped, and he's tall. Hell, not even with a ladder could he jump high enough. There's a staircase spiraling up to a second level and, I'm assuming, his bedroom. He probably has a fluffy king-sized bed, tucked in every day by personal maids. I bet the entire room is ostentatious.

  Fucking awesome, probably, my mother's voice flows through my mind, and, after the shock of hearing her wears off, I shiver. On TV she always speaks with a bland sort of forced-casual manner, and in my mind, her tone stays the same. I imagine she'd look at this place and start drooling. So I refuse to.

  There's space for miles past his foyer, and all the way across from me, past sets of dining and living room furniture that probably cost more than…well, more than anything I've ever owned (and let's not even mention the TV the size of a damn planet), there are walls made of glass between us and the outside. I stare out one of the panes, watching the lights from Springs Corner—and places farther out—twinkle in the night like multicolored stars.

  He's waiting for me to answer him, having made his way to the open kitchen around the corner. But maybe I should walk backwards, right onto the elevator and out into the night. Back to my grandparents' rundown place. Back to real life. Because this? No matter how fun a one-night fairy tale sounds… This is almost too much.

  But just almost.

  Instead of walking backwards, I step toward him. "What's the strongest thing you have?"

  "The strongest thing that you might actually like, you mean, Miss Sweet Hard Cider?" His teasing unfurls some of the unease in my chest.

  "Yes." I smile to show him I appreciate the humor.

  He makes us vodka tonics with a dash of sugar and a twist of orange. It's not quite sweet enough for me to love it, but it's not so bitter that I can't drink it either.

  In fact, I lean against his tall kitchen island and I down it and I ask for another.

  We move into his living room, which is half the size of a football field and contains a TV with corresponding proportions. And of course the furniture is fitted to him. I practically have to climb onto his couch—though it's actually comfortable once I'm settled. I could fall asleep easily with everything I've had to drink. Except for the adrenaline spiking through my veins over what's about to happen, like a both bitter and delicious drug… But maybe one more drink first.

  "You keep this up," he says, when I ask for another, "and I won't feel right about taking you upstairs."

  "I'm a big girl," I slur. "I can handle my liquor." He looks unsure, so I study the shape of my next words before they exit my mouth, making sure they're not as messy: "I tell you what… Make it a fresh glass and a smaller one, if it'll make you feel better. And anyway, I wanted to come home with you the moment I first saw you. I'd only had two drinks then."

  Thank God, he turns away from me for the kitchen and misses the way I hold in a hiccup—and the way I bend over and drink the rest of my current cocktail upside down to get rid of the rest of them.

  But it works. And the fluid path my hair takes through the air when I flip myself upright again makes me feel like surely it's all sex kitten-ish now. I glance around for a mirror, but he doesn't have any out. Not even in the foyer.

  I sigh. I'm sure it was wishful thinking anyway. Pretty sure my hair's never had a sex kitten moment in all its life. The wave of confidence passes as quickly as they ever do, and I'm more than ready for the new drink when he brings it to me.

  "So." I gulp half the vodka down. Huh, it doesn't even burn anymore. "Should we do this?"

  "Are you flirting with me?" he asks, his expression serious. "Because if you are, I'm not getting it."

  Shit. My words ring between us still, sounding like I want to get it over with. Which isn't true. Not all the way, anyway. "What do you mean?"

  "You've seemed on the fence all night. I'm trying not to be blinded by the way my body reacts to you and walk you upstairs into something you'll regret in the morning."

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" I slide toward him and rise on my tiptoes to whisper as close to his ear as I can get, which is basically his sexy, delicious-smelling neck. "Because you keep giving me ways out, when I'm very clearly not taking them."

  "Cindy," he says, still serious. "Tell me the truth."

  Why the fuck did I give him that name?

  "I'm nervous, okay? God." Great, and now I'm prickly and giving him some of the truth I'm doing everything I can to keep buried tonight.

  "Why?" he sounds genuinely confused.

  "Um, look at you. Look at your place."

  "So?"

  "So you're a fucking GQ advertisement, and it makes me anxious." Maybe my poor is showing, but I'm too jittery to keep it so bottled up
. I want him. So much I can barely breathe. Or maybe part of that is my nerves. And this much alcohol makes it harder to keep my Cindy mask on straight.

  "Come here, little kitten," he says, demand in his tone. Usually, I'd balk at his bossiness. At the moment, though, I let it make my decision for me and I go to him. He grips my shoulders, firmly enough to hold me in place. Sensually enough to make me shiver. Especially when he leans in and breathes against my neck with his whispered words. "My place is amazing; I'm not a liar, and I won't try to pretend it's not the truth. But as amazing as it is? You're the only thing in it I can't take my eyes off of. So what does that say about you?"

  Okay. Swallow, Teagan.

  "I'm not a thing." My words are automatic, and they make me cringe.

  Thankfully, he leans back, nodding. "You're right. But you are gorgeous. And I think you might need someone to show you that you deserve whatever you want. And I want to take you upstairs to get a head start on it."

  It feels like a culminating moment. Will I, or won't I?

  I've been wavering all night, but only because I'm nervous. The one thing that hasn't wavered is how attracted I am to him. It's time to be Cindy for real. It's time to do what I want.

  I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, inhaling him, letting his scent wash over me before I answer. "It's about freaking time."

  His bedroom is…perfect. Huge, yes, but far from ostentatious. Yes, his bed's king-sized, but it's otherwise simple and it looks really comfortable. The rest of the room is clean, but there's a misplaced sock in the corner and a crumpled shirt on the floor by his bed. And the entire space smells faintly like him, a lingering reminder of whose room it is while he's gone.

  "What is that?" I turn to him and have to catch myself when the room tilts a little beneath me.

  "What is what?"

  "That scent. Your scent. It's enough to drive a girl mad."

  He glances down and sniffs himself, making me giggle, and puzzles his brows when he looks at me again. "I don't smell anything."