Crave Me

by Geneva Lee

  I held up a finger in warning. “Don’t. I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “That’s a pity,” she said with a yawn, “because you need to get laid.”

  “I’m not justifying that with a response.” I planted a kiss on her cheek as I swooped past her.

  “Have a lovely morning,” she called out, her voice tinged with amusement.

  I’m sure there were a lot of women who would jump at the chance to serve coffee to Smith Price in bed. They’d probably offer to serve him a lot more. I just didn’t want to be one of them. Sex and Belle Stuart no longer mixed. I had a vibrator I wasn’t afraid to use and a plan. Screwing Smith wasn’t part of that equation.

  But the site that greeted me at the door stopped me in my tracks. A sleek, silver Mercedes AMG idled in front of the building. Holy fuck, it was hot. I said a silent prayer that Smith hadn’t been here to witness my reaction. He didn’t need to know I had a penchant for luxury cars.

  The driver side door opened and I braced myself. I half expected it to be Smith himself, come to drag me to his house to make him coffee. But the fiery red hair didn’t belong to him. An unfamiliar face smiled in greeting.

  “Garrison?” I asked, shouldering my purse as I fought to regain my composure.

  “Miss.” Garrison tilted his head in greeting and opened the back door.

  I slid in, allowing my fingers to caress the buttery leather seats before I settled back. This car was power. And sex. Maybe it made me a gold digger, but I loved it.

  “This is...nice,” I said conversationally, aware that Garrison might be wondering if I was having some sort of fit in the back seat. “It’s an AMG, right?”

  “An AMG S-65. Mr. Price has excellent taste in cars.” Garrison turned out slowly, making his way into the morning traffic of East London.

  “Yes, he does,” I murmured to myself. Expensive taste, inhuman good looks and an asshole to boot—it was the trifecta of hotness. And three big red flags. Smith Price was dangerous.

  “Will you be requiring me for the rest of the day?” Garrison asked as we made our way toward Knightsbridge. I made a mental note to ask more about what area of law he practised as the houses grew larger.

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “Do you drive Mr. Price?” I didn’t think his excellency would want to be parted with his servant much today.

  “Mr. Price drives his own car,” Garrison informed me as he turned toward a gated drive. “I drive him to social functions in whatever car he puts me in. Today he asked me to pick you up in this car.”

  My thoughts jumbled together as I took in the house that loomed overhead. Maybe it was more than one flat. Surely, it was more than one flat. Deciding that, I was finally able to process Garrison’s last statement.

  “This isn’t his personal car?” I asked in surprise.

  Garrison shook his head as the gate opened to allow us entrance.

  “I’m sorry. I assumed it was.” It made sense that Smith would use a company to pick me up. I could only hope whatever Smith drove was somewhat less extravagant. I didn’t want to think about riding shotgun with Smith manoeuvring a stick shift next to me. I might come on the spot.

  “That’s why I asked if you would require me the rest of the day.” Garrison’s kind eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Price would prefer that your car be garaged privately overnight.”

  “My car? I don’t have a car,” I informed him.

  “This is your car. Mr. Price acquired it yesterday,” Garrison continued as if this wasn’t a complete bombshell. “I will pick you up and drive you home each day. It’s up to you if you would prefer I drive you throughout the day. He keeps me on retainer, so I will be available when you decide.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know,” I managed to squeak. My car? I might have to have a few minutes alone with it in the garage. I shook my head, recovering some composure as Garrison pulled up next to a black Bugatti Veyron. One of just over four hundred models in the world. I ogled it as the driver popped out and opened the door for me. Smith and I clearly had one thing in common.

  “The lift is to your right.” He gestured to the side of the private garage.

  “Thank you.” My head was still swimming when I reached it and realized I had no idea where I was going. “Um, which flat is Mr. Price’s?”

  Garrison’s eyebrows knit together. “This is his house, Miss. Kitchen’s on the lower ground floor. His bedroom is on the second.”

  “Of course. That’s what I meant.” I beamed at him, wondering just how big of an idiot he thought I was.

  A Mercedes for his assistant. A Bugatti for himself. And a house roughly the size of Harrods. I’d known a few lawyers in my lifetime. They didn’t make this kind of money. Maybe I should ditch the business plan and go back to law school, I thought as I stepped out of the lift into the entrance hall. I’d been in palaces for heaven’s sake, but this place was impressive. Traditional eighteenth century architecture blended with crisp, clean decor. Grey marble complimented the modern furniture. I dropped the keys Garrison had given me on an empty console table that stretched the length of the foyer. It was the opposite of his office. How many faces did Smith Price have, and which one hid the real man?

  Now if I could just find the kitchen.

  As it turned out, the coffee maker was the one item that was easy to find once I’d located the kitchen. It was the only item on his granite counter. I stared at it for a moment, wondering how to work the Impressa espresso maker.

  “Use the auto mode. I’ll teach you how to pull a proper shot sooner or later,” a gruff voice instructed me.

  I spun on my heels and nearly dropped the mug I was holding. I’d been worried about keeping my hands to myself when I brought Smith coffee in bed. Now I would give anything to have him tucked under his covers. It seemed infinitely…safer.

  Apparently Smith had occupied himself in the shower, and now he stood before me with a towel hanging loosely on his hips. Damp hair had fallen across his forehead, dripping down his face. Smith pushed it back with one hand, the other tightening over knotted fabric at his waist. Drops of water glistened over his broad shoulders and chest. Chiseled abs tapered into narrow hips. I’d guessed he was powerfully built when he was fully clothed, but I had no idea how much. He watched me, his eyes smoldering with a raw authority that unnerved me. He was temptation in a towel—a masculine trap that sent prurient thoughts flooding through me.

  I had to push the brew button four times before I actually hit it. I was pretty certain I looked like I was drunk. My first official day of work was going to consist of confusion and incompetence. Fabulous.

  Smith accepted the coffee without comment when I passed it to him a minute later. He cupped the mug with both hands, allowing his towel to hang suggestively off his hips.

  Do not look at his abs, I ordered myself even as my eyes drifted to the perfect slab of muscles on display.

  “Is your car acceptable?” he asked after he took a long, slow sip.

  “Yes-s-s,” I stammered. “Um, actually, I’m a little confused about that.”

  His eyebrow raised as he took another drink.

  “When you say my car...” I trailed away as embarrassment overtook me. I’d had a proper British upbringing, which meant I’d been taught never to talk about money. Or ask questions, for that matter. I’d had no problem eschewing those rules until today. Now I twisted my fingers together and hoped he wouldn’t make me continue.

  “The car is part of your compensation package,” Smith explained with a shrug.

  The nonchalance with which he responded bolstered my confidence. “Daily transportation is part of my compensation package.”

  He smirked. “You’re not driving my car.”

  My thoughts flashed to the sports car in the garage.

  “The Bugatti?” I guessed.

  “Yes,” he said, surprise flitting over his features. He was impressed. “Need I say more regarding the possibility of you driving it
?”

  Not impressed enough.

  “Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to change your mind on that,” I countered.

  “There’s no one I trust that much.” He took a step closer, bringing his nearly naked body too close for comfort. “But I’ll take you for a ride.”

  Smith Price needed to be schooled on where I stood on cars—and him. “As long as you drive in manual, I’ll consider. I’m not a girl who rides an automatic.”

  Smith’s eyebrow cocked up at my blatant double entendre.

  Oh God, I was flirting with him. Shamelessly flirting with him. So much for keeping my thing for cars under wraps. I might as well have stripped naked and climbed into his back seat as an offering.

  Smith rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll show you around. You’ll need to know the entire house for when we have guests.”

  There was that we again. I couldn’t quite figure out if this was standard personal assistant fare or if I’d been hired to play house. “You know a wife might be a cheaper option for you.”

  Lightning flashed across his green eyes, a fleeting thunderstorm of anger that was quickly replaced by calm. “Until she divorced me and took half of it.”

  “I believe that’s why they have pre-nups.” I crossed my arms over my chest and took a step away from him. This wasn’t the first time Smith had displayed a volatile mood swing. At least, it had passed quickly. “But I’m not a lawyer.”

  “You seem intent on proving yourself unnecessary to me, Belle,” he said, bypassing my jibe.

  That wasn’t my intention at all. Or was it? Why was everything so confusing in the presence of Smith Price? “You haven’t fired me yet.”

  “Yet,” he repeated with meaning.

  My attitude hadn’t gone unnoticed it seemed. Well, then I figured he was also aware of how often he was flirting with me, or rather, sexually harassing me. It was best to think of it in those terms. Flirtation was too welcome a concept.

  “Follow me.” He motioned toward the lift.

  I stared at him, trying to comprehend. I couldn’t handle Smith giving me the grand tour in that towel. “I thought you were going to get dressed.”

  “I am, but we have things to discuss. You’ll find there isn’t much downtime in my life. I already wasted half an hour waiting for my coffee.”

  “Maybe next time you could get up and make it yourself. You seem to know how.” I shrugged but forced the haughty smirk on my face into a false smile.

  “Don’t do that,” he ordered in a stern voice, catching my elbow and tugging apart my still crossed arms.

  I swallowed hard and forced myself to be honest. “I tend to be a little snarky when I’m nervous.”

  “No, not the snark. Don’t force yourself to smile. I didn’t hire you to be a puppet. Although I would request a little less of the biting remarks in the presence of clients.” His tone had softened, and my heart did a strange leap.

  “I’m sure I won’t be nervous then at all,” I said dryly.

  “Do you drink wine?” he asked as we stepped into the lift.

  “Um, yes.” Apparently we were changing floors and topics.

  “Then I’ll have some brought up from my private stock. You should have a glass or two before client dinners to help ease your nerves.” Smith lounged against the mirrored glass of the lift.

  Drinking around him seemed like a very bad idea, but I kept that to myself and nodded, determined to contain some of my snark. What I couldn’t quite ignore was the way his towel had split open in the front, revealing too much of a muscular thigh. An inch or two higher and the towel would become obsolete. Smith crossed his legs, breaking the spell, and I looked sheepishly back up at him. A crooked grin carved across his face.

  Suddenly the lift felt too small, as if it was closing in on me, pushing me closer and closer to him. I locked my legs into place and hoped for a miracle that didn’t include me pinned against the control panel. His head tilted, studying me, and then he slowly licked his lower lip.

  In that moment I had no doubt what he could do with those lips, and more than ever before, I wanted to find out. I needed to know how that tongue would taste in my mouth and what it would feel like on my skin—how it would feel between my legs. I took one step closer just as the lift dinged and the doors slid open.

  “After you.” He held an arm out past the door to prevent it from closing. The gesture did nothing to allay the steady pulse growing in my core. There was a promise in his words—a knowingness that hinted at an intimacy we hadn’t yet shared but would.

  I did my best to brush it off as I exited into a plush hallway.

  Smith led me through a set of French doors into the master suite.

  “Excuse me.” He sauntered across the room to another door. My gaze followed the swagger of his hips. The towel was even more low-slung now, showcasing his taut back and perfectly carved tailbone. I nearly followed him through the closet door.

  Instead I hung back until he reemerged carrying a slate grey suit and a precisely folded oxford. He laid them across the bed then tossed two ties on top.

  “Choose one,” he instructed me before he disappeared into the attached en suite.

  I could no longer see him, despite the fact that the door was wide open. Forcing myself to get a grip, I picked up the silk ties and turned them over in my hands. The differences were subtle. Both blue. A slightly checked pattern to one, a thin red threading artfully embroidered in the other. I wrapped them around my hands, savouring the smoothness of the fabric. The strangest desire to press them to my lips came over me, but I threw one down and stepped away before I gave in to the urge.

  A low buzzing vibrated from the loo as Smith called out, “Do you have your phone?”

  I stepped closer, trying to hear him over the sound of the electric shaver. Movement caught the corner of my eye, and I realized he was now visible through the crack of the door. When I saw the towel puddled around his feet, I wanted to look away. Instead I drank in the pronounced curve of his ass matched along with the muscular arch of his thigh. He shifted, revealing more of his groin and the carved v that pointed down to the top of a dark patch of hair and the very root of his shaft.

  I stumbled back and pressed a hand to my chest before he noticed me staring.

  He called out again.

  “Yes,” I responded, mentally berating myself for peeping on my boss. Then again, he was the one who invited me into his bedroom.

  Not a good reason! the persistent voice in my head screamed.

  “We have a dinner tomorrow at seven.”

  Typing while in heat turned out to be more difficult than I expected. My fingers kept finding the wrong buttons, but I finally got it in the calendar on my mobile.

  “We’re running later than I thought,” he continued, “so I’ll show you around the house tomorrow morning. Can you be here with my coffee at seven-thirty?”

  Was that actually a request? “Yes.”

  “This afternoon, I’ll have you copy my date book for your own reference. Doris will see that you’re listed on my important accounts.” He strode through the bathroom door a moment later.

  The only thing that registered was the lack of towel.

  And wow.

  He walked into the closet and returned slipping into a pair of black boxer briefs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was on display. I needed to look away. I couldn’t be sure, but I was pretty certain staring at your boss’s dick—his beautiful, perfect dick—on the first day on the job sent the wrong message. Then again, it would be an injustice to the female race if I didn’t look. It hung low, brushing several inches down his thigh.

  God, if it looked like that right now—

  A warning bell rang in my head, cutting me off from that line of thinking. Nothing good would come out of it, although someone would probably come of it.

  I blurted out the first question that came to mind. “What do I wear?”

  “Come agai
n,” Smith said as the briefs slipped over his hips.

  Good job, Belle. Mention clothes while he’s naked. That’s not obvious at all. “Tomorrow. What do I wear for dinner tomorrow? Is it formal? Cocktail?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He wandered closer to me and my breath caught. He’d seen me watching, and there was no way I was going to put up a fight. The only thoughts racing through my mind were whether to start on the bed or the floor. But he brushed past me and picked up his dress shirt. His fingers nimbly undid the buttons, and he slipped it over his broad shoulders.

  “I need to know what to wear. If I show up in cowboy boots, no amount of wine will save me from my nerves.” I planted my fists on my hips and stared him down.

  “We have an appointment at Harrods tomorrow at ten sharp. I’ll pick something out then.”

  Not this again. “I actually have an excellent wardrobe.”

  Smith turned on me, and before I could process it, his hand had covered the one on my hip. He tugged slightly, and I stumbled forward breathless—waiting—until he released me. He held up the second tie. I’d forgotten I had it wadded in my fist.

  “I think I’ll wear this one,” he said in a low voice that shivered over my skin. “You have delicious taste, Belle. But given your financial portfolio, I imagine you don’t have the latest pieces. We need to look like we’re doing well at all times.”

  This time I ignored the we and went straight to the point. “My financial portfolio? You’ve been looking at my bank statements.”

  “And your debt,” he said. “It’s standard. I need to know who I’m getting in bed with—metaphorically speaking.”

  So he knew I was broke. Was that why he chose me? Because he knew I was desperate enough to do anything he asked? Worse yet, did he think I was desperate enough to sleep with him?

  “I don’t think any less of you,” he added as if he could read my mind. “Most recent graduates have debt.”

  I didn’t want to press the issue. I had no idea how far he had looked into my personal circumstances. Obviously he would know that I hadn’t been gainfully employed previously. He would know about the engagement to Philip. He’d already admitted to knowing I had a relationship with Clara and Edward. It was a perfectly reasonable thing for a prospective employer to do a background check, but that didn’t stop my stomach from tying into knots.