Manhattan Mogul: A New York City Romance

by Tara Leigh

  Now that I’m inside, I easily spot the source of the noise. A small speaker sits on a makeshift desk, exuding the most godawful racket I’ve ever heard. It sounds like a herd of cows dying. At the back of the room, a door opens and out comes Nixie, still in the process of wrapping a towel around her body. Her fucking gorgeous body. One glimpse has me rock hard in an instant.

  Nixie’s shriek surpasses the volume of her speaker.

  I jump to my feet, pointing at it. “I thought those sounds were coming from you. I thought you—”

  “So you broke into my apartment because I’m listing to a meditation track for my art therapy class?”

  Meditation? There is absolutely nothing relaxing about the noise she’s listening to. “About that, this whole place is a break-in waiting to happen. It’s not safe here. You need to move.”

  Her jaw sags as she stares at me, wet hair dripping into a puddle at her bare feet. “No. You know what—you need to leave. Get out!” With her free hand she points at the door. “Get. Out. Now.”

  I hesitate. Nixie looks ridiculously adorable with her too-small towel clutched to her chest. Sure, I’ll leave, but not until I ask her about what the lady from upstairs said, and convince her to move to a safer place. “I will, but first—”

  “But nothing,” she says, stomping her foot. Maybe it’s the damp floor, or maybe her anger puts her off balance, but in the next breath her heel kicks out from under her and Nixie starts to fall.

  I’m at her side before she hits the floor, scooping her into my arms and heading straight for the narrow bed beneath the window, her towel falling away.

  She turns her head into my shoulder. “I’m fine,” she whispers.

  I swallow the heavy lump of desire building in my throat, letting go of her as reluctantly as a robber forfeiting his loot, my eyes skimming over Nixie’s lithe limbs and perfectly proportioned curves before forcing myself to retrieve her towel. Her hair spreads across the bed like rays of the sun and when I come back, I notice that one fiery chunk has curved just under her jaw. After placing the towel over her, I extend a hand to brush it behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on the smooth warmth of her skin. My chest squeezes, blood pumping to parts of my anatomy that want to touch the rest of her, too. “This is getting to be a habit.”

  The thick russet fringe surrounding her eyes is the perfect frame for their stunning topaz color. “Carrying me, or lying?” Eyes that cut me to the quick with their no-holds-barred bluntness.

  “I told you, what you saw—it wasn’t what it looked like.”

  Her lips twist. “The motto of cheaters everywhere. Save it, I’m not interested.”

  Nixie pushes me away but I grab her wrists. “Those are my brother’s kids. I’m their uncle.”

  For a second, her face registers surprise, but then suspicion creeps back in. “Yeah? Well, you and their mother looked pretty cozy to me.”

  I feel a sting of shame at how I left Eva earlier, shame that I was in her bedroom at all. Wyatt’s absence is a chasm I can’t fill. My interest Nixie crystalizes that fact. It hasn’t let up and I need to see where it leads.

  “Cozy, yes. She’s family, and she’ll always be family.” I meet Nixie’s accusations head on, sparks of heat radiating from her glare. “But we’re not—”

  “And what does your brother think about you pinch-hitting for him? Does he know just how cozy you two are?”

  “My brother’s dead.”

  There’s a tiny hitch in Nixie’s breath as it catches in the back of her throat. Tiny, but audible. “I-I’m so sorry. I—”

  “It’s okay. It happened a long time ago. Before the twins were born.”

  “Oh.” It’s less than a word, more like an exhaled beat of sadness. She blinks at me rapidly, a wet sheen coming over her eyes. “That’s—”

  I cut her off, not out of rudeness, but because I’ve heard it before. The sympathy, the pity. No matter how well-intentioned, I’d rather avoid it all. “That’s why we look like a typical family of four. In a lot of ways, that’s what we are.”

  A flicker of understanding passes across Nixie’s face. An acknowledgement of my reluctance to talk about the loss of my brother. Although she’s not done asking about Eva. “That first time we talked on the phone—you said that the woman who turned love into a four-letter word for you slept with your brother. You were talking about Eva, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. But that was a long time ago. Ancient history.”

  Ancient history is an exaggeration. But I sense in Nixie a willingness to give me the benefit of the doubt. Still, she perseveres one last time. “So, you and Eva . . . you’re not . . . together?”

  “Not since before the twins. Years before the twins. Eva is the mother of my niece and nephew.” I bring Nixie’s wrist to my face, turning it over to kiss the tiny patchwork of veins stitched beneath her skin. “That’s all.”

  Nixie

  A tiny hiss escapes my lips as Nash nibbles his way along the inside of my arm, from the curve of my elbow to the angle of my shoulder. Collarbone. Neck. Earlobe. Jaw. Stopping an inch away from my mouth, his warm breath tickles my lips like a cinnamon-scented breeze. A sweet temptation.

  His explanation makes sense. And it makes me feel like a heartless bitch, too. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a sibling, but I imagine it’s similar to losing a parent. Soul-crushing.

  But I do know, better than anyone, how easily looks can deceive. I know how death destroys everything it touches, how loss and grief and resilience can create new families based on the tiniest drop of shared blood or none at all.

  I made assumptions without allowing Nash to confirm or deny. I judged him guilty without evidence or testimony.

  And I was wrong. I believe Nash.

  But I wasn’t entirely wrong. I didn’t imagine the possessive drape of Eva’s hand across Nash’s chest. Or her hyper-vigilance of even the slightest change in his expression. If Eva had her way, they would be together, for sure.

  I open my mouth, intending to say something, anything. I’m really, really sorry about your brother or I don’t want to get involved or You should leave. Any or all of the above. Instead I pull the scent of him into my lungs, holding my breath and trapping it there until my chest vibrates with need. My tongue sweeps across my lips, desperate for a taste of Nash. And he knows it.

  In the instant before his head dips, his mouth covering mine, I catch a flash of his sultry smile. It should be enough to get me to shove at his shoulders, or turn my face away. So damn cocky, that smile of his.

  But it isn’t enough.

  And I don’t.

  In the back of my mind, lingering sullenly like an uninvited guest, is the knowledge that this—whatever this is—won’t end well. But right now, I’m not sure I care.

  It’s been over a month since I laid eyes on Nash, and I absorb his presence like a drought-ravaged field in a rainstorm. Living on my own with no close ties to anyone or anything except Kismet, I’m ripe for sexual contact.

  And Nash is a hard man to resist.

  My arousal is like a drug that sings through my veins and weighs down my limbs. Surrender is inevitable.

  As our tongues slide together, the network of nerve endings just beneath the surface of my skin comes alive. Already squirming with pleasure at Nash’s weight above me, they dance and cheer at his touch.

  He groans my name and the sound of it cascades down my spine like music notes, hitting all the right chords.

  I reach for the back of Nash’s neck with one hand, plunging my fingers through his still damp hair. With my other hand, I tug at his wrist, sliding his palm along my ribs until he cups my breast. “Yes,” I whimper.

  My nipples harden, Nash squeezing the pulsing nubs between his thumb and forefinger. I arch my spine, streaks of white-hot color racing against the back of my eyelids like shooting stars. His mouth leaves mine, his lips and tongue forging a wet path down my neck, punctuated with bites that alternate between tender and turbulent. The
pulsing between my legs that started out slow becomes faster, desperate. My knees edge apart, needing to feel Nash between them. But even as I rub the soles of my feet along Nash’s powerful thighs, wrapping my ankles around his hips and drawing him into me, it isn’t enough. I want to be full, filled. By Nash.

  I’m already panting, and when his mouth closes around my breast, a hungry squeal shoots from my throat. Instinctively rocking my hips, I feel the hard length of him pressing against me through his jeans. “Off,” I moan, pawing at his sweater, at the band of his jeans. Craving his naked skin next to mine.

  “Not yet,” Nash whispers, shifting onto his elbow and moving one of his legs to the side.

  I moan at the decrease in his weight, gripping his shoulders and trying to keep him above me.

  “Shhh,” he whispers against my neck. “I’m going to crush you.”

  “I don’t c—”

  My protest is cut off by another kiss, this one long and lingering. But I realize why Nash moved. With his weight on his elbow, he trails his fingertips from the edge of my hairline, down my cheek and chin, tender touches sweeping along my breasts and ribcage, dipping into the well of my belly button, the subtle ridge of my hipbone.

  He finds the thin pink line that stretches from that bone almost to my lowest rib. My souvenir from the night we met.

  “Does it hurt?” Nash asks softly.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  When he looks like he doesn’t believe me, I run my hands over the tattoos emblazoned across both biceps and one forearm, and then the scar on his abdomen that looks like a faded version of mine. “You’ve seen the sharp end of a knife, too. Skin heals. I’m fine.”

  “Tough girl,” he whispers. My eyes flutter shut as his long fingers move lower, stroking my thighs with feather-light touches that have me squirming beneath him. The heartbeat between my legs growing more insistent and emphatic with each one. Words clog in the back of my throat—the same one over and over until it becomes a silent chant. Please, please, please, please, please.

  Finally, as if he hears me, the tips of his fingers sweep at the outer edges of the most intimate part of me, now wet and wanting. Closer and closer until they’re pulled inside by my heat. My hips buck upward. Nash smiles against my mouth. “Needy Nixie.”

  Yes. I am. Out of my mind with need.

  His fingers pierce me, his thumb finding my swollen bud. Delicious beads of tension are pried from my center as a shiver of excited anticipation vibrates through my entire body, ending on a guttural moan. The sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard, certainly not from me, and my eyes fly open. Nash’s intense expression fills my field of vision, green eyes glowing with lust, his mouth hard with intention. He wants me every bit as much as I want him.

  He wants me . . . But for how long?

  The realization is like a slap to my face, the sharp sting clearing away the haze of excuses I’m feeding myself. What am I doing? This can’t go any further. No matter how good Nash makes me feel, the man could eat me alive and still pick up a tart from a downtown bar for dessert.

  But it’s too late. I’m caught in the rapids, headed straight toward the waterfall, every muscle tense and poised for the inevitable. And I do fall, but even that is different too. Like all the times before have been merely reading about gravity from a textbook, while Nash actually brings me to the very edge—and sends me soaring, tumbling. Falling.

  I have no idea how long it takes to catch my breath. Could be the blink of an eye or an hour. But when I do, Nash is still there. Looking like the cat that ate the proverbial canary. As if my orgasm was powerful enough for two. Maybe it was.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, to myself as much as to Nash.

  His thick brows lift. “I think you just did.”

  A mistake, never to be repeated.

  Nash makes me want things. Things I’m sure he won’t—can’t—give me.

  That flying-high feeling of loving and being loved in return. The comfort of knowing there’s at least one person in my life who has my back, and that the feeling is mutual. Communication driven by respect, fueled by trust.

  Nash could make me lose sight my own dreams, just for the pulse-pounding excitement of being in his arms. His shoulders are so broad, his grin so damn blinding—being around him almost makes me forget what I learned from Derrick. Lessons that came at such a high cost, I almost lost myself.

  And now my arms are shaking from the effort of forcing Nash off of me. My whole body is shaking. Not because he is so heavy, or because I’m weak. But because it physically hurts to push him away when all I want to do is hold him close.

  Not knowing where to look, I watch the slow bob of Nash’s throat as he swallows, bracing myself for his anger. What I get is a heavy sigh that rumbles from his chest. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” But I wish I wasn’t.

  He dips his head in a nod. “We’re still not finished, Nixie.”

  This time I know better than to argue.

  Before Nash leaves, he notices the sliding lock at the top of my door, the one I hate using because it makes a screeching noise that is ten times worse than nails on chalkboard. “Does that work?” he asks, looking back at me.

  I nod.

  “I’ll wait in the hall until you lock the door behind me.”

  Chapter 9

  Nash

  I practically vault into the ring this morning. There’s an honesty about fighting that I love, and I need it today. Lose focus. Bam. You get hit. Too slow. Bam. You get hit. Poor aim. Bam. You get hit.

  Cause and effect. Action and reaction. Reward and consequence. Truth. Honesty. Pain.

  Half an hour later, my opponent is on the floor and I’m in the shower, trying not to let the adrenaline rush swirl down the drain.

  Life isn’t as simple outside of the ring.

  Last night, walking down the stairs of Nixie’s apartment building, leaving her, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  Which is absurd—I barely know her. We haven’t even had sex yet.

  Now there’s a tragedy.

  So fucking close. I wish I knew what changed her mind. It happened so fast. Like the flip of a switch. One moment we were on the exact same page, and the next . . . We were in entirely different books.

  I wanted to ask, to stay right beside her until I knew what the hell went wrong. But those eyes of hers, filling with disappointment, with doubt, with fear—they just about slayed me.

  I didn’t ask. I couldn’t stay. Because I was afraid of what I might learn. What if Nixie wants too much or not enough?

  Or worse. What if she just doesn’t want me?

  Because I want to follow this unexpected thread of connection and see where it takes us.

  Maybe it will break. Or maybe it won’t go very far. It’s entirely possible—probable, even—that I’m not the kind of guy who can handle more than a few nights with the same woman.

  But what if I am?

  Eva asked me, Don’t you ever want more?

  My initial reaction was dismissal. A stubborn reluctance to fix what isn’t broken. But maybe that’s the point. I’m not broken. So why am I behaving as if I’m so damn fragile? Filing down my interactions to the lowest common denominator and avoiding anyone who might shake things up.

  I walked out of Nixie’s crappy apartment, knowing I was leaving something precious behind. Even now, striding to my office in a five thousand dollar suit, custom-made Italian oxfords on my feet, French silk tie choking my neck—I’ve never felt so worthless.

  And Eva. What the fuck am I going to do about Eva?

  Yeah, life in the ring is so much easier.

  As if she heard my turbulent thoughts, my phone rings. “Hey. About last night—”

  Eva stops me. “I’m not calling to talk about last night. In fact, I’d rather not discuss it at all.”

  I frown, wanting to confront the inevitable awkwardness head-on so we can move past it. “I think we should.”

  “No
,” she says, firmly. “It was a mistake. I never should have put you in that position. We’re friends, you’re the twins’ uncle. For now, that’s all.”

  For now? But I decide not to press the point. She’s letting me off the hook, and I’m grateful. “I’m sorry, Eva.”

  “Me too.” She pauses for a minute before taking a breath and perking up. “But, like I said, that’s not why I’m calling. I just wanted to firm up our Thanksgiving plans.”

  “Thanksgiving? That’s—”

  “Three weeks away.”

  I mutter a curse beneath my breath. I’d completely forgotten. “Right.”

  “I know we were supposed to stay in New York this year, and your parents were going to come up . . .” Hope flares in my chest that Eva’s made alternative arrangements. Maybe I can just stay here and forget the holiday exists. “ . . . but I was over Jolie’s the other day and Reina Bettencourt stopped by. I know you and Tristan have gotten pretty close, and she invited all of us to Bermuda for the week.”

  Crap. I search for another out. “A week? I can’t take off an entire week.”

  “Since I knew you would say that, we’re only going for a few days. I think Celeste Van Horne will be there, too. And maybe Celeste’s brother. You’re friends with Bryce, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I’ve never met him. What’s he like?”

  Life of the party. Irresponsible as fuck. Hell of a right hook. “I have a lot going on right now, Eva. Work is—”

  “Tristan is hardly a slacker, and if he can take off for a long weekend so can you.”

  I can’t argue with that. Tristan Bettencourt is one of the hottest hedge fund managers in New York. I didn’t expect to like a guy who was born on the Forbes 400 List, but Tristan is one of the least pretentious people I’ve ever met. And one of the hardest-working. His wife, Reina, is no slouch either. If the New York Stock Exchange ever decided to throw a prom, Tristan and Reina would be crowned King and Queen.

  “What about my parents?”

  “They were absolutely thrilled to switch their flight and meet us in Bermuda. Everyone’s on board with the change in plans, Nash.” When I don’t say anything, she brings out the big guns. “Do I need to put the twins on the phone so Uncle Nash can explain why he’s too busy to spend the holiday with them?”