by Adrian, Lara
“Okay, great. No, just have her call Avery if she finds something. I’ll text you her number in a minute. Yep, love you, too, babe.”
“Tasha—”
“Don’t even start,” she says, already slipping her phone back into her pocket. “You’ve done so much for me, this is the least I can do for you.” As she speaks, someone calls out from the back office, alerting her to a delivery that needs a signature. “Listen, I gotta go take care of a few more things before we open.”
“All right,” I relent, as she pulls me into a brief hug.
“Come back and see me later this week, if you can manage to drag yourself away from your other favorite creative pursuit,” she says with a wink. “We can chat about him over a glass of Carménère.”
Chapter 3
The warm summer weather is so nice when I leave Vendange, I decide to walk instead of hailing a taxi or riding the subway back to the Upper East Side. Hundreds of other people apparently have the same idea. Rather than fall in line with the corporate types and other Manhattanites who rush past me on Madison Avenue, I take my time, strolling along the broad sidewalk with the crowds of meandering tourists and window shoppers.
Up and down this bustling stretch of asphalt, concrete, and towering steel, exclusive boutiques stand side-by-side with national brands of all kinds, as well as upscale designer stores, and financial institutions. I’m not in the market for anything specific, but as I approach a luxe lingerie shop, I can’t help myself from pausing at the brass-framed windows to admire all of the lacy, satiny things secreted inside.
It isn’t hard to imagine how hot Nick’s gaze would smolder if he saw me in one of those sexy undergarments . . . or how quickly his strong hands would work to peel it off me in his need to get inside me.
My nipples tighten at the thought. A flush of heat races through me, warmth I feel most intensely between my bare thighs, which now tremble a bit beneath my light linen skirt.
Curiosity, and the desire to drive Nick even a fraction as crazy as he makes me, finally gets the better of me. With a smile curving my lips, I open the glass doors and step inside.
Soft classical music and delicate perfume drift on the comfortably cool air of the boutique. I nod in greeting to one of the half-dozen elegantly outfitted saleswomen who are all busy with other customers. Glad for the privacy to browse on my own, I head toward the section in the back of the shop where the prettiest items are on display in mirrored glass alcoves and stacked glass drawers.
I’m immediately drawn to one of the bra and panty sets I saw in the window. Both comprised of delicate champagne lace and see-through mesh, each piece is embroidered with burgundy satin roses and dainty ribbon trim. The effect is sweetly innocent, yet decadently sexy.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
I turn to find one of the sales attendants approaching. The pretty black woman who smiled at me when I came in. She walks toward me with the fluid grace of a runway model, her stylish, slender figure, high cheekbones, and arresting light green eyes completing the effect.
I nod as she comes to stand beside me at the display. “It’s perfect.”
“Would you like to try them on? I’m Evelyn. I’ll be happy to help you find your sizes and show you to a fitting room.”
“Okay, thanks.”
I tell her what I wear, then, after retrieving my sizes from within a pair of locked drawers, she brings me into a serene private dressing area that’s practically the size of my old studio apartment in Brooklyn.
Evelyn carefully places the bra and panties on a glass vanity table. Next to it is a taupe velvet upholstered bench seat sitting atop a soft rug woven in a feminine pattern of soothing neutrals. Large mirrors and soft, boudoir lighting ensure every angle is presented in the most complimentary fashion.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Evelyn says.
I sit down on the cushioned bench and skate my fingers over the barely-there translucent lace cups of the bra, shivering at the thought of Nick doing the same while I’m wearing it. He’ll love this, I’m sure. And I’m excited at the idea of watching him unwrap me later tonight and discovering my surprise.
Excited, that is, until I see the price.
Nearly a thousand dollars for the two pieces.
If Evelyn catches my disappointed look, her expression never falters. “You have excellent taste. This set is part of our signature collection. It’s a classic that will look beautiful on you for years to come.” When I only nod in response, she smiles kindly and gestures toward the front of the boutique. “If you don’t feel this one suits you, we have something similar in our everyday collection that you might like too. Just let me know if you’d like to take a look.”
“Thank you.” At that same moment, my phone chimes with an incoming call. Nick’s ringtone. I reach into my purse to retrieve it. “Sorry.”
“Take your time,” Evelyn says. She gestures to a brass hand bell sitting on the vanity. “If you need anything, just ring for me.”
She walks away, closing the dressing room door behind her as I swipe the screen on my phone and answer Nick’s call. “Hi.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all morning.”
Just the sound of his deep, raspy voice makes my pulse kick into a faster tempo. I glance at the decadent lacy underthings in front of me and smile wistfully. “I’m thinking about you too.”
He makes a low, approving noise in the back of his throat. “Tell me more. Are you touching yourself while you’re thinking of me?”
I laugh softly, a flush warming my cheeks. “Not at the moment. I don’t think it would be appropriate.”
“You know how I feel about being appropriate,” he murmurs, and I can picture the wry twist of his mouth as he speaks. “Where are you?”
“On my way back from Vendange. I popped in on Tasha for a little while.”
“I hear music in the background.”
“I’m in a boutique on Madison.”
“Which one?”
“L’opale.”
“Nice,” he says after a brief pause. “Find anything you like?”
I try to ignore the fact that he seems so readily familiar with the store. I know he’s had a sex life before me, but the idea of him buying any of these things for another woman puts a pang of jealousy in my breast.
“Avery?”
“Hm?”
“You said you’re shopping for lingerie and thinking of me. Christ, I’m already hard just picturing that.” His voice lowers to that silken tone that always leaves me weak in the knees. “Indulge me before I have to head into another damn meeting. What sexy little things are you looking at? Better yet, try something on for me and let me see you in it. We can switch to video chat and see where things go.”
Now the heat that had flushed my face travels down my neck and straight to my core. “I can’t do that,” I whisper, squirming a bit on the velvet bench seat. “Someone might see.”
“The dressing rooms are completely private,” he says with more certainty than I care to acknowledge. “Get into one, Avery.”
“I already am.”
“Then we’re halfway there.” He chuckles, but there’s more heat than humor in his voice. “Are you already undressed too?”
“No. I brought in a bra and panties to try on, but I’ve changed my mind about them. I was going to put them back before you called.”
“Why?”
I shrug, and even though he can’t see me, he seems to home in on my discomfiture.
“Put them on for me. I’ll call you back on video in two minutes.”
He ends the call on that demand, and I exhale a sigh as I glance at the beautiful lingerie I have no business pretending I can afford. But I know Nick was serious that he expects me to show him what I selected, and there is a part of me that’s hungry for his reaction. Hungry to see his desire for me, especially when he’s busy with work, yet making time to play naughty games with me.
Stepping out of my sandals, I take off my silk tank
top and linen skirt, then slip out of my pastel peach department store bra. The first wisp of expensive champagne lace and burgundy satin against my bare breasts feels like a caress. I fasten the front closure and adjust the delicate ribbon straps, then scoop my breasts so they’re sitting high and plump in the pretty balconette cups.
Because I won’t be buying the lingerie, I leave the three-hundred-dollar panties on the vanity table and walk over to the mirrors to see how I look before Nick calls. I thought my lace-edged peach thong had been cute enough when I left the penthouse, but seeing it next to the stunning bra makes it look as mundane as a pair of cotton briefs. On a frustrated huff, I reach down to take it off, just as my phone chimes with Nick’s incoming call.
As promised, he’s calling from a video app. His handsome face fills the screen, making my breath catch even though I’ve had the privilege of seeing those dark-lashed cerulean eyes and brutally sensual features practically every day and night for the past four months.
“That wasn’t two minutes.”
He smirks. “I didn’t have the patience to wait that long.”
He’s not at his desk, but seated on the pale gray leather sofa in the conversation area of his large office. Behind him, a broad wall of gleaming silver granite soars easily fifteen feet from the floor to the ceiling. The wall serves as a backdrop for a single work of art—a Jackson Pollock original painted in black enamel. The tangle of chaotic lines and bold splashes are a stark contrast to the steady, in-control titan of business seated in front of the masterwork.
Settled back against the clean lines of the sofa, Nick grips his phone in one hand as he loosens his tie with the other. His mouth quirks at one corner as he holds my gaze from inside his corporate headquarters across town. “Let me see you, baby.”
I slowly extend my arm, giving him a view of the gorgeous bra. His low exhalation and thickly uttered curse tells me he approves.
“More,” he commands over the lowered volume of the speaker. “Let me see all of you.”
“I’m not wearing the panties.”
“Show me.”
I shake my head. “I’d have to try them on over my own underwear unless I intend to buy them.”
Nick doesn’t seem to care about my explanation. His eyes are blazing hot on me. He leans forward as if he wants to crawl through the phone. “Let me see your pussy, baby.”
Pressing my lips together, I angle the camera so he can see all of me.
“Holy fuck.” There is a fevered edge to his voice, a raw current of need that ignites the same in me. “You’re so damn beautiful. You get me hot just thinking about you. I’m hard as fucking steel over here.”
My body responds to his carnal praise as if he’s here in the room with me, looking at me . . . caressing me. Wanting me.
“Touch yourself. I want to see you stroke that pretty little clit.”
“Nick,” I whisper, worried that we’ll get interrupted, yet astonished that it doesn’t stop me from obeying him.
With my free hand, I slide my fingers down over the trimmed patch of curls between my legs, then into the wet cleft of my body. I’m drenched already, my sex aching for him. I can’t hold back my moan.
His breath leaves him on a deep groan. “Jesus Christ, what you do to me.”
I angle the phone so I can see him too. His jaw is clenched, his brows lowered over the intensity of his stare. I see him shift on the sofa, the camera’s focus jostling with his movements. I hear the soft metallic jangle of his belt buckle, followed by the quiet rasp of the zipper on his suit pants.
The thought of him taking his cock in hand while I stroke myself several blocks away is almost too much to take. I want him so badly, I can hardly stand it. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep the cry from spilling off my tongue.
Nick hisses a sharp curse. “Fuck this. I’ve got a better idea.”
“What?” My voice is thick, my blood roaring in my ears as I draw my fingers away from my throbbing flesh.
“I’m going to send Patrick to pick you up. I want you in my office. Right now.”
“But your meeting—”
“Can wait,” he says. “I, however, cannot. Look for the car in ten minutes. Bring the bra and panties with you.”
I shake my head, embarrassed by the reminder that I’m out of my league in this shop and with this man. “Nick, I can’t afford them. They cost almost a thousand dollars.”
“Have the store put them on my account.”
His account? Disappointment does battle with my embarrassment, and I’m not sure which one bothers me more. “You have an account at L’opale?”
He arches a dark brow. “I have accounts at many nice places around the city.”
“I’ll bet you do.” I’m sulking a little at that admission, but it’s hard to be totally irritated with him when he’s looking at me like I’m the only woman he’s ever wanted this badly. The power of that heated, sensual smile is enough to melt everything except my desire for him.
“Ask for Evelyn, she’s the manager. She’ll take care of everything for you.”
My lips flatten in reaction to that telling statement. “How many other women have you outfitted with expensive lingerie?”
“Do you really want to know?” His eyes hold mine unflinchingly.
I remain mute, because, damn him, I don’t want to know the answer to that question. Not that it would change my mind, anyway. I trace my finger over one of the embroidered silk burgundy roses on the bra, taking far too much satisfaction in the way his hot gaze follows my every movement. “You’re sure you have the time for this? For me?”
The look he gives me is so possessive, it obliterates all doubt.
“Ten minutes. In my office. And Avery, I intend to show you just how sure I am.”
Chapter 4
Nick’s driver drops me off in front of the dark glass tower on West 57th Street that houses Baine International. Holding the door open for me as I climb out, he offers me a pleasant nod once I alight to the curb.
“Thank you, Patrick.”
“My pleasure, as always, Ms. Ross.”
I enter the lobby of the multi-use building—one of several Manhattan properties Nick owns—wishing I’d had the foresight to bring a larger handbag when I left the apartment this morning. My tiny cross-body is useless when it comes to concealing my boutique purchases, so I have no choice but to carry the pearl-white shopping bag from L’opale into the building with me, its logo emblazoned in gold foil on both sides for everyone to see.
As I walk to the security desk in the lobby, I wave to the guard on duty. It’s the same man who was posted here last week when Nick brought me to his office after-hours to pick up some last-minute paperwork he needed to sign. Late-twenties, his hazel eyes sharp and serious beneath a crown of brown hair cut just a shade longer than military high-and-tight, there’s no mistaking the muscular Baine International security guard for anything other than a recent veteran.
“Hello, Gabe.”
“Morning, Ms. Ross.” As I approach to sign in, he stands up and gestures me on to the elevators. “No need to register. Mr. Baine called down a few minutes ago to say he was expecting you.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.”
I have to admit, it feels good to sail through the Baine International lobby as if I’m not just another random visitor to the building or guest of the very eligible bachelor who commands half the city from his office on the top floor. Of course, I don’t imagine many of Nick’s visitors come to see him at work carrying a bag of expensive lingerie in their hand.
At least, they damn sure better not.
Since I have no choice but to own the situation, I ride the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor with the ribbon handles of the shopping bag held casually in my grasp. Lily Fontana, Nick’s personal assistant, is just finishing a phone call as I emerge from the lift. We’ve never been introduced, but I know of her through Nick, and, by accident once, I saw her pretty, heart-shaped face and long ebony hair in a photo on
his phone’s contact directory.
She catches my gaze and continues talking to the person on the other end of the line. Her voice is professional, but cool, in contrast with the pleasant smile she gives me as I walk farther into the private reception area.
“Unfortunately, as I informed your press secretary earlier this week, Senator McCormack, Mr. Baine’s calendar is quite full. He’s asked me to convey his regrets that he will be unable to attend. Of course. Yes, I’ll be sure to let Mr. Baine know.”
Lily politely ends the call and turns the full impact of her dazzling smile on me.
“You must be Avery,” she says, coming around her desk to offer me her hand in greeting.
I take it, surprised by her directness and the firmness of her grip for such a petite woman. Diminutive in size only, Nick’s longtime assistant is clearly a force to be reckoned with—which makes sense. I know from experience that shrinking violets would not last long in Dominic Baine’s world.
“Nice to meet you, Lily.”
“Nice to meet you too. Nick should be out shortly,” she tells me. “He’s finishing up in the conference room down the hall. He said he’d like you to wait for him in his office.”
“Okay.”
“Been out doing a little shopping?” She glances at the bag in my hand as she leads me toward Nick’s corner office at the end of the corridor. “I adore L’opale. But then, what woman wouldn’t, right?”
I nod noncommittally, and, before I can reply, I hear Nick’s voice coming from somewhere ahead of us. He steps out of a meeting room accompanied by three other men in suits and a middle-aged woman dressed in a blue nun’s habit and white long-sleeved blouse. I recognize one of the men as Andrew Beckham, Nick’s lawyer. The handsome black attorney helped orchestrate the purchase of Vendange. The other men are unfamiliar to me, but the way they defer to Nick leaves no question as to who’s in charge.
They all look our way, and I’m not sure what makes my face turn redder with self-consciousness—Nick’s smoldering glance, or the sister’s curious stare from behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses.