Chapter Twenty-Three

Annabel

Beau holds me in his arms while the private elevator whisks us up to the penthouse on the sixteenth floor.

For the first time in my life, I am weak in the knees.

“Does this go any faster?” I whisper to Beau.

He laughs. “Unfortunately, no.”

I turn in his arms, angling my face up to kiss him. “I wish it would hurry up. I’m not done with you yet.”

He pulls me in close, his muscled arms circling me completely. “Were you under the impression that I was done with you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says into my ear. “I’m not.” Then he pulls back again, remembering himself. God, I wish he’d forget himself completely. I’m a live wire, and I want him on my level. “Unless that was enough for you, in the car—”

“What did you hear when I said I’m not done with you yet?” I put my arms around his neck and kiss down his jawline. “I want you, Beau Bennett. I wanted you the first day we met. And you have been torturing me by making me wait this long.”

“I did make you a promise,” he murmured.

“Stop the elevator, and prove to me that you meant it.”

He shakes his head and laughs, the sound husky. “No need. We’re there.”

The elevator doors open onto an empty hallway with a door at the other end. There are no other doors. This is a penthouse. He owns the entire floor. He probably owns the entire building, but I don’t care. All I care about is where he keeps his bed. Or a sofa. Anywhere, as long as I can get his hands on me again. And his lips. And his cock inside me.

He hustles me down the hallway, takes his phone from his pocket, and taps it on the door above the handle. And I thought the sensors at the Pearl were high-end. This one is hidden in plain sight.

We step inside, into a hush that’s as luxurious as anything else in the penthouse. In New York City silence like this costs a fortune. It strikes me that Beau has not been exaggerating. Hotel chains are definitely not his only business. So what’s his secret side job? I’m curious.

But not that curious. Not now. “Oh, it’s so quiet.”

“We can turn on music, if you’d like,” Beau says, thumb poised over the screen of his phone.

“No,” I tell him, taking in everything I possibly can in a single glance. There will be time to see more of this later. And if there isn’t . . . I try to tell myself that this isn’t the only penthouse in New York City. Or even the only wealthy man. But none of that rings especially true. There is no one like Beau in the city. In the world. “Do you know what I want?”

“Tell me what you want, Annabel. Anything.”

“I want to know where your bedroom is.”

*****

It’s a blank canvas.

It’s only after I’ve had thirty seconds in the room that I register the personal touches.

There aren’t many. A small bookshelf with a row of books. A few paintings strategically framed and hung on the walls. The bed is the centerpiece. He must have staff, because it is meticulously made.

I can’t wait to destroy it.

Beau has the same idea.

He moves to the bed and takes the decorative pillows, with their heather-gray shams, off first, stacking them next to the bed. This reveals two pristine pillows, white pillowcases practically gleaming, behind them.

When he turns from the bed, I can see in his eyes how much he needs this. I can see in those green eyes, electric with heat, that he’s been trying his hardest to go about all of this in such a way that he’s never vulnerable, that he never makes a risky decision.

He is now, standing in the center of his bedroom.

Or is he?

He draws himself up, and I can hardly breathe at the sight of him. Meticulous. That’s what comes to mind. He is meticulous, methodical, and it hits me that this doesn’t mean he’s going to be boring. It means he’s going to be thorough. It means that once he lets his guard down, anything can happen.

And God as my witness, I hope it does.

He keeps his eyes on me as he reaches for the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. He unbuttons one, then the other. Once those are freed, he undoes the top button on his shirt, then the second.

I’m still staring when the shirt falls to the carpet.

When the undershirt goes, it has me scrambling to follow suit.

Beau is unbelievably hot. Every muscle is carved, defined. He doesn’t waste any time in the gym, that much is clear.

I whip my shirt over my head and shimmy out of my jeans. It’s getting hard to breathe.

In the silence he crosses the room, his eyes lingering on my body. He puts his hand on the side of my neck and kisses me, long and deep, before he allows himself another look.

“Jesus,” he says under his breath.

Then he reaches around behind me and unhooks my bra.

“Annabel,” he says, the sound barely audible.

This man, this gorgeous man, bends to slide my panties down my legs and off to the floor.

I’m utterly naked in front of him.

I’ve never felt so shy in all my life. I’ve been with plenty of men, in far more dangerous situations, but I’ve never felt shy. Not like this.

I savor the feeling, head held high.

Oh God, this is the sweet spot.

Then he pulls down his boxers.

I have no more words.