The Uber dumps me in front of Holden’s building. I step out of the car, and onto the smooth asphalt, staring up at the giant revolving door framed in gold. Glenwood Suites is etched into the glass. My gaze follows the length of the towering skyscraper, until the top apartments almost disappear into the sky.

Holden is somewhere up there, waiting for me.

I cross my arms over my chest, self-conscious and slightly chilled without a bra. My taut nipples are aching as I head into the luxurious lobby. Burgundy leather furniture sits on cream-colored carpet. Oversized vases filled with flowers create spots of color on antique side tables. A bank of overhead lights guides me to the elevator, where my nervous reflection shimmers in the tinted glass doors.

With a trembling hand, I press the “up” button.

The elevator whirs and then opens, revealing a spacious carriage surrounded in mirrors. I step inside, eyes cast downward, and wait for the doors to close behind. The elevator makes no additional stops as it climbs the seventy stories to the top floor.

My stomach twists into knots.

I grip the brass railing and close my eyes, holding my breath until a soft ping lets me know we’re there. The doors swoosh open without prompt. I hesitate a second too long, and strong hand lodges between the wall and the elevator door before it closes.

Holden.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, Miss Faber?”

He leans against the door frame, holding the elevator open, while I gawk at his physique. Loose fitting jeans hang low on his hips. He’s shirtless, revealing the eight pack of abdominal muscles I dreamed about. I fight the urge to pinch myself to make sure this isn’t just an extension of that vivid fantasy from before.

“I’ve got two minutes to spare,” I say, with a slight stutter.

He glances at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“Fine, but I’m on time.”

He grins in a way that makes my knees buckle. Collecting my nerves, I follow him through the short hallway to his suite. Soft music filters through the slightly open door. I peer inside, unprepared for the elegance that greets me.

At the far end of the expansive room, an elaborate chandelier hangs over a dining room table, back-dropped by several skyscrapers and tall buildings out the enormous window. The moon hangs high in the horizon, a glowing orb of magical beauty. Leather chairs surround the table. Behind it, pillows dot a bank of bench seating. The space is prime for entertaining, but by the looks of things, few people are invited.

To my right, white leather sofas form a generous “L” shape in the middle of the open living room. A model airplane—seven feet long at least—perches atop a short column, giving it the illusion that it’s flying toward the endless city sky.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, voice betraying my clear awe. “Have you lived here long?”

Holden crosses the foray to the kitchen, and flicks on some lights. White appliances. Light oak cabinets. Holden’s entire space is beautiful, but clinical, almost as though it’s barely been lived in.

I get it.

My grandmother’s house was like that. A constant tidier, she was always dusting, washing, perfecting her home to the point I was even nervous to leave footprints on her carpet.

But while my grandma woke at five each morning to make her home presentable for guests, I have a feeling Holden hires out that particular service, along with a few others.

“Would you like a drink?”

I nod. “Wine if you have it.”

He stops me before I can slip off my heels. “Leave them on. White or red?”

My stilettos click across the hardwood floor as I make my way to the kitchen. “Merlot.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t challenge the request. I sink into one of the bar stools—dear God they’ve got plush seating—and watch as he roots through a small wine rack for a bottle of red. I recognize the label—Screaming Eagle—and as such, know all about its staggering price tag. Lindsay and I bought the cheapest bottle once, and it almost bankrupted us.

Holden uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass.

He swirls before taking a sip. “It’s good.”

I take that as permission and echo his movements, swirling the liquid high on the glass and then swallowing a mouthful. It glides down my throat. “Decadent.”

Decadent? Sudden heat crawls up the side of my face. I’ve almost forgotten that this isn’t a date. I’m terrible with small talk at the best of times, but here, in this fantasy suite with last year’s People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, my tongue works its way into a knot.

“Good,” he says, curtly, and lifts his drink in mock toast.

I expect him to sit beside me, but he flicks off the lights and heads to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and then points to a spot across from him. I carry my glass and set it on the side table beside a Tiffany lamp.

“Spread your legs.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

Irritation creases his face. “I’ve made no pretenses about this evening, Miss Faber.”

I swallow the lump of unease lodged at the back of my throat. So much for small talk.

“I want you to uncross your thighs, and spread them apart.”

I lick my lips, and do as he commands.

This is what he said I needed to do to prove myself, right?

A breeze from the air conditioning blows between my legs, cool against my clit. My bald pussy clenches in response. Holden slumps down in his seat, and puts his hands behind his neck, like he’s settling in for a show. A smirk plays on his lips.

“Very nice, Miss Faber,” he says. “I appreciate that you shaved for the occasion.”

I smile thinly. “I anticipated that’s what you would expect.” Not that he left me much time. In my haste, I nicked my upper thigh, and wasted five minutes trying to get the blood to stop flowing.

“Initiative,” he says, with a wink. “I like that.”

His gaze moves to my breasts, where my tight nipples poke through the cotton of my T-shirt. I flinch under his scrutiny.

“Take off your shirt,” he says. I hook my fingers under the edge and begin to pull upward. Holden wags a finger. “Slowly, Miss Faber. I want to savor the reveal.”

With shaky fingers, I inch the shirt up over my stomach, my ribcage, and finally over my breasts. They spring free, perky and smooth. Through hooded eyelids, I see the outline of each nipple, tight, pink, and aching to be touched. I finish taking off my shirt and let it drop to the ground.

“Nice,” Holden says, his voice low with approval. “Very nice. How do you feel?”

“Cold,” I whisper. That’s only a fraction of the truth. I’m scared, and vulnerable. But if I’m being totally honest with myself, I feel utterly sexy too. My eyes lower to Holden’s groin, and I notice that his cock has hardened beneath his jeans. To know that I have that kind of power…

“Now, I want you to touch yourself.”

My mouth goes dry.

He nudges his head toward my chest. “Nipples first. Pinch them between your fingers.”

I do as he says, tentative at first, and then harder with his grunt of approval. It stings a little, so I ease off, rolling each nub between my fingertips. The flutter between my thighs grows with shocking intensity.

“Good,” Holden murmurs. “Put one your hand on your thigh.”

While still pinching one nipple, I rest the other palm on my cool skin, just above the knee. I glance down, but Holden instructs me to look at him. “I want your eyes on me while you touch yourself.”

My chest expands so fast I worry it might pop. I focus on Holden’s face, aroused by the way he watches my fingers inch up under my skirt. His tongue runs across his lip, and he rests his hand on his groin. My eyes linger there, even as the tip of one finger feathers across my clit.

A low moan of lust warbles from his throat.

I’m so wet, there must be a puddle on the leather. My fingers slick along the slit of my pussy, dipping within in the folds before circling my erect clitoris. It takes me a few tries to get the pressure right, but soon every flick, every pinch, every swipe sends a shiver of pleasure up and down my spine.

“Are you imagining my tongue licking your wet pussy?”

I swallow hard. I am now. Fuck.

Holden’s lips go slack. “When you come, I’m going to suck up all those juices, baby. I bet you taste so sweet.”

I buck my hips, and close my eyes. It’s so much easier to pretend his lips are on mine when I can’t see him across the room, watching me finger myself.

“I never said you could close your eyes, sweetness.”

Sweetness.

Lord help me, I’m enjoying this far too much. I succumb to his voice, the erotic suggestions that whisper in the musky air. My fingers move more quickly, with more urgency, after each command. I pretend Holden is fucking me, practically beg him to take me, until my hand rubs back and forth so fast across my swollen clitoris that my climax hits with shocking force.

I lift my hips, gasping and panting as tidal waves of pressure ebb and flow through me. My entire body vibrates with pleasure. I bite down on my lip to stop from crying out, but it doesn’t stop me from gasping when the last surge pulses through me.

Exhausted, emotional, somehow completely satisfied, I slump back on the sofa and tilt my head back. “Holy fuck,” I say, unable to stop from laughing. It’s ridiculous how much I’ve opened up for this impossible man, while he sits across from me, seemingly unaffected.

I blow out a steady breath. “Your turn.”

Holden shakes his head. “It’s not time for that just yet.”

The rejection stings, but I slough it off, and tug my skirt down over my hips. Crawling from the couch to the floor, I make my way over to him. My hands move from the carpet to his shins, then inch up his thighs.

He doesn’t reach for me, but he doesn’t pull away either.

I take it as invitation.

My fingers kneed into his thighs, and my hand cups his groin. His cock is hard, and warm beneath his jeans, and I am suddenly desperate to release it from its constraints. I begin to unbutton his pants, timid at first, and then with increased urgency. My hand slips into the waistband and brushes against his skin.

He grabs my wrist. “Not like this.”

Together we stand. He slides his jeans and briefs down over his hips. Sweet Jesus. His dick is even thicker, longer than I dreamed. Impossibly, I go wet again.

I reach for him—anxious to touch him, cup his firm ass in my palms, or run my tongue along his throbbing shaft—but he blocks my hand, and quickly spins me around. Before I know it, I’m pressed up against the wall, my hands splayed open, legs spread.

Holden pushes up against me.

His cock is warm on the cheeks of my ass. I can feel him grip it, dragging the head across my lower back, and then down along my buttocks.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he says, grunting, panting.

And I realize he’s jerking off.

I fend off disappointment and tell him I want to feel his thick cock in my pussy, pulsating in and out until I scream out his name. “I want to make you come,” I say, my voice growing hoarse.

He continues to grunt, and moan, and pant.

I can hear the climax building in his voice, and so I keep talking, imagining how it would feel to truly have him inside me, our orgasms colliding in an erotic crescendo. He jerks, pushes his pelvis into my buttocks, and warm liquid squirts onto my back.

“Fuck,” he grunts, with a final push.

He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades and grips my hips. I don’t move, not one single muscle, until his breathing slows to a steady rhythm. My heart pounds like a jack rabbit.

What happens now?

Before I can voice the question, I hear the teeth of his zipper clutch together, the buttoning of his jeans. I’m too red faced to turn around. Without looking at him, I go to the couch, and slip into my T-shirt. Come smears across my skin, cool and thick.

“I’ll have my car take you home now,” he says.

He’s so cold and unemotional, I actually get a chill. My skin ripples with goosebumps, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off an impending shiver. I had no idea what to expect when I came to Holden’s apartment, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Less than twenty-four hours after meeting, I’ve already masturbated myself to climax twice—double the number of times I’ve touched myself in a fucking year. Not the kind of statistic I’m proud to admit.

I’m sure my inexperience pulses like a neon sign, and if Holden wasn’t dubious of this arrangement before, he sure as hell will be now.

“I’m fine to Uber,” I say, feigning nonchalance.

I refuse to allow myself to cry. Not here.

He half snorts. “It’s not safe. My driver will be downstairs in five minutes.”

“Okay, thank you.”

I have no idea why I’m thanking him, because in this moment, I feel exactly as I thought I would—no different than a damn prostitute. And I haven’t even asked my first question, so I’m just giving out freebies.

Correction: Proving myself.

“You may go now,” he says.

His dismissal borders on cruelty, but I won’t—can’t—complain. Holden made it clear that tonight was all about building trust, and if making myself come and then having him jack off on my back doesn’t do the trick…

Well, then I give up.

I gather my purse, my dignity, and my courage. Then I leave without so much as a backward glance.

There’s a lot I don’t know about what happened tonight, but one thing’s for sure: there is no way in hell I’m telling Lindsay about any of this.