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“Now, what way is that to greet me, kitten?” he asks softly.

The sound of his voice sends needy distress signals to my pussy, and I’m already getting wet by the time he steps forward and enters the room.

My pulse is jumping all over the place as I shut the door behind him. “I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all,” I reply. I bristle silently at my defensive tone and look at him.

He’s staring at me with an intensity that scares me a little, so I walk into my bedroom and pick up the matching earrings. Through the mirror on my dressing table, I see him fill my bedroom doorway. He’s wearing an expensive black dress shirt, tailored trousers and a matching dinner jacket, and his hair is tamed a little from its usual touch of wildness.

So far, I’ve seen many facets of Mason Sinclair, which keep me enthralled—the mad genius, the sometimes cruel lover, the alpha dominant, the spiritually decayed man who keened his loss and rage in that room in Monte Carlo—but I’ve never seen him as this suave sophisticate. I don’t know what to do with that, so I just let our gazes connect. Until even that becomes too much, and I lower my head.

“You were going to invent some bright and brilliant thing. And I was going to work. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“Plans have changed. I’m coming with you tonight.”

I shouldn’t feel this delighted at the thought of his company. It speaks to an addiction I haven’t entertained since my doomed crush on Leo Brummer. I’m getting attached and I don’t know how to stop myself. So I try and play it cool by heading for where I placed my clutch and my tiny leather jacket on the bed earlier. He takes the jacket from me and helps me shrug it on, before he extracts a box from his back pocket.

My eyes widen when he holds it out to me. “What’s that?”

“The bright and brilliant thing I was working on earlier.”

“Another prototype? For me?” My addiction ratchets up another notch and my hands shake as I take the box from him.

To date, Mason has introduced me to six gadgets that haven’t seen the light of a commercial market. To say I’m a convert from a staid no-sex-toys girl to a happy-nympho guinea pig is stating it mildly. Yet another thing that scares the shit out of me. While I finger the box, I tell myself perhaps I should be a little selfish and call Bethany. I really need clarity here.

“Can I open it later? We need to get going.”

Mason’s eyes narrow, but he nods.

I hurry out of the room and I’m halfway to the elevator by the time he reaches me. His fierce stare as we head to the top deck burns me alive. Mason has no compunction when it comes to watching me. In fact, when it comes to me, he has no compunctions, full stop. He stares for as long and as hard as he wants to. And sometimes he takes pleasure in watching me squirm. I’m at squirming point when the elevator slides open.

I stumble onto the wide, stunning, topmost deck of theIL Indulgenceand immediately busy myself with the unnecessary task of ensuring each guest is happy. My job is that of grand overseer. I have hostesses assigned to each guest and I don’t need to personally check on each one unless there’s a problem. But I do anyway.

When it’s time to board the launch, I feel a hand on the small of my back. I look up into Mason’s set face. He’s not happy. A different sort of panic bolts through me.

I sway against him, and he clamps his arm around me.

We stay pretty much glued together all the way to the private club. He comes with me when I go to check with the manager that the burlesque performance is on schedule. He stays by my side through dinner and the strip show that follows.

“How long is this thing going to last?” His voice is a displeased rumble in my ear as we settle in our seats after watching a nude fire-eater strut her stuff on stage.

“Technically, till two in the morning, but I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.”

He grunts and his jaw clenches.

“Is there a problem, Mason?”

“There will be if that asshole keeps staring at you like that.”

My head swings around and Titus Morton, heir to an energy drinks empire and a known playboy, is staring at me while sliding his hand up and down his girlfriend’s bare arm.

I turn back to Mason. “Is that why you decided to come tonight? Because of Titus?” A delicious tingle starts deep in my belly. I’m momentarily struck dumb when I recognize it as pleasure. I’m ecstatic that Mason is jealous. And possessive.

I’m not sure whether I want to punch some rationality back into my senses or dance in the rain of my new discovery.

“He was a prick when we were in Yale. From the looks of him, he’s only grown into a mega-sized prick,” Mason snarls.

A quick glance at Titus shows the two men eyeing one another with barely repressed animosity.

“I can handle myself, Mason. If that’s the only reason you came, you don’t need to worry.”