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“Sorry to bother you,” I say stiffly, “but my phone battery is dead. May I use your phone to call a car?”
He wrinkles his brow, halfway between amusement and disbelief. Then he holds out a hand. “Let me see that.”
Wow. He thinks I’m lying about my phone just to get myself back into his amazing presence. God’s gift, for sure. Maybe it’s a good thing that my night with him fell through, because it turns out he’s a prick. A good-looking prick, but really?
I slap my phone into his hand, and he wraps his fingers around it. Long, strong fingers. Sexy fingers that could’ve been all over my body.
As my sex pounds for him, reminding me of how wet I still am, I steel myself. He doesn’t deserve my v-card. And you know what? At least I learned a valuable lesson today: Cage Bryant has verified that all guys are pricks—not just the one who got me into the trouble I’m in.
He inspects my phone. He actually tries to turn it on.
Yup. Definitely a prick.
With a lowered gaze he looks up at me, and it’s such a sexy move that my stomach swirls. I hate my stomach. I hate everything that my body does every time I’m near him. I hate my eyes, too, because they’re telling me that there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that…
God, he’s not interested, and after what he just put me through, neither am I.
Then he opens the door wide and steps aside, and all I can do is blink. Now I’m the one staring at him in utter bewilderment.
“Get in here while I call one of my own personal cars to take you back to the airport,” he says in that cool, measured tone of his.
Okay. All I have to do now is move, go inside, get this over with so I can go forward to another more welcoming client who’ll actually appreciate my company. It could happen.
On trembling legs, I enter his house, my skin tingling as I walk by him, close enough to feel the warmth of his bare, rocked torso.
Close enough to start wanting him even more than I did before.