Page 4 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

SOPHIA

T he rest of the day is spent in deep regret.

I can’t believe I gave Carter my phone number. I also can’t believe I’m letting him take me to dinner. It’s a good thing he didn’t give me his number, or I’d have canceled the minute I got home.

Which I suspect he knew. If so, I’ve underestimated him.

But I have to admit how intrigued I am. I doubt we have much in common, but the chemistry between us is real.

When his call comes at quarter to seven, I’m sitting in my living room sipping a glass of white wine, surprised by how nervous I feel. “Hello?”

“Hello, Sophia. It’s me.”

I recognize his voice but decide to make him work for it. “You’ll have to be more specific, sir. I have dozens of suitors calling all day long.”

He chuckles. “I bet you do. Okay, see if this jogs your memory. My first name starts with a C and ends with A-R-T-E-R.”

“Oh yes. The billionaire.”

“You say that like it’s a character flaw.”

“I don’t know you well enough yet to know if all your money has ruined you.”

“Yet? That sounds promising.”

His tone is warm and teasing. He’s flirting with me again. It’s worrisome how much I like it. “I thought you were going to text me.”

“I was, but I wanted to hear your beautiful voice.”

Trying not to smile, I say, “You don’t have to lay it on quite so thick.”

“I want you to like me. Besides, it’s true. Your voice is gorgeous, like everything else about you. What’s your address?”

The way he compliments me is both flattering and suspicious. I’m not used to such easy praise from a man. I can count on my left hand the number of times Nick gave me a sincere compliment. One without a caveat attached, the way he told me I looked good because I’d finally lost ten pounds.

My mother is the same way. Maybe that’s why I felt so comfortable with Nick in the beginning. His derision felt like home.

I give Carter my address. We continue to chat about light, inconsequential things until I hear a car pull into my driveway. Rising, I look out the living room windows to see him emerging from a Lamborghini painted the searing shade of the sun.

I open the door and watch him approach, grinning, his cell phone held to his ear.

“Mr. McCord. You’re early.”

“You told me not to be late.”

“Do you always follow orders so well?”

“Maybe you should give me a few more and find out.”

He reaches the front step and stops in front of me. He looks me up and down, the phone still at his ear. “Jesus. You’re radiant. I feel like a cockroach standing in front of a Caravaggio.”

I lift my brows. “You know Caravaggio?”

“Don’t let this pretty face fool you, sweetheart. I’m a lot smarter than I look.”

We’re smiling at each other, standing two feet apart but still talking into our phones. It’s silly but fun. Playful. Something my ex never once was.

Stop thinking about Nick.

Disconnecting the call, I lean against the door frame and take him in. Six-foot-something of strapping good looks and that boyish-but-devilish grin.

He’s dangerous, this one. I’ll need to be careful. I can already feel my bog witch melting like warmed butter.

He raises his arms shoulder height and completes a slow turn, allowing me to inspect his outfit. In light gray slacks and a button-down white linen shirt with the cuffs rolled up, he’s casually elegant. The tattoos on his muscular forearms add an unexpectedly sexy edge.

“Do I pass muster?”

“Not bad for a cockroach.”

We smile at each other for a moment longer until he glances over my shoulder into the house. “Your place is nice.”

“Thank you. So is your car. I see you have a thing for the color yellow.”

His face falls. It’s only for a fraction of a second before he recovers and pastes on a smile, but I catch it and am horrified to realize he thinks I’m mocking him.

“I’m sorry if that came out wrong. I didn’t mean it as a dig. I like yellow too. It’s very cheerful. I actually wanted to paint the house yellow when we first moved in, but my ex acted like I’d asked to sacrifice kittens in a Satanic ritual, so it never happened.”

Carter frowns. “He said no to you?”

“He did.”

“What a dick. I’d have let you paint the house purple and hot-pink if you wanted.”

I study his expression, surprised to find it sincere. A little flutter of pleasure warms my belly, spreading lower until I’m amazed that such an innocent comment about house paint could leave me turned on.

Only it’s not really about house paint. It’s about fulfilling my desires, which my vagina apparently knows.

Careful, Sophia. It’s one dinner, nothing more.

“Come in for a moment and let me get my handbag.”

I turn and walk through the foyer, conscious of Carter following. I try to see the house through new eyes, wondering what he really thinks of it. “Nice” is such an ambiguous word. It can mean anything from “okay” to “hideous,” depending on the speaker.

I imagine his place is all black leather furniture and reflective glass surfaces, a sex lair where he brings his young blonde dates after dinner for some athletic fucking in front of one of the many mirrors hung for just such a thing.

I’ve never had sex in front of a mirror. I don’t know why the thought of it now should give me such a tingle.

Except of course I do, but this is going to be dinner, not a hookup. I didn’t even bother to shave my legs.

I grab my bag from where I left it on the kitchen table and turn, startled to find Carter right there, not two feet away. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry I’m standing so close.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Okay, technically I’m only sorry that it made you have that nauseated expression on your face, but if I thought I could get away with it, there wouldn’t be any space between us at all.”

We gaze at each other with our arms at our sides and the small space between us vibrating at a high, dangerous frequency.

All it would take for us to be kissing is for him to lean in.

“I don’t feel nauseated. I do, however, think maybe I should lay a few ground rules for this dinner you’re taking me to.”

Blue eyes alight, he smiles. “You sure like rules.”

“Sometimes, they’re necessary.”

“Like when you go on a date?”

“Like when young men who want to merge companies with mine flatter me so extravagantly and forget about the concept of personal space. And this isn’t a date.”

He considers all that for a moment, his head tilted to the side, his expression pensive. “I have some thoughts. Permission to share them.”

I suppress a smile. He’s just so damn adorable. “Sure. Shoot.”

“Thank you. Okay, here goes. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t give a fuck about our businesses, but I know you don’t know me well, so I don’t expect you to take my word on it.

Also, I’m not flattering you when I say you’re gorgeous.

I’m expressing how I feel. If you’re uncomfortable with that, tell me and I’ll stop.

If you don’t tell me to stop, I won’t, because I don’t want you to have any doubts about how attractive I think you are. And finally…”

He closes the space between us with a single step and gazes intently down into my eyes. His voice turns throaty. “This is definitely a date. Wanna know why?”

Against my better judgment, I do. “Why?”

He reaches up and lightly rests two fingers on the vein throbbing on the side of my neck. His smile is small and smug.

“Because your heart’s beating as hard as mine.”

For a split second, I think he’s about to kiss me, and I’m electrified. But he grabs my hand instead.

“C’mon, let’s go eat. On the drive to the restaurant, you can tell me all about yourself, and we’ll both pretend you weren’t just secretly hoping I’d kiss you.”

I follow him to the door, concerned that not even my unshaven legs can put the brakes on this runaway train.

It already feels as if it’s going off the tracks, and we haven’t even had appetizers yet.

We sit across from each other at a small table draped in white linen and lit by votive candles. The scent of roasted garlic and the strains of a Puccini opera fill the air. The place is tiny, with room for only half a dozen tables along the brick wall opposite the bar.

“I love it,” Carter pronounces, looking around.

“Wait until you taste the food. It’s excellent.”

As if summoned, a waiter in a white apron appears at our tableside. In a thick Italian accent, he welcomes us in, hands us menus, and rattles off the night’s specials. Then he looks at me expectantly.

I say, “Carter, do you drink red wine?”

“I do.”

“Fabrizio has an excellent Amarone on his list. Would you mind if I order a bottle?”

He leans back in his chair, drapes an arm casually over the backrest, and smiles at me.

I take that as an affirmative. After a brief discussion with Fabrizio to confirm the vintage listed is actually available, I order and send him on his way. When I turn my attention back to Carter, he’s still smiling, but now he looks impressed.

“What?”

“I’ve never known anybody who speaks Italian.”

I unfold the napkin over my lap and try not to let the admiration in his tone affect me. Nick thought my dedication to teaching myself the language was baffling. Not to mention a total waste of time.

“I went to Italy on my honeymoon a million years ago. Thought it would make things easier if one of us could communicate with the locals. Getting around and all that.”

“Did it?”

I nod, remembering how irritated my new husband became after ten days of having me translate. Even then, even though it made the trip so much easier, he hated not being the one in control.

It’s amazing how red those flags are in hindsight.

Carter leans forward and braces his forearms on the edge of the table. He clasps his hands together and gazes into my eyes.

“That’s a sore spot, your ex.”

Startled by his observation, my first instinct is to issue a denial. But I take a breath and tell him the truth instead. “Yes, actually. It is.”