Page 6

“Please,” I whimper in frustration, racing for the edge I’d felt only a few seconds ago but is now slipping away. “Please!”

A warm, intense feeling centers in my clit and spreads through my abdomen and threatens to explode through my system.

My toes curl in anticipation, and when it comes, it’s more of a flame than the blinding wildfire I’d imagined.

I nearly sob in frustration, tempted to give it a second try when a sudden knock on the door startles me out of my plans.

For one solid, terrifying moment, I think it’s my father. He is the only person that just shows up, but then again, the man has never bothered to knock before.

But he could for once. The documents… Oh God!

I quickly pull my hand away, my heart racing as my brain slowly catches up to what exactly it is I was doing—touching myself to the portrait of a man. A rival.

Shit!

My eyes are panicked as I grab the canvas and look around for someplace to hide it before settling on the balcony.

I toss the painting supplies back into the drawer haphazardly, sliding it closed and praying that whoever’s at the front door is not my father and that they’ll have no sudden urge to go to my balcony.

I tear off some paper towels and wipe up the splattered paint, my heart racing with panic.

The knock comes again, insistent this time, and I’m halfway to the door before I realize I’m dressed only in a T-shirt. One that does little to hide my beaded nipples, so I make a U-turn and rush to my bedroom, tossing on a robe and belting it before walking to the door.

Deep breaths, Scarlett.

I ignore the third knock, reining in my hammering heart before turning the lock and opening the door. My jaw nearly drops when I see the man standing outside my apartment, and it’s definitely not who I was expecting.

“Gray?”

“It’s Pete,” he says in greeting. “Your father sent me to pick up some files from you.”

“Pete?” My brows draw in confusion. “What does that mean?”

Gray looks around to make sure the hallway’s empty before pushing into my apartment. I ignore the way my heart jumps when he wraps his hand around my arm and nudges me back into the room before shutting the door behind him. “I’m Pete Brehmer as far as your father is concerned.”

“But he’s not here,” I say, conscious of his warm hand against my skin. Besides, I don’t want to call this man by his fake name, especially when I don’t have to.

“I’m just saying. To avoid slip-ups,” he says, eyes locking with mine, and now that I’ve gotten over my initial surprise of finding him outside my apartment, I allow myself to really look at him.

His dark, almost black, brown hair is tousled, perhaps from riding his bike without his helmet, and those deep ocean-blue eyes seem intense as they stare at me.

And there’s that feeling again.

The hot achy sensation between my legs and the weak tremble of my knees. An effect that only this man seems to bring out in me.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, trying not to let the weight of his stare unnerve me, but it’s a losing battle.

“Your father sent me, I just said that.” Did he?

I don’t remember. In fact, I can’t seem to make my mind focus on anything but the way he smells.

God, it’s all leather and musk with warm hints of wood.

I could bury my nose in his neck and live there forever.

“It also provides a good opportunity for us to talk.”

“Talk?” I breathe.

“About your father and his illegal activities.”

But I don’t want to talk , I nearly whine. Least of all about my father or anything to do with the man. No, I could name three or four things I would rather do with Gray than just talk.

Get a hold of yourself, Scarlett!

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, pulling away from the man if only to offer my fogged-up brain a moment of reprieve. “I was just about to grab breakfast.”

“It’s half past noon.”

Is it? “Oh, right. I must have lost track of time.”

“Doing what?”

I don’t need to see my own expression to know that I’m spotting a dear-in-headlights look. Heat climbs up my cheeks at his question. It’s a simple one with multiple responses; the realm of possibilities is endless.

I could say that I was working, watching a movie, or even napping. All of which are to be expected on a lazy Sunday afternoon. And yet, I mention none of those, stuttering through my words as I try to look for something that is the opposite of “touching myself to a portrait of you that I painted.”

So I settle on, “Nothing.” It’s spoken way too quickly to not seem suspicious.

“So, water or coffee? It’s too early for wine or anything alcoholic, although some may say that it’s five o’clock somewhere, so it doesn’t really matter what time you drink.

But if you ask me, wine should not be… Oh!

” I gasp when I feel Gray step up behind me.

A shudder rolls down my back when he brushes my hair to the side, exposing my neck before leaning to whisper against my ear.

“What were you doing before I showed up, Scarlett?”