Page 36 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

TWENTY-THREE

LONDON

West: Good morning. Don’t head to The Veiled Door for work. Meet me at my place instead. Be sure to bring your portfolio. With love, W.

I’m re-reading the text West sent me this morning as the elevator takes me to his floor, focusing on the four-letter word beside his initial.

He hasn’t outright told me he’s in love with me, but I know we’re already there.

I’ve caught myself nearly saying it several times only to stop with fear.

Not because I don’t think he’ll say it back, but because I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life.

Which is saying a lot for someone with only half her memories.

Over these past several weeks, the memories of my past are still alive and breathing in my mind. I still remember the cold metal against my neck. The scent of blood in the air, mingling with cold dirt. West sitting at a kitchen table, pressing his finger to my cheek.

That last one still has me wondering whether it’s a memory or just a dream.

I’ve had the same dream twice more since the first time, and it still feels just as real as it did then.

Even more so with each one. It’s clearer now, and I know it’s West looking at me with love in his eyes. Just like he does now.

My heart vibrates with an echo, and I smile to myself. It wasn’t broken after all. It was just lost.

The doors open to the hallway of West’s apartment, and I step out, immediately searching for him.

Seeing his apartment never gets old, even after two months of coming here nearly every day.

I still step inside, in awe at the size and décor, the enormous ceilings, the brick-covered walls, as well as the shiny, stainless-steel appliances.

He really leaned into the industrial look, but it suits him.

Unsuspecting and sophisticated.

“West?” I call out, setting my bag and portfolio on the counter.

I shrug out of my black cardigan and set it beside them.

I cross my arms over my chest and walk across West’s living room.

Staring out of his black-framed windows, I watch the city below and the life breathing through it.

With every person that passes by, I think about what lives they lead.

Who they could be and the memories they hold.

How far back to they go? Do they remember the bulk of their lives?

I’m envious of them.

I leave the intrusive thoughts behind, continuing my search for West.

“West?” I call out again. I slowly make my way to the living room again before wandering down another hallway—the one leading to a full bar West had custom built when he moved in.

It’s where he spends most of his free time at home when he isn’t at his office or any of his locations.

It’s the place where he experiments with new drinks and where he can get lost in his own thoughts, leaving the outside world behind.

Much like me when I get lost in my sketches.

I emerge from the hallway and find West behind the bar. I break in to a full smile watching him stuff a handful of mint into the bottom of a tall glass.

Hearing me, he looks up.

“About time you showed up.” He smiles. “I was about to race over to Selene’s apartment myself and force you out of bed.”

A shiver slinks down the back of my neck, and my legs tingle, knowing once he’d found me in bed, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself and would have found a million reasons to keep me in bed versus pulling me out of it.

Stepping farther into the room, I stop several feet from the long bar stretching across the space.

I laugh under my breath. “I came as fast as I could.”

“Hmm.” He picks up a long thick, wooden device. “Are you coming without me, Dimples? Tell me you’re at least thinking about me when you do.”

I jerk my chin back. “Dimples?”

His face falls, and the air gets caught in my throat.

My mind reels, and a piece of a memory clicks in my brain. I’ve heard that name before.

I think.

I get the same feeling I did at Club Verona months ago. When he was calling after me.

I could have sworn I’d heard him use that name before, but I wasn’t certain with the music flooding my ears.

But this time, there’s no music. Just West’s voice.

I tilt my head, frowning in thought. “Have you called me that before? Dimples?”

His face twitches, and he clears his throat. “No, I don’t think so.”

I stare at him, swearing I’ve heard it echoing in my mind.

“I don’t know why I said it just now.” He waves me off, his attention falling back to his drink. He sticks a long, thick stick into the glass, pressing the end of it into the mint.

“It’s okay,” I breathe out, the nickname forcing the twist in my chest to soften. “I like it.”

“You do?” He abruptly stops and looks back up, but I can’t miss the twinge of sadness in his eyes. Or regret? Or fear, maybe? I can’t place it.

“Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

The memory of the same dream I’ve had several times comes to me. A young West sitting at the kitchen table, his finger pressed to my cheek, laughter filtering through the air.

Dimples .

“Well…” His eyes darken. “I guess it just spilled out because I was thinking about how these dimples do something to me.”

I crack a smile. “Like what?”

“They make my heart melt,” he says, staring directly at me. “Among other things.”

I giggle, when my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out, just in case it’s my sister or one of the girls. When I read the name across the screen, I can’t help shoving it back into my pocket with a groan.

“Who is it?” West asks, concerned.

“No one.” I sigh, not wanting to waste the moment we just shared. “Just this unknown number that keeps calling me. Probably a scam caller.”

“Damn,” West grumbles. “Those are so annoying. They are relentless and leave you a million voicemails, too.”

I tuck my lip under my teeth. This unknown caller has never left me a voicemail, only calling incessantly over the past two months, but I keep that part to myself.

I brush off the change in conversation, wanting to get back to being here with West.

“Now, what were you saying?” I ask him .

He lifts his hand again and presses his finger to my cheek. “There’s something I want to show you… Dimples.”

Butterflies rage inside my stomach. I’m liking this new nickname. “Show me.”

“Well, I think I’d like to finish this drink first,” he says, his voice deep and low. His eyes lower, taking in my short black dress and bare legs.

“Thirsty?” I ask him playfully.

His eyes have darkened again. He’s back to focusing on quenching his thirst, and not just with the drink he’s making.

Still holding onto the long thick piece of wood and glass, he walks around the counter and leans back against it, crossing his legs at his ankles. He’s only three feet closer to me, yet still too far away. Even with six feet of distance between us, though, I feel him everywhere.

He sets the glass on the counter beside him, then lifts his chin, staring at me through hooded eyes. “Crawl to me.”

“What?” I ask, the blood in my veins draining. Heart racing, I swallow thickly.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he tips his chin up again, raising his voice a bit louder. “Crawl. To. Me.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, and I fall to my knees. Leaning forward, I press my hands to the hardwood. The floor is cold against my heated body. I flip my hair over my shoulder and look up at him as I start to crawl to him.

“Good girl,” he says, rubbing his hand over the front of his pants. The outline of his growing erection is evident beneath his smooth, black slacks. He’s already stiff and ready for me. Seeing the size of his cock makes my insides tighten with an ache to have him inside me.

I make sure to emphasize the sway in my hips. His eyes constantly move from my ass to my breasts, spilling from the top of my dress. When my fingertips reach the toes of his shiny, black shoes, I look up.

“You’re so goddamn fucking beautiful on your knees for me.”

“Do you want me to stay on my knees?” I ask.

He reaches out and runs his hand through my hair, pushing it off the side of my face. His long fingers rake through my black strands, landing on the base of my neck. “As much as I would love for you to stay on your knees, I don’t think I’m that patient.”

Hooking his fingers under my chin, he pulls me up. I follow his lead, moving to my feet. He leans forward, and I stand on my toes, thinking he’s going to kiss me. His mouth is dangerously close to mine, and I think he’s going to give in, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction I’m craving.

He pulls away, but quickly wraps his arm around my waist, lifting me up and turning me around. My ass slams against the counter, and I wrap my legs around him, pulling him close. He rolls his hips, rubbing his stiff cock against my slit. I moan, allowing my eyes to roll back.

“I want you now, West.”

“Patience, Dimples.”

I lower my gaze to his, my lips parting. “You said yourself you can’t be patient, yet you’re asking me to be?” I moan, letting him know exactly how badly I want him.

He chuckles. “Not patient in that way.”

“Then, in what way?” I feather my mouth against his. “Until you finish making your drink?” I grab the wooden stick he was using to mash the mint and hold it between us. “What’s this thing called again?”

It’s less than two inches thick, but about eight inches long. The end is covered in tiny raised points used to mash and bruise any fruit or herb .

His heavy breath brushes my lips when he grabs onto it. “A muddler.”

“Muddler.” I repeat the word, allowing it to roll off my tongue. “Huh.”

With a heated gaze, he presses the end of it to my bottom lip. “Stick out your tongue.”

I do as he says.

The taste of mint immediately fills my mouth, and I close my eyes. It tastes good.