Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,22

strangely intimate I’m at a loss for how to respond. It’s such a small thing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been tended to like this. Too long, apparently, given the swarm of bees diving and whirring in my stomach.

He straightens the shirt around my hips and drifts closer, his finger trailing oh-so-softly along my jaw. “Watching you dance is an exquisite experience. The freedom in your movements, the pleasure on your face… it evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter”—he bends so close his lips brush my ear—“better than sex.”

Shuddering warmth curls through me. “You must not be having very good sex.”

He touches his brow against my temple, his hand sweeping back to trace my spine as his minty breath bathes me in heat. “I imagine sex with you would annihilate every experience a man has ever had.”

Holy hell, I feel every raspy word like hungry kisses along my neck. “What are you doing, Trace?”

He steps back and smooths a hand over his tie, his scowl harder, angrier than before. “I want to finish this meeting in my office. The contract—”

“And just like that, you completely ruin a good moment.” From the back pocket of my jeans, I hand him a folded scrap of paper. “I have a counteroffer.”

He takes it and strides toward the exit, leaving me standing there with my mouth open.

What the shit just happened?

“Wait.” I trail after him. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Yes.”

I chase him all the way to the elevators. And by chase, I mean sprint, because damn his long legs.

His unapproachable demeanor allows him to move through the casino without being stopped or interrupted with idle conversation. The crowd actually parts to move out of his way.

He attracts attention from everyone he passes, especially from the women. His towering height and expensive suit are noteworthy, but it’s his arresting looks—the sexy blond hair, sculpted features, broad shoulders—that weaken knees and drop jaws. Alluring and mysterious, he’s an orgasm for the eyes.

Bypassing the public lifts, he strides down an empty corridor, where another elevator waits. He punches in a passcode, and the doors slide open.

“Your own personal lift?” I step inside the mirrored box.

“Yes.” He follows me in with my counteroffer folded in his hand.

How much longer is this going to drag out? I’m ready for him to read my demands, lose his shit, and send me on my way.

The panel of buttons only provides access to the 30th floor, 31st floor, and a few underground levels. He presses 30.

“What’s on the top floor?” I lean against the wall opposite him.

“My residence.”

He lives in the hotel? In the penthouse, evidently. How disappointingly prosaic.

As the elevator shoots upward, he unfolds the paper. His eyes flick over my handwriting, his features stoic and indecipherable. When I’m certain he’s read through all of it, my nerves kick in. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t react at all.

My preposterous counteroffer demands a salary that rivals that of a tenured surgeon. It also includes other requirements, such as a wardrobe budget, private dressing room, retirement contribution, health care, paid vacation, and free alcohol at the casino bars. The health insurance would be nice since I haven’t had medical coverage since college, but I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it.

With slow exacting movements, he folds the paper and tucks it into the interior pocket of his suit. Then he rests his hands on the guard rail behind him, crosses one shiny shoe over the other, and meets my eyes.

His expression is firm, leaning toward unkind, but there’s a hint of deviousness deep in the brackets around his scowl. I can’t decide if he’s going to kiss me or say something hateful.

It’s curious how he always tilts that strong chin downward, a mannerism that forces him to look up. Since he’s so tall, maybe bowing his head is a matter of practicality. Or maybe it’s deliberate because he knows that upward glare appears darker and more intimidating beneath the brooding mantle of his brow.

I wish he wasn’t so damn attractive or that I wasn’t so enthralled with his severe personality. Because as I wait for him to push the button that will send me back to the lobby and out of his life, part of me regrets sabotaging this opportunity. I need the job, but more than that, I need someone with his impenetrable resolve in my life. A partner who will challenge me. A man who will stand up to me. A lover who will inspire