Chapter 10

It’s the next morning, when I arrive at the mansion after a very leisurely breakfast and foot massage at the spa/resort that topped off all the other amazingly and near-orgasmic physical and spiritual therapies. I truly feel as though this fairy tale just might come true for me.

I’m standing on the deck, staring out at the undulating waves, listening to their hypnotic crashing on the shore and the seagulls overhead. I’m deeply inhaling the brine-scented air and am completely and totally blissed out, when…

One tanned forearm rests on the railing I’m leaning against. A palm flattens to the small of my back. A warm tickle of air teases the nape of my neck because my hair is pulled up.

“You’re absolutely certain you want to go through with this?”

Nick’s voice is low and intimate. Sending an enticing shiver along my spine and eliciting a soft gasp.

My teeth sink into my bottom lip for the briefest of moments.

Then I turn to him, effectively ending up in his arms.

I stare into his grey-green irises.

And tell him, “One-thousand percent. Let’s make a baby.”

Okay.

Everybody breathe.

Even Nick appears a tiny bit off-center. I can see it in his eyes as his gaze sweeps slowly over me and the air seems to stick in his throat.

His jaw tightens and that pulls the cords of his thick neck taut and… I’m completely riveted. As in… I notice every single thing about this man—and his reaction to me.

His irises deepen in color and glow hypnotically. His head dips and he whispers, “You’re stunning. And you smell like heaven.”

The flattery is not necessary. I signed the contract.

Still, my knees weaken. The corners of my mouth quiver. I fight the smile, though, because this is not meant to be romantic and sensual. This is business.

And yet Nick takes a step back and laces his fingers with mine. He gives a gentle tug and when I turn toward the patio doors with him, I’m instantly caught off guard. Or, rather, swept away.

There’s champagne and flowers and charcuterie boards. And no one else around.

So when I scream his name as that first orgasm hits, I won’t have to apologize to anyone later. Or be mortified.

Claire has already made arrangements for my migration into the mansion and while I’m not currently in need of a butler, I do relish the prospect of the house manager being onsite to take care of things so that I don’t have to worry about dishes and laundry on top of everything else. Like remodeling the restaurant and being buffed and shined each time Nick comes to visit and then, inevitably, being pregnant.

I know I shouldn’t even think this, but I’m silently hoping and praying he has slow swimmers or some such thing and this is going to take numerous attempts on our part.

Unfortunately for me, that is likely not going to be the case. He’s massively virile and strapping and…yeah, he’s going to be a gold medalist right out of the gate is my guess.

I’ll have to enjoy the sexy time or two while I can because he’s going to have me knocked up in no time flat.

And, for the record, when I refer to this as “sexy times,” I’m not kidding. He’s got the seduction down pat, as though to make this less of a transaction for me and more of a natural progression of our association with one another.

I know better than to fall for the ambience of candles in the mid-morning and some soft jazz selection that’s flowing from the hidden speakers. Or the fact that he plucks a white rose from the crystal vase on the coffee table and hands it over. Along with a glass of champagne that has already been filled.

However, I sort of do fall for it all.

Grayson must have set this scene while I was lost in the oceanfront view, and then disappeared. I consider for a moment or two if I actually should keep him on-hand. But it just feels too over-the-top.

At any rate, that’s a quandary for another time.

Nick lightly taps the rim of his flute to mine, and we sip.

I’m nervous as hell, I won’t lie.

But he’s now smooth as silk.

“Come on,” he quietly prompts.

We take our glasses and the bloom with us as we travel the long hallway, his palm pressed to the small of my back. It’s a tender, intimate gesture. Also deliciously sinful. I can feel his heat and the strength in his fingers. Completely wrong to savor but I can’t help myself.

He leans toward me and says, “I like you in blue, Bailey. Brings out your eyes.”

I like how he murmurs my name.

And I am happy to report the dressing room is filled with blue dresses. The one I’m currently wearing is strapless and tight. Short-hemmed. I don’t know if Nick specifically selected my wardrobe. If he did, he’s spot-on. Also—if he did—I’m really hoping he was envisioning me in each and every garment.

But that’s yet another dangerous thought I shouldn’t allow to infiltrate my brain.

Perhaps someday I’ll get it through my head that this is not about him getting hot for me. Beyond whatever capacity he needs to in order to fulfill his end of the “deposit,” that is.

And so now I’m obsessed over whether I’m going to do it for him, sexually. Am I going to turn him on and get his adrenaline pumping?

Oh, God…

What if I don’t?

What if I’m just mediocre naked and performance-wise?

What if I suck at this??!

I gasp. And nearly stumble. A little of the champagne sloshes over the rim.

Nick’s arm slips around me and he tucks me against his side. He glances down at me with a raised brow and a hint of concern stamped across his too-handsome-for-words face.

“No worries,” I mumble.

But oh, hell yes, there’s a worry!

I have failed to mention that I’m a novice at this. I’ve only done it once. Once. And at that… I was drunk. So was the guy. And the end result was, well, let’s just say less than stellar. If I remember correctly. Which I kind of don’t.

Oh, fuck me.

I’m not a virgin. Nor am I skilled. I studied while in college. I didn’t date or hook up. I studied.

So now I’m wondering if I’m supposed to alert Nick to my lack of experience. I mean, surely he’ll be disappointed that I have no signature moves—no moves at all!

How had I not considered this before?

Oh, right. Because I was too busy lusting after the man, rather than deliberating over what I have to offer in return when it comes to slipping between the sheets.

We take the steps down to the foyer and cross to the master suite. My master suite.

I additionally contemplate that I will be sleeping in this excessively gorgeous room and large bed after we’ve had sex in it multiple times. It’ll feel huge and empty when Nick leaves it. I’m already well aware of this.

But again, I have to stop making this so personal.

I shift away from him, take a few lengthy sips of bubbly, and then set the flute on an end table in the sitting area.

Nick remains alongside the bed. The covers are conveniently turned down and there’s a low blaze in the fireplace, along with the hint of eucalyptus and lavender wafting on the air from a diffuser. Very calming and relaxing.

I turn back to Nick.

He grins sexily and crooks a finger, beckoning me.

He says, “Bailey, this won’t work with you all the way over there.”

And now…?

Here we go.

I have no doubt hesitation is oozing from my every pore.

I’m rooted in the sitting area. Nick’s at the bed.

I’m praying it’s just a nervous twinge he’s witnessing—not my full-blown panic.

I am wholly obsessed with the possibility that I’m going to be monumentally disappointing in this “endeavor.”

Not that I necessarily must be a rock star under the covers or perform gymnastic feats for us to get the job done.

Seriously, all I have to do is get this man excited enough to fulfill his end of the deal. Right?

Okay, relax. Chill.

I make that attempt.

By the slight curve of one corner of his mouth, I can see I amuse him. And there’s the now-familiar twinkle in his eyes as his gaze slides over me.

He asks, “Suddenly shy, Bailey?”

“What if I… You know…?” I absently wave a manicured hand in the air as if that gesture alone completes my sentence. Of course, it doesn’t. He has no clue what I’m talking about. What I’m thinking.

He stares, quizzically.

He waits patiently for me to elaborate.

“I’m just thinking that… Uh… What if we don’t… Spark?” That was a polite way to put it, yes?

He chuckles softly. “Ah, but we’ve already proven that we do. So… Come a bit closer.”

Said the Big Bad Wolf to Little Red Riding Hood.

Oh, dear Lord.

No, it is not a requirement for us to be electrifying together.

But I want us to be electrifying together.

I want to leave this man begging for mercy, begging for more.

How I’ll ever achieve that is beyond me. But it is my greatest hope.

Thus, I pull in a long breath. It’s shaky at best, sort of skittering through me.

I take another sip of champagne. A deep one. Then I return the glass to the accent table.

Finally, I will my feet to move in his direction.

His grin is still just a sexy semi-one, but his eyes smolder. This sends a wicked thrill along my spine and that causes exhilaration to burst between my legs. At least I can rest assured that I’ll be more than ready for him. Ridiculously wet is my guess.

And now I’m fixated on that! How humiliating is this going to be for me? To be so hot from his gaze, the nearness of him, the mere suggestion of what we’re about to do, that I’m liquifying before we’ve even gotten naked!

How am I going to survive this?

There’s no answer to that question.

My focus is, instead, on breathing properly. Breathing, in general, really. The slivery strands aren’t doing me any favors. I might faint in his arms. Especially because he’s slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt.

Oh. God.

With every little disk he frees, I’m weaker in the knees.

My hand shoots out and I grip the flat, squared top of the high post at the foot of the bed to steady myself. Though I resist the urge to lean into it for support.

Nick pulls his shirttails from the waist of his pants. Peels the material off his broad shoulders and down his bulging biceps. He tosses the garment toward the plush armchair adjacent to the bed.

My gaze is glued on him. There might be some drool forming? I honestly can’t help myself. He’s flawless. Fantastically sculpted with a hard pectoral ledge, cut abs, and a tapered waist.

I want to touch him.

I want to lick him.

I want to crawl all over him.

Now I do need the bedpost to stabilize me.

Holy Christ. I knew—absolutely knew—this man was going to be as gorgeous out of his clothes as he is in them. Somehow, I’m just not prepared for all of this.

My mouth is working like a fish attempting to expel a hook, but no words are coming out. My heart is beating in double—maybe triple—time. My pulse is echoing in my ears and my stomach is…

Oh, heaven help me… My stomach is doing some sort of riotous circus act that belongs under the Big Top.

I’m not sure what’s worse. That I’ve immediately become a hot-and-bothered mess, or that Nick knows I’ve become a hot-and-bothered mess. Because of him.

And all he’s done is take his shirt off!

He gravitates toward me, his gaze locking with mine. He reaches out a hand. Carefully clasps my elbow. Brings me to him.

He splays my palms to his bare chest. His incredibly hard, smooth, tempting chest. Then his hands glide lightly along my arms, up to my shoulders, brushing the blonde curls from them. His skin is positively searing. His fingertips trail along my shoulder blades and then, on one side, they sweep forward, and he finds the top of the hidden zipper and eases it down the track.

What miniscule breath I have lodges in my throat.

His head dips and he whispers against my temple, “We have all morning. And later in the evening, if you have to be at the restaurant for a shift.”

I give a small nod. Because I still can’t speak.

Palpitations of this magnitude must be hazardous to one’s health. But I can’t resist this inevitable encounter.

In fact, I inch closer to him.

He drags away my dress and it pools on the floor at our feet. I don’t even have the wherewithal to scoop it up so that it doesn’t wrinkle. I literally do not care. The garment is out of my mind in a mere nanosecond. The strapless bra follows. His gaze slips to my breasts. His jaw clenches.

I’m overcome with the daring sense to unfasten his belt. So that’s what I do. Albeit with trembling fingers as his hands rest on my hips.

His fingers are curling into the thin wisps of material there from my thong.

I’m wishing he’d help me with his clothes, due to my coordination having gone to hell in a handbag. But I have a feeling he needs me to take on this specific part of our impending affair—as though it’s my fullest and truest acquiescence to what we’ve agreed upon in theory. Well, and via a contract.

I appreciate that he’s not making assumptions, thinking of this as all being a done deal, and he can make his move even if I’m reticent.

That he recognized I did stall out temporarily tells me he’s sensitive to the situation as it pertains to me, that this isn’t only about him and what he wants out of our time together.

Which, apparently, is not going to be fleeting today.

He’s in no hurry. I can’t rush this either, or I’ll hyperventilate. Or incinerate.

It takes some doing, but I manage to release the buckle and the top button. The zipper presents its own challenge. It involves my knuckles grazing his crotch and well… There’s already some straining starting to happen behind the fly of his dress pants and I’m a little nervous about how I’m going to react in this instance.

As in, the intensely overwhelming desire to sink to my knees before him and take him in my mouth is one I might not be able to fight.

Also, I’m in desperate need of finding out what his response to that would be.

So should I go for it?