Wall Street Titan Page 11

  I brighten a little. “Aren’t they?” I was worried he’d feel this kind of food is beneath him—the hole-in-the-wall place we ordered from is just one step above a street cart—but he appears to be genuinely enjoying himself. In general, he seems much more comfortable in my apartment than I figured a billionaire would be—though his big, broad-shouldered frame looks rather ridiculous stuffed into my tiny IKEA chair.

  “Yep, good choice,” he says, chowing down on his gyro, and I give him a big smile.

  Maybe this date isn’t a total disaster after all.

  He’s done with his food in record time. Getting up, he takes his plate into the kitchen, and then I hear the sink turn on.

  Is he actually washing it?

  Before I can marvel at the phenomenon—my ex-boyfriend didn’t know such a thing as dish soap existed—there’s another knock by the entrance.

  The repair guys have arrived.

  There are two of them. One looks like Santa Claus’s younger brother, complete with rosy cheeks and a nearly white beard, while the other is a good-looking Latino guy about my age. He has an infectious grin on his face, and I smile back as I get up and place my half-eaten gyro on the desk.

  “Hi there,” I say, walking over to greet them. “I’m Emma. Thanks so much for coming out so quickly.”

  I stick my hand out, and the young guy grabs it eagerly, giving it a vigorous shake. “Juan,” he says, his grin widening. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”

  “And I’m Rodney,” the Santa Claus sibling says, shaking my hand next. “This the door we need to fix?” He glances at the door on the floor, then studies the frame, where I notice sizable cracks near where the hinges were attached.

  God, how strong is Marcus that he was able to do this much damage?

  “That’s the one,” I say, trying not to wince as I picture the damage to my bank account from this repair bill. “Do you have any idea how much this will cost?”

  “Oh, um…” Juan glances at Rodney in confusion.

  “Nothing,” Marcus says, coming out of the kitchen. His voice is hard, utterly uncompromising—as is his expression when he looks at me. “It will cost you absolutely nothing, as I’m the one who broke it.”

  “But you did it to save me—because you thought I was in trouble,” I argue, but Marcus is not listening.

  “You will send the bill to me,” he orders, giving Rodney a piercing stare, and the man swiftly bobs his head.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Carelli.”

  Ugh. I’m tempted to fight further, but I don’t have even a hundred dollars to spare right now, and I suspect their bill will run higher than that. It would be highly embarrassing if I insisted on taking care of the payment and then had to beg for an extension. Besides, Marcus does have a point: it was his savior complex that got us into this mess.

  Still, my chest feels unpleasantly tight as I go back to my food, leaving him talking to the repairmen. I know letting Marcus pay for the door he broke doesn’t make me like my mother—logically, I know it—but I can’t help feeling like I’m taking advantage of him.

  Like I’m using him, the way she’d always used her lovers and anyone else who cared about her.

  Shaking off the memories, I sit down at the desk and shoo Mr. Puffs away from what remains of my gyro—which is not much. The cats have stolen most of the meat while I was away. Sighing, I quickly gobble down the rest and carry the dirty plate to the kitchen, where the sink is indeed clean.

  Marcus not only washed his plate, he also dried it and put it away.

  I do the same with mine and then put on some coffee, in case he wants a cup. I also take out my last remaining pint of salted caramel ice cream and two bowls, figuring I at least owe him dessert.

  He enters the kitchen just as the hammering noises by the entrance begin.

  “Ice cream?” I offer, scooping a generous portion into a bowl, and he shakes his head.

  “None for me, thanks.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t really eat sweets.”

  Of course he doesn’t. Ice cream is for ordinary bums like me, not super-achievers like Marcus who count “fitness” among their hobbies. I’m surprised he ate the greasy gyro; he’s probably as disciplined in his diet as he seems to be in everything else.

  “How about coffee?” I ask, and he agrees to that.

  Black, of course—no sugar or milk for him.

  I pour each of us a cup, then carry my coffee and ice cream bowl back to the room. The cats are nowhere to be seen at first, but then I notice the tip of a fluffy white tail sticking out from under the bed.

  They must be hiding from the noise, which now includes both hammering and drilling.

  Setting my coffee on the nightstand, I sit down on the bed to eat my ice cream, and to my surprise, Marcus joins me there with his coffee instead of taking his seat at the desk. He sits next to me, less than a foot away, and though we’re both fully dressed, I feel the proximity of his big body as keenly as if we were naked. My mind flashes to the kiss we just shared, and a hot flush covers my skin, my heartbeat jumping as if I’ve launched into a sprint.

  Oh God. That kiss.

  I’ve been trying not to think about it, so I don’t turn into a blushing, stuttering mess, but I can’t avoid it any longer. Kissing Marcus had to be the single hottest experience of my life, better than any sex I’ve had—or fantasized about. Everything about it was so wrong, yet so incredibly right. The way he held me, like he never wanted to let me go, the way his lips felt and tasted… He didn’t touch me anywhere but my back and my head, but I was on the verge of combusting, so aroused I can still feel the dampness in my underwear.

  It doesn’t help that as we sit on the bed, his weight is depressing my old mattress, creating a dip in the soft surface that makes it hard for me to sit upright instead of leaning toward him. It’s like the illustrations of gravity, where a big celestial body creates an indentation in spacetime that prevents a smaller body from escaping its orbit.

  That’s Marcus for me.

  I can’t seem to escape his pull—nor am I sure I want to.

  Our eyes meet, and the drilling noise intensifies, making any attempt at conversation impossible. Still, neither one of us looks away. With the men repairing the door, we have zero privacy, but the work might as well be happening miles away. All I’m aware of is him, his nearness and the growing heat in his gaze.

  My hand is unsteady as I dip my spoon into the bowl and come up with some ice cream. Bringing it to my mouth, I close my lips around the creamy, salty-sweet coolness and let it slide down my throat as Marcus’s eyes darken, his hard features tightening as he reaches over me and sets his coffee cup down next to mine. I can feel his desire for me, sense its dangerous, potent draw, and my breathing quickens, my nipples pebbling inside the confines of my bra.

  “Emma…” His voice is low and hoarse, somehow audible over the din. “I think… I want the ice cream, after all.”

  My throat goes dry. “Do you want me to go get you some?”

  Holding my gaze, he slowly shakes his head. “Give me some of yours.”

  Oh God. There’s no way he’s just talking about the ice cream—not with that look in his eyes.

  Still, I move to hand the bowl to him, but he stops me by laying a big hand on my knee.

  “Feed it to me,” he orders huskily.

  My whole body now feels like it’s on fire, tingles of electricity racing up my leg from where his palm is resting. The drilling noises stop, replaced by more hammering, but the construction noise is nothing compared to the roar of my pulse in my ears.

  Feed it to him.

  Right, okay.

  My hand trembles as I scoop up a spoonful of ice cream and bring it to his mouth.

  His hard, masculine, oh-so-skilled-at-kissing mouth.

  His lips close around the spoon, cleaning off all the ice cream, and my breath catches in my throat as his tongue flicks out to lick off the creamy droplet left on the
handle—less than half an inch from where my fingers are spasmodically gripping the spoon.

  “Delicious,” he murmurs, his gaze burning me alive, and I belatedly remember that I have to breathe.

  Audibly sucking in air, I yank the spoon back, nearly tipping over the ice cream bowl.

  “Whoa, careful there…” His hand covers mine, steadying the bowl in my grasp, and the glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes tells me he knows exactly how he’s affecting me—and that he’s enjoying every bit of it.

  Asshole.

  I want to be mad at him, but I can’t work up sufficient outrage. I’ve never been this turned on. Ever. My underwear is soaking wet, and my sex is literally throbbing at the erotic movie playing in my mind. I can picture his skilled mouth closing over my nipple, then trailing burning kisses down my stomach before those warm, supple lips close around my clit and—

  “Excuse me, Mr. Carelli? We’re done.”

  Rodney’s voice is like a bucket of ice water in my face.

  I’d completely forgotten the workers are here.

  Mortified, I jump to my feet, clutching the bowl in front of me like it can hide the burning flush covering my cheeks. What the hell was I thinking? Another couple of minutes, and Marcus and I would’ve been horizontal, ice cream and our audience forgotten.

  Juan’s thoughts must be in line with mine because he’s smirking as he stands next to Rodney.

  Marcus doesn’t seem fazed. Walking over to the reattached door, he inspects the work, then nods brusquely. “Good job, thank you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I echo, fighting my embarrassment as the men gather their tools and leave with a friendly wave in my direction.

  I’m relieved when the door closes behind them—that is, until it dawns on me that Marcus and I are now all alone in my apartment.

  An apartment with a door that closes and locks.

  22

  Marcus

  * * *

  My heart is thrumming with dark anticipation as I lock the door and turn to face Emma, who’s standing by the bed and watching me with huge gray eyes, the ice cream melting in the bowl she’s still clutching with both hands.

  This is it.

  Finally, she’s mine.

  I know I’m assuming a lot, but the attraction goes both ways. I could feel her response when I kissed her, could see the rapid beating of the pulse in her neck when I laid my hand on her knee.

  She wants me.

  She needs this as much as I do.

  Holding her gaze, I cross the room and stop in front of her. My dick is painfully hard, but my movements are carefully restrained as I take the bowl from her shaking hands and set it on the nightstand next to our cups of coffee. Then I clasp her small hands and pull her toward me.

  She stares up at me, her eyes wide and her breathing fast and shallow.

  Beautiful.

  She’s so fucking beautiful.

  Her lightly freckled skin is so delicate it’s almost translucent, the flush of arousal painting her cheeks with a warm peachy glow. Her rosebud lips are parted, revealing small white teeth, and her curls are like spirals of fire around her pretty, softly rounded face.

  Everything about her is soft and pretty, as delicious as that spoonful of ice cream I just had.

  Placing one hand on her waist, I curve my other palm around the side of her face and dip my head, about to kiss her, when another loud meow interrupts the silence.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake… I cut my eyes to the side and glower at the big cat, who’s emerged from under the bed and is sitting on his furry butt, bushy tail swishing from side to side as he stares up at me with slitted green eyes.

  I turn my attention back to Emma, determined to ignore the cockblocking beast, but she’s already stepping out of my hold, looking uncomfortable.

  This won’t do.

  This won’t do at all.

  I catch her hands before she can back away. “Come to my place.” It’s an order, not a request, but I can’t help it. I’ve never wanted a woman this much, have never felt as out of control as I do now. It’s impossible to be suave and seductive with the violent hunger beating at me, demanding that I take her, that I do whatever it takes to make her mine.

  If these were more primitive times, I’d have already thrown her over my shoulder and carried her off to my cave.

  Her gray eyes round with shock. “To… to your place?”

  “Yes.” I hold her gaze, not bothering to hide the dark lust coiling within me. “To my place. Now.”

  There’s a better way to do this, I know. I could take her out for a drink; then, once we’re both pleasantly buzzed, I could offer to show her the rare book collection in my penthouse. We’d both know what would really happen once we got there, but we wouldn’t need to discuss it. She could pretend that she’s just going to see some books, and it would all be nice and civilized, properly romantic.

  Except I’m not capable of being civilized right now. All my social graces seem to have deserted me again, the veneer of civilization disappearing. For whatever reason, I can’t play these games with Emma, can’t be smooth and urbane like I am with other women.

  With her, I’m driven by pure instinct, and that instinct demands I get her into my bed right fucking now.

  Her little tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I almost groan at the temptation. “What about—” She swallows visibly. “What about Emmeline?”

  Fuck. “What about her?” I growl, pulling her closer. “I told you there are no commitments between us.” And there won’t be—not until I get Emma out of my system.

  I’m not the kind of man who cheats.

  “But you still… want to date her, right?” Her voice is breathless as her lower body molds against mine, and my erection presses into her soft belly. “So you could maybe marry her?”

  “That’s a big maybe,” I mutter, and unable to resist a second longer, I grip her face between my palms and bend my head to kiss her.

  Her lips are as soft as the first time I tasted them, soft and plush and so fucking sweet that all blood leaves my brain and surges directly to my cock. Distantly, I hear another meow, but I no longer give a fuck about the cat—or Emmeline and my lifelong ambitions. All my senses are filled with Emma… with the wet, heated slide of her tongue against mine and the faint smell of caramel on her breath, with the way her soft curves feel against me and how her hands clutch at my sides as I maneuver her toward her bed.

  Fuck going to my place. Here will do just as well.

  The backs of her legs touch the mattress, and she suddenly goes rigid. Gripping my wrists, she twists away from my kiss. “Wait!”

  I freeze in place, using every ounce of my willpower to remain still as she slithers out of my hold and backs away, not stopping until she’s as far away from the bed—and me—as she can get.

  “Listen, Marcus,” she says shakily, pushing the curls off her face with a trembling hand. “I’m not… This isn’t…” She gulps in a breath. “We’re obviously attracted to each other, but this isn’t going to work out.”

  And as I stare at her in disbelief, she picks up her cat from the floor and says quietly, “Leave, please. I want you to go.”

  23

  Emma

  * * *

  “You did what?” Kendall’s voice jumps an octave as she stares at me, her half-eaten croissant clutched in her hand.

  “I told him to leave,” I repeat, rubbing my temples as the headache from hell worsens.

  I barely slept after Marcus left last night—my second sleepless night this week—and though I’ve had enough caffeine to wake a horse this morning, my skull feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise. Given that, I probably shouldn’t have gone to Kendall’s apartment for breakfast, but I needed someone other than my cats to talk to.

  “Okay, back up.” Kendall drops the croissant onto her napkin and swivels her bar stool to face me fully. “Let’s go through this again. He broke down your door to save you after you tripped over your cat, an
d you guys made out while you were almost naked. He then ate gyros with you while his repairmen fixed it. After that, you kissed again, and he invited you to his place. And you told him it’s not going to work out and he should leave?”

  “Technically, he kissed me after inviting me to his place, but yes, that’s the gist of it.”

  “Emma! What the hell?”

  I blink. “What? He’s still planning to date Emmeline, and you’re the one who told me to be careful. ‘Men are dogs,’ remember?”

  “You dummy! That was before we knew he’s a billionaire.”

  “Kendall—”

  “No, listen to me.” She leans on the countertop, her elbow nearly squishing the croissant. “This isn’t some random Wall Street asshole—it’s Marcus freaking Carelli. And he’s interested in you enough to break down your door and eat takeout gyros in your shitty little studio.”

  “Right. Because he wants to get into my pants.” I massage my brow ridge as if that would cause the pressure behind it to subside. I definitely shouldn’t have come here, I see that now. If I’d caught a nap this afternoon, I’d be better equipped to deal with Kendall and her insane views on dating. As is—

  “So what?” Kendall jumps off her stool and glares at me, hands propped on her hips. “You want to get into his pants, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “No buts! He’s rich, he’s hot, he wants you, and you want him. And”—she leans in until her nose is almost touching my own—“he was totally upfront with you about this Emmeline thing. They’re not married or even dating yet, so who cares that he may date her one day?”

  Ugh. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I were home with my cats. I don’t know what I expected when I showed up at Kendall’s apartment with the croissants and coffee from the street cart downstairs, but getting yelled at for not sleeping with Marcus wasn’t on the list.

  It’s bad enough I spent all night second-guessing my decision and feeling like crap each time I recalled the expression on Marcus’s face when I told him to leave. For a second, he’d looked almost hurt, but then his gaze had hardened, his face turning into a stony mask. Without a word, he turned and walked away, and it was all I could do to remain in place instead of running after him.