Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 24 Dominic

Dominic

I’m working late, trying to get through the last of today’s urgent decisions so I can start with fresh business in the morning, when my phone buzzes.

“Yes, Francine, I know I shouldn’t live at the office,” I mutter as I grab my phone and look down at the screen.

But to my surprise, it’s a text from Presley. And even more surprising, it reads: heeyyyy sexxxy, followed by a smattering of eggplant and fire emojis. What the hell?

I do a double-take to confirm that the sender really is her. Maybe someone took her phone as a prank? Then I remember that she got her promotion today, and text back:

I take it you’re having a night out to celebrate?

The response is immediate:

im so drink haha

I snort, my lips twitching. I’ve seen her tipsy before, but drunk is new. Getting to glimpse this new, uninhibited side of a woman who’s normally always so disciplined is . . . charming.

I can tell. I’m glad you’re having a good time—you’ve earned it.

thank you soooo much I love you

My heart skips a beat. She doesn’t really mean that. It’s just the kind of thing people say when they’re drunk.

come celebrate with me

You should enjoy partying without your boss hanging around.

but you’re why im here

I was losing my shit and this promotion saved my whole entire life

I really owe you

No you don’t. You got the job because you were the best worker. It was all you.

what if I wanna owe you? ;)

I’m not sure how to answer that, and in the thirty seconds I spend deliberating, she adds something that makes me forget whatever I’d been planning to say.

I could let you do whatever you want with my body

Holy shit. What I’d like to say is “I’m on my way,” but instead I type:

I’ll ask if you still want that when you’re sober.

She replies: This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

boo :( at least dance with me.

I consider it. Francine is home with the girls, and I probably already missed my chance to kiss them good night anyway. I’m too burned out to make any more headway on work tonight . . . so, why the hell not? It would give me the chance to check up on Presley and make sure she has a safe way to get home. Plus, a drink might relax me a bit.

Sure, sounds like fun. Where should I meet you?

• • •

Ten minutes later, I’m taking a ticket from the valet at the address she texted me. It’s just around the corner from our office, and I can’t help but notice it’s the same bar where I first asked her to play my pretend girlfriend.

So much has changed since then, it’s strange to think about.

In barely any time at all, we’ve gone from acting out an illusion to being real lovers. Or I guess I should say fuck buddies, since neither of us can afford to fall in love, but applying that word to Presley makes me frown. It implies something crass and shallow, and she means more to me than that.

As I enter, I barely have a chance to scan the place for Presley before she’s flung herself out of her seat and into my arms.

“You came!” She’s still wearing her work outfit and smells slightly of alcohol.

I return her hug and reply with a fond smile. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

The woman who was sitting next to Presley walks around their table to me. “You must be the big boss man,” she says, extending a violet-nailed hand. “I’m Bianca, Presley’s roommate.”

I shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Dominic.”

She grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’ve been dying to meet the famous Mr. Aspen. Presley has told me so much about you.” Her impish, knowing tone has me wondering exactly what Presley might have told her.

I look instead at the table cluttered with empty glasses. “You guys really didn’t waste any time. It’s only eight o’clock.”

“We met up right after work. Pres wanted to make sure she could leave early enough to get up on time tomorrow.” Bianca shrugs with an expression of fond amusement. “At least, that was what she said about three or four cocktails ago. Now she wants to live here.”

I chuckle, my gaze wandering back to Presley.

“Come dance!” Presley insists, tugging at my arm.

I let her drag me out onto the floor as a thumping beat starts playing. She loops her arms around my neck, I rest my hands on her hips, and that’s where anything recognizable as “dancing” ends. Her wild side steps, shimmies, and sashays don’t remotely match the rhythm of the song. Every time she lifts a foot, I can feel her wobble, and my hands on her hips steady her.

I guess it’s reasonable that Drunk Presley isn’t the world’s greatest dancer. Not that I mind at all; she more than makes up for her lack of coordination with exuberance, and it makes me smile just to have her close. I chuckle and do my best to sway along with her erratic moves.

Then I gasp, because she’s pushed her hips forward, writhing against my body. Before I can say anything, she spins around and enthusiastically grinds her ass onto my burgeoning erection.

I bite back a groan of need. Damn, when she wants something, no force on earth can stop her.

Someone whistles at us. It might be Bianca, but I have no idea, because Presley is totally intent on making my head spin with want. Giving in, I let myself caress her curves and nip at the tender skin at the back of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter under my lips.

“Behave,” I say on a groan.

She pouts. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll behave.” Then she moves my hand over her breast and squeezes hard.

I growl into her ear, soft so no one else can hear, but forceful enough that she makes a throaty, desperate noise. When the song ends, she turns to me, her eyes smoldering with erotic promise . . .