Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 12 Presley

Presley

So far, my experience of London hasn’t made it past the view from the hotel room window. Although you really can’t call this a hotel room at all. First, it’s much larger than Bianca’s entire apartment.

There’s a formal entryway with crystal vases containing fresh-cut flowers, gleaming marble floors, then a formal sitting area with teal-colored velvet chairs and elegant paintings on the wall. The living room boasts a gray sectional sofa and a large flat-screen TV. A bar area is beyond that, with a wall of windows that overlook the city, and then a private bedroom with a massive adjoining bathroom. The bed is positively oversize, and the slate-colored carpeting is the plushest I’ve ever felt. This place is a dream. Bored, I’ve already filled my cell phone’s camera roll with pictures of its opulence.

I don’t know why Dominic’s wealth still surprises me; he is a billionaire, after all. But I guess I haven’t wrapped my head around that just yet.

Sighing, I sit perched on a tufted stool in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom, gazing out at the bustling city below. I’m not complaining. It’s a spectacular view. Our hotel stands tall, towering over the dense fog of the city. The skyline here is so different than that of Seattle. But even though the buildings are different sizes and shapes, the blue-gray hue of the city reminds me of home.

So far today, I’ve napped and eaten room service, twice, and surfed the channels on the TV—amused by the posh accents of the newscasters—and have been content, for the most part, to sit taking in the view. But it’s been hours since Dominic took off to do his business in the city, and I’m getting increasingly antsy as the minutes tick by.

I’m not used to napping during the middle of the day, nor am I used to having so much downtime to myself. Even before college, I’ve always operated at 110 percent, balancing my studies with work and a social life.

I never knew it would be so hard to actually relax. My only excuse is that there is quite literally nothing for me to do here but laze around.

If I’m going to be confined to the hotel, I may as well make the most of it. The freestanding bathtub is massive with all sorts of bubble bath concoctions to choose from. I select the one called Peachy Clean, listening to the satisfying glug-glug-glug as I pour it into the steaming water. One foot at a time, I submerge myself in the bath.

Holy shit. This is heaven.

I let my back slide against the warm ceramic, an involuntary sigh escaping my lips. As a twenty- something always on the brink of breaking the bank, I never have the luxury of taking a bath. My morning routine is simple—get up, take as fast a shower as I can, and get out. My showers aren’t even enjoyable, since I’m usually saving the hot water for Bianca, cognizant of my couch-surfing status. To make it worse, the pipes in her building are old and finicky. I’m lucky if there’s decent water pressure.

I sink deeper into the bubbles, willing this moment to last forever. I can barely remember the last time I took a bubble bath . . . God, I must have been only five or six years old. Our mother always bathed Michael and me together, probably because we were so inseparable at that age.

Michael.

I should buy him a present while I’m here. He’ll totally flip out when he learns I’ve been to London. What should I get him? More importantly, how will I explain this trip? I can’t exactly tell him that I’m accompanying my megalomaniac boss on a business trip as his fake plus-one. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

No, I’ll just tell Michael what he wants to hear. It was a work trip. I was chosen to accompany my boss. (I’m his intern, after all.) We stayed in a fancy hotel with huge windows and complimentary room service—in separate rooms. I had a lovely time.

At least that last part is true so far.

Once I’m clean and shaved and my fingers look like pale little raisins, I wrap myself in a towel and re- enter the bedroom to get dressed. It’s already past six o’clock. Is tonight the night to wear lingerie? Should I put it on now? Is it something women usually change into later in the evening? So many questions about one tiny article of clothing.

“Worry about it later,” I grumble to myself.

I take the time to dry my hair but don’t bother with any makeup. Then I slip on a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt. There’s exploring to be done first. I’m not supposed to leave the building, but surely there’s some wiggle room in that restriction.

On the first level of the hotel, I find a tiny gift boutique that sells pleasant and affordable little trinkets, ranging from functional to simply ornamental. I find a magnet for the Royal Ballet. Perfect. It’s just within my budget too.

Should I get anything for Bianca? What about for Dom’s girls?

I’m certain that Dom would be extremely uncomfortable with that. I snort at the imaginary scene playing out in my mind—me, giving tiny snow globes of London to those wide-eyed, beaming angels while Dominic sweats from a distance.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my leggings. I pull it out to find a message from the devil himself.

Meet me in the hotel bar in one hour. Don’t wear panties.

Heat floods my cheeks and belly all at once. He can’t be serious. But that’s the thing about Dominic— he’s always serious.

Oh my God.

I pay for the magnet with trembling hands, instantly forgetting my plans to shop for anyone else. I head straight for the elevator, ride it up to our floor, and fumble with the door key.

Once inside, I toss the magnet on the table and dump the contents of my suitcase on our shared bed. The little black dress I brought has miraculously survived the trip without any wrinkles. Thank goodness. I tug off the leggings and T-shirt and put them and the rest of the clothes I’ve scattered away.

Taking the dress over to the full-length mirror, I pull it over my body, smoothing the material over my breasts and hips. I’ll have to run a brush through my hair and put a little color on my lips—

But first . . . I slide the dress up my thighs, slipping my hands underneath. My skin is silky soft, freshly shaved and moisturized from my bath. Imagining Dominic’s hands on my skin later makes my entire body break out in goose bumps.

I hook my thumbs around the lacy underwear, pulling them down inch by inch until I can step out of them. Looking at myself in the mirror, I take in my long hair hanging over one shoulder, my breasts round and firm within the bodice of my dress, and the feeling of nothing between my legs . . .

Shit, I’m already turned on. From a text. Jesus.

I check the clock. I have forty more minutes to get ready. With how excited I am, I could probably get ready in ten.

Instead, I take my time in the bathroom, applying my eyeliner in a perfected black stroke, and add a little highlight here and there to my skin. The final touch is a swipe of pink lipstick. The gloss slides across my lips with purpose, painting my mouth a striking pigment a few shades darker than my natural coloring.

With my hair brushed and lips plump, I’m ready to handle whatever Dominic has planned. I can’t help but rub my thighs together, noticing the lick of cool air that meets my bare flesh whenever my dress swishes.

One last glance in the mirror, and I’m ready—ready for whatever this evening throws my way. Although if Dominic has plans for us to entertain investors with me in this state, I’m fairly certain all my composure will vanish.

By the time I make it down to the hotel bar, my heart is hammering against my ribs, and I’m eager to see Dominic.

Composure, Presley.

My heels click on the dark tile of the bar floor. The lighting is dim and sultry, the result of low-hanging lanterns and tea-light candles strewn randomly across the small tables. I pause, uncertain if he’s here yet.

“You’re early. Good.”

I practically jump out of my dress.