Page 97 of Most Eligible Billionaire

Twenty-Four

Vicky

Henry livesin a lavish prewar building on Central Park, all marble walls and chandeliers. A scary-looking bouncer-sized doorman in a brown uniform and brown hat opens the door for us.

We walk into the lobby, hand in hand. Leaving the world behind.

“Who’s this?” the doorman says, grinning at Smuckers. Smuckers strains at his leash, tail a blur of wagging, because,stranger petting!

“It’s Smuckers,” I say, tightening my grip on Henry’s hand.

Henry swears under his breath as the man kneels in front of Smuckers.

I slide my hand under Henry’s suit jacket. He seems to vibrate under my touch.

Things turn out to be more exciting than Smuckers could’ve imagined—the man has a fist, and from inside that fist comes the smell of food. Finally the man opens his hand and sets down a bone-shaped treat, which Smuckers gobbles.

Well, who can pass up a bone-shaped treat?

“How’s it going?” Henry asks him.

“Fine and dandy,” the doorman says, ruffling Smuckers’s hair. “Look at you, mister!” Smuckers is apoplectic with glee. He likes this doorman.

Henry drapes his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear. “Sorry.”

I pull closer, slide a hand over his firm ass. “Will he have a problem,” I whisper, “if we make out on the floor over there?”

“Come on, Smuck.” Henry takes the leash. “See ya later, Alan,” he says.

Alan salutes Smuckers and then us.

We head deeper into the maze of marble and chandeliers and elegant carpeting and get to the pair of elevators with golden doors. Henry hits Up, never taking his eyes from mine.

The elevator inspection license is posted between the two elevators, just like in our building, except in our building it’s under smudgy Plexiglas. In this building it’s in an ornate gold frame like it’s a freaking Picasso.

“Some fancy action right here. If I’d’ve known, I would’ve put Smuckers in his silver bow tie.”

Henry gives me this look like he doesn’t give a crap. He’s so past giving a crap. He yanks me flush to him, chest to chest, lips inches apart. His heart bangs against my rib cage. His cock bores into my belly—hard—like he wants to make me feel it.

“Yes,” I breathe, immobilized by him in front of the elevator inspection certificate of the rich and famous.

His lips brush mine. It’s a whisper of a kiss. A shimmer of sensation. Flesh nipping flesh. Teasing and electric.

I touch one of the buttons on his shirtfront. I slip my fingers under, seeking his warm body, pressing the back of my hand into the hard plane of his stomach. He lets out a little groan of surrender, then takes my upper lip in his teeth for a moment, catching, releasing.

I find his belly button. I slide my knuckle down his trail of soft hair into the elastic of his underwear.

A ding sounds from somewhere.

Henry’s hands close over my shoulders as he kisses me. He maneuvers me sideways and backs me into the elevator without breaking the contact of our kiss. Smuckers is a blur at our feet.

Henry turns and stabs in a code, then backs me up to the wall, kissing me some more. He slides a hungry hand over my loose hair and then over the fuzziness of my sweater, over my breasts and shoulders, all the way down to my wrists, which he captures in his hands.

I’m a butterfly, pinned by his gaze, as he lifts my arms and presses them up against the dark velvet of the elevator wall panel. Again he kisses me, lips like plush pillows.

“I want you so bad I could die,” I say.

He kisses me harder.

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