Page 8 of A Merry Invitation
His head shot up and their gazes locked. “My mother used to say that,” he said.
“I got it from my grandmother who used to live with us and say it about my mum all the time.”
Those lines formed in his forehead again. “She doesn’t live with you anymore?”
“I live alone now,” she told him. “And my grandmother passed away three years ago. Just my mum and dad live in the cottage house now.”
He gave a slow nod and then said, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she replied and a hush fell over the room.
She really should cover herself and probably get out of this bed. Tossing her legs over the side of the bed she stood and then grabbed the sheet to wrap around her body.
“I said you could take your time,” he said and then stood when he was finished tying his shoes. “Breakfast will be here at eight.”
He spoke in a very authoritative tone as if he never expected anyone to not listen to him. Of course, he hadn’t really given her a directive that she’d been averse to following, but she did wonder why his tone caused her pussy to pulsate. It could be said that she liked a bad boy, but Slay Turner wasn’t exactly giving off those vibes. He was well-groomed, dressed nice, was well-spoken, and fine as hell. He was also decisive, candid and at this very moment, dismissing her.
Which was fine. She had things to do. Her job was still in limbo after all that mess with her supervisor, Jessie—who turned out to be a whole killer—and the subsequent investigation into the Addison Adoption Agency where she’d been an executive assistant. The last she’d heard from the director, Shenikah Morae, they were going to start packing up the office this week. She’d still been receiving paychecks, but Willow knew that wouldn’t last much longer. When her agent had received that invitation last week Willow had thought it was divine intervention, that the prospective contract would more than replace the salary she would certainly be losing soon. But things hadn’t exactly panned out that way.
“Yeah, I should get going too,” she said and then looked around the room for her purse. She needed to check her phone to see if Michaela had called with any word from Titus Tremaine.
Admitting that Slay had put her in such a dick-haze last night that she’d pushed thoughts of her career to the side was odd and a bit disconcerting. For as long as she could remember her every thought had circulated around singing—cultivating her voice, learning music, creating her brand. It was her entire world. Until last night when this man had offered her a night of hot sex.
He’d definitely delivered on that, so she wasn’t going to hate on the invitation. Especially since she’d seen Titus in that room, so he’d heard her sing. All she had to do was get Michaela on the phone to see how well, or not well, that part of her evening had gone.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom. Your coat and purse are out front in the living space,” he told her as he stood.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said and then shook her head before taking a step toward the bathroom.
He moved with a definite swagger, his long legs carrying him across the space separating them in a way that called for some bomb ass theme music to accompany his movements. Even in last night’s tuxedo Slay Turner was still a sight to behold. The top two buttons of the shirt were left undone, leaving his wide neck and Adams’ apple bare. She’d licked him there last night, had dragged her tongue up and down his neck, then over his chest where she’d nipped his nipples the same way he’d done hers. He’d sucked in a breath when she’d done that and had flattened a hand to the back of her head, holding her in that position for endless moments.
He’d done that a few times last night, stopped mid-stroke, mid-kiss, or even when he was simply staring at her, to do…nothing. She’d thought then that it was like he was gathering himself, getting his mind right to continued. But now, in the light of day, as he came to a stop just a few inches away from her, that same quizzical gaze quickly crossing his face, she wondered if it were something else. If he were trying to commit this to memory. Like he was taking mental snapshots of these moments that he planned to replay later.
Dropping her gaze to the way she’d wrapped the white sheet around her body and held it together with her arms flattened at her sides, she prayed this wasn’t the memory he was shooting for.
“You’re still beautiful,” he said, his deep voice lowered as it had been so many times last night.
“Thank you,” she replied bringing her gaze back up to his. “You’re fine too.” The words tumbled free and she followed them up with a small smile.
He returned the smile and her breath caught because the potency of his smile was unexpected. She cleared her throat. “I’ll, uh, I guess I should thank you for the invitation.”
He raised a brow.
“I mean, for the opportunity to sing last night. Thank you.” Not for the hours he’d spent fucking her brains out. She wasn’t totally sure a “thank you” would be enough for that.
“Thank you for accepting the invitation,” he said and then his phone rang. “I’ve gotta go.”
She nodded. “Right. Me too. Um, take care, Slayton Turner.”
He’d pulled his phone from his pocket and slid his finger over the screen to silence the call, but at her words he looked up at her again. “Yeah,” he said. “You, take care too, Willow James.”
He held her gaze for a few seconds longer, seconds that seemed to linger and dance around her with tendrils of possibility. Would he ask to see her again? Would he at least ask for her number? He knew she sang at the club and he obviously knew how to get in contact with her agent, so maybe he didn’t need her number. Who the hell was she kidding, Slay Turner didn’t want her number. He’d only wanted one night with her and she’d given it to him. So that was that.
And that was good, she had other priorities. A whole life that had been moving along just fine until she’d received that invitation.
And after he’d left her in that room alone, she decided that her life would continue just fine after the invitation too.
CHAPTER6
