now?
Yes, but in some way, I'm being more honest with him right now than I have with anyone in a very long time. Other than Enzo, no one really has any idea of what goes on in my head. Not even Regan and Rosalyn, my only real friends, and frankly, I'm not too sure how real they are. A part of me is always hidden away behind the walls I've spent my life constructing. We talk about clothes, shopping, celebrity gossip, my girlfriends and I. Nothing any deeper. This is more truth than I've spoken in years. It's freeing, as clichéd as that may sound. And it's addictive. I want to tell him more.
Get yourself under control.
“I don't get that part, either,” he says. “The games. All that shit—and pardon my language, but it
is
shit—about not calling a woman for three days, a week.”
“Exactly. And you don't have to worry about languagewith me. There was plenty of it in the house I grew up in. I'm used to it.”
Damn it. I'm saying too much. But he hasn't noticed.
“I'm going to be honest with you, Valentine.” My hand is still resting in his, and he uses both his hands to turn mine over. He strokes my open palm with his thumbs, and I am shivering immediately with lust. Drenched. Aching. “You are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I've ever met. I know you're holding something back from me. But I find it intriguing. I don't mind that little bit of mystery.”
I'm nearly blushing now; another first in this decade. When I look up into his eyes they are steady, unblinking. Beautiful, his long, dark lashes.
“Tell me about your life, Valentine. Whatever you want to tell me. You decide.”
I nod my head. He understands me, in some strange way. And he's incredibly kind. I don't know what to think of him, this impossible man. Like something I dreamed up.
If only I could fuck him and get off like I do with my clients. But I don't want to think about that part now, that part which will mean an end to this lovely dream. By tomorrow I will have to wake up and understand it's over.
If that's the case, what does it matter if I let him in a little? My mind is reeling with the idea.
“I don't know where to start,” I tell him.
“Start with what you like, what interests you.”
I pause, thinking. My brain is whirling.
“I always loved going to school, from the time I was a kid, and later, in college. I took classes on every subject. I never earned a degree. I just… learned.”
He leans in closer. “What were your favorite classes?”
“History. Sociology. Cultural anthropology. If you put them all together, it's like a picture of the world. Of people.”
“I loved my sociology classes, too. And psychology. It all seems like such a long time ago, now. But it's come in handy in my business. Knowing how people tick. Or some of it, at least. People are a mystery to me on a lot of levels, which I find interesting. Fascinating.”
He pauses, takes a sip of his drink. The ice cubes rattle in his glass as he sets it back down on the table. His lower lip is left a bit damp, and it's all I can do not to reach out and taste that droplet of fine sake, just lick it off with my tongue.
“It's like a window letting you inside,” he goes on, “having these odd bits of knowledge. Being made to dissect the way we all think, how we function, what makes us do whatever it is we do.”
“Yes, exactly. But I thought you went to school for a business degree.”
“I did. But I had other interests. I was young, and I'm sure my dad saw it as lack of focus. But the world was too varied. I didn't want to do any one thing forever.”
“And now you've been running the family business forever,” I say quietly, then immediately regret it. It seems cruel of me to point that out.
He nods. “Yes.” He's quiet a moment, then, “When we're young the world is one big possibility. But then we have to grow up and face reality. This is my reality.”
“I never had that,” I tell him, realizing suddenly how true it is. “I
Yes, but in some way, I'm being more honest with him right now than I have with anyone in a very long time. Other than Enzo, no one really has any idea of what goes on in my head. Not even Regan and Rosalyn, my only real friends, and frankly, I'm not too sure how real they are. A part of me is always hidden away behind the walls I've spent my life constructing. We talk about clothes, shopping, celebrity gossip, my girlfriends and I. Nothing any deeper. This is more truth than I've spoken in years. It's freeing, as clichéd as that may sound. And it's addictive. I want to tell him more.
Get yourself under control.
“I don't get that part, either,” he says. “The games. All that shit—and pardon my language, but it
is
shit—about not calling a woman for three days, a week.”
“Exactly. And you don't have to worry about languagewith me. There was plenty of it in the house I grew up in. I'm used to it.”
Damn it. I'm saying too much. But he hasn't noticed.
“I'm going to be honest with you, Valentine.” My hand is still resting in his, and he uses both his hands to turn mine over. He strokes my open palm with his thumbs, and I am shivering immediately with lust. Drenched. Aching. “You are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I've ever met. I know you're holding something back from me. But I find it intriguing. I don't mind that little bit of mystery.”
I'm nearly blushing now; another first in this decade. When I look up into his eyes they are steady, unblinking. Beautiful, his long, dark lashes.
“Tell me about your life, Valentine. Whatever you want to tell me. You decide.”
I nod my head. He understands me, in some strange way. And he's incredibly kind. I don't know what to think of him, this impossible man. Like something I dreamed up.
If only I could fuck him and get off like I do with my clients. But I don't want to think about that part now, that part which will mean an end to this lovely dream. By tomorrow I will have to wake up and understand it's over.
If that's the case, what does it matter if I let him in a little? My mind is reeling with the idea.
“I don't know where to start,” I tell him.
“Start with what you like, what interests you.”
I pause, thinking. My brain is whirling.
“I always loved going to school, from the time I was a kid, and later, in college. I took classes on every subject. I never earned a degree. I just… learned.”
He leans in closer. “What were your favorite classes?”
“History. Sociology. Cultural anthropology. If you put them all together, it's like a picture of the world. Of people.”
“I loved my sociology classes, too. And psychology. It all seems like such a long time ago, now. But it's come in handy in my business. Knowing how people tick. Or some of it, at least. People are a mystery to me on a lot of levels, which I find interesting. Fascinating.”
He pauses, takes a sip of his drink. The ice cubes rattle in his glass as he sets it back down on the table. His lower lip is left a bit damp, and it's all I can do not to reach out and taste that droplet of fine sake, just lick it off with my tongue.
“It's like a window letting you inside,” he goes on, “having these odd bits of knowledge. Being made to dissect the way we all think, how we function, what makes us do whatever it is we do.”
“Yes, exactly. But I thought you went to school for a business degree.”
“I did. But I had other interests. I was young, and I'm sure my dad saw it as lack of focus. But the world was too varied. I didn't want to do any one thing forever.”
“And now you've been running the family business forever,” I say quietly, then immediately regret it. It seems cruel of me to point that out.
He nods. “Yes.” He's quiet a moment, then, “When we're young the world is one big possibility. But then we have to grow up and face reality. This is my reality.”
“I never had that,” I tell him, realizing suddenly how true it is. “I
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