I pretend that having Henry standing naked in front of me has no impact, but I know I’m doing a lousy job of it. My breathing alone—quick, shallow pants through parted lips—is likely enough to tip him off. My heart hammers inside my chest as I stand there, waiting.
I don’t dare look down to see the effect this has on him, but I can sense it jutting out in all its swollen glory. It would be so easy for me to reach out and rub my thumb over the tip, to wrap my fist around his length. My palm itches at the idea.
Maybe this is what he’s waiting for.
For “sweet, virtuous Abbi” to break.
“Is there anything else you need, while I’m here?” I ask as calmly as I can manage. I don’t understand what’s happening, but I know what I need at this moment. Him.
Henry takes a step closer to me, heat from his body radiating, his erection now pressing against my stomach, his words stirring my confusion. “Don’t tempt me,” he growls.
Oh my God. I’m in so far over my head. I fight every urge I have to shrink back, to run away. That’s what the farm girl would do. But I don’t want to be her.
I harden myself. “For someone who’s not attracted to insecure, stupid little girls, that sure is a very hard cock you have there.”
I can’t believe I said that. Nor can I believe that I delivered it in such a calm voice.
I don’t think he can either, because first surprise, then alarm flashes in his eyes. Yes, I basically just admitted to listening in on his conversation with Belinda. His mouth opens, then closes several times as he hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes I’m forced to say things I don’t mean.”
Flutters explode in my stomach. Does that mean it was a lie? “So you don’t think I’m an insecure, stupid little girl?”
His lips twist. “Oh, you are that. Until you prove otherwise, anyway.” He exhales heavily, his warm breath caressing my cheek. Some internal conflict twists his features into an almost painful grimace. “Wait for me in the living room,” he demands in a hoarse whisper, turning away and heading toward the bathroom with slow, leisurely steps, that glorious backside straining and shifting with each step, his back carved into muscle, the deep line down the center making my knees weak.
I duck out quickly and make my way over to where Michael waits, praying that my face isn’t so red that the young masseur figures out what just happened. “He’ll be out in a minute,” I say, clearing my throat as I grab my iPad and curl up in a nearby wing chair while I search for Belinda’s e-mail. Only now do I realize that my hand is shaking. And that my panties are soaked.
“You okay?” Michael asks, his bright green eyes sparkling as they watch me. They look genuine, not lecherous at all. Why does Henry think he’s into me? And why would he care if Michael was in to me? I’m not dating anyone, and Henry isn’t attracted to me.
Or did he just admit that he is?
I’m still too flustered to wrap my head around what happened and all that was said. “Yes. Thanks,” I mutter, offering Michael a smile.
He begins stretching his fingers one by one, warming them up for an hour of labor. “Hey. So what’s it like, working this closely with Wolf?”
A strangled laugh escapes my lips before I can keep it in. “Never a dull moment.”
Henry appears through the doorway then, a white towel wrapped and tucked around his lower half. It does little to hide what waits beneath and he doesn’t seem to care, one way or another.
“So, what’ll it be today, Mr. Wolf?”
“Full body, please.”
I swallow and keep my eyes on my iPad screen as, from the corner of my eye, Henry removes the towel and tosses it to land on the wing chair opposite me. I could steal a quick, unobstructed view if I adjust my eyes by an inch. Maybe he’s still testing me, wondering if I’ll take the chance.
I keep my eyes down.
I’ve seen my boss’s cock plenty already.
Henry climbs onto the table, stomach down, and Michael pulls the covers over his lower half. His hands begin their assessment of the expansive slab of muscle and flesh beneath him. “Man, you’re tight today. Stressed at all?”
Henry answers him with a low chuckle.
“Abbi.”
I swallow against the blip of excitement that stirs with Henry calling my name. “Yes?”
Long seconds of silence force me to glance up, to find him staring at me, the look on his face almost regretful. It appears that both his anger and whatever game he was playing earlier are out of his system. “Yes, Mr. Wolf?” I repeat, as pleasantly as I can.
Another few long moments hang before he quietly asks, “Brief me on the media attending. Please.”
“Okay.” I exhale shakily, preparing to read from the screen. “Well, first we have Roshana Mafi from Luxury Travel Magazine.”
“What does she look like?” he asks, without missing a beat.
I scan the picture in the electronic dossier. “Middle Eastern, long black hair. Beautiful,” I admit with more than a hint of jealousy. “Exotic-looking. It says she’s thirty-two and lives in New York City.”
“Single?”
“Yes.” Why Belinda felt the need to include that, I can’t say.
“Make sure there are flowers in her room for her arrival. I’ll write the card myself.”
Almost Henry’s age, lives in his city, stunning. Single. I feel like I’m setting the two of them up. That idea makes my stomach clench.
But I scribble down the note on my pad of paper because that’s my job.
“Next?”
“Gerard Starsky from Glamour Hotel. Short, salt-and-pepper hair. Forty-five years old. Lives in San Francisco. Married to Rena. One daughter named Bella, aged seven.” It’s almost disturbing how much personal information is on here. “It says he interviewed you two years ago at the opening in Istanbul.” Mention of Istanbul reminds me of Henry sleeping with Belinda. I wonder who initiated that. I’ll bet he takes on his sexual conquests as aggressively as he does his business ones.
Anger creeps into my otherwise rattled psyche at the thought of him tormenting me like he did in the bedroom moments ago, seemingly for his own personal entertainment.
“I remember him. Write a note to him that says ‘Good to see you again. I hope you enjoy Wolf Cove even more than you did Istanbul’. Try not to make the writing too girly.”
So Henry writes personal notes to single women but has me write the rest. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s playing up his physical gifts. “And do you want me to send him flowers, too?” I ask as innocently as possible. I can’t resist glancing over.
Henry’s sharp gaze is on me as Michael works over the deep curves of the middle of his back, the sheet draped dangerously low on his hips. I feel the urge to stick my tongue out at him, but I bite my lip instead. His eyes drop to my mouth and he blinks once... twice... Otherwise, he reveals nothing. “Next.”
And so we go through the list, me giving Henry a rundown of every member of the media who will be arriving here to provide either accolades or criticism of a location that Henry himself holds dear, and him instructing me on what to include in the welcome notes to the males. Not the females though. He’ll write all of those himself, to include with the flowers I send them in his name. I don’t have to ask why.
A personal note from the busy Henry Wolf, himself? Few women would be unaffected by that. Look how I reacted to the one he included with my replacement vest. I internally gushed over it.
What a manipulative ass.
I cover up a yawn as we wrap up the review forty minutes later. Henry looks sleepy too, his eyelids drooping. Michael has moved to Henry’s quad muscles, the sheet lifted to uncover his leg. “You can go now. Come back at seven tomorrow.” He pauses. “Actually, make it six.”
6:00 a.m. I stifle my groan. “Don’t forget your dinner tonight.”