The waiter rushes off to organize Noah’s request.
“Penthouse suite?” I nudge him gently with my elbow. Out of nerves mainly, but also because I can’t think of
anything else to say. “Just because I told you about my secret fantasy doesn’t mean I want it to happen tonight.”
Oh my god, did I just say that out loud? Like we’re old chums enjoying an inside joke? That happens to be
about me not only getting laid but also knocked up? What the hell! He nudges me back, soothing my panic by a
single degree. “It’s just dessert, Irish. Don’t get overexcited.”
I give him a look but I can feel that my face is pink. “I’m not... overexcited.” Stop talking now!
The soft notes of humor and a kind of familiarity that shouldn’t be there buffer his joke: “Don’t worry, I’m not
offering to be your sperm donor—not yet, at least.”
“Very funny.” “I just thought it might be nice to have a view for our second half of the evening.”
I don’t know why the word evening sounds so filthy in his de ep, husky voice. Or why second half sounds both
daunting and electrifying. Or why my panties are saturated. “I guess... it would.” But dessert doesn’t take the
whole weekend, is what I’m thinking.
Reading my thoughts, he muses, “Our options are wide open. Isn’t it glorious?”
“Options?” Glorious? “Yes. Options, Irish. It’s not a dirty word.” “I know, but n —” “Relax. Eat your dinner.”
I have no idea why, but the lightly bossy command makes something inside me sort of... clench with a weird,
brimming pleasure.
How does he do that? I’ve been a good girl and a dutiful one all my life. But right now I feel my mother’s Irish
spark lighting up.
I’m tired of always being good. I want to let my wild side run free, for once in my life. I’m Lucky Irish
tonight, not L. Emerson, not Lucky Ashton. I can do whatever I want.
“We can stay right here if you prefer,” he says. “It’s up to you.” More of that perc eptive kindness. Laced as it
is with graveled bass notes and dark promises, Noah Steel might as well be mainlining hundred-proof aphrodisiac
into my veins.
Which is a first. I went to a strait-laced all-girls high school and spent all my free time studying, completing
internships that were organized for me, and then training for the job I would one day take over. I have no
experience with aphrodisiacs whatsoever.
“No. I want to,” I hear myself r eply. “I want to see the rooftop.” “Good.” He nudges me playfully again,
adding, “My driver can take you home whenever you want. No pressure to start fulfilling your wildest dreams at
all.”
“You’re really making me regret confiding in you, Steel.” But his banter is so genuinely kind, I don’t feel any
actual regret at all.
“I’m sorry,” he laughs. “I’ll try not to mention babies, sperm or Earth Mothers again this evening.”
“Thank you.” But some de ep, instinctual yearning flares. He has a driver. And he didn’t even blink at the
thought of booking a five-star penthouse suite for an entire weekend. I’m starting to get the feeling money is no
object for Noah Steel. Not that that’s unusual for a finance guy in New York City, but still. He’s particularly blasé
about it.
The food is beyond delicious. Between the champagne, the exc eptional meal, the heat of Noah’s leg pressed
up against mine and the thought of
heading up to the balcony of our own private penthouse, I’m in a haze of... well, having the best night I’ve
had in a very long time. Or maybe ever.
He’s charming, sexy as all hell, unashamedly masculine, funny, and so easy to be with I forget about my
nervousness and just relax into how nice it is to spend time with him.
I learn that he works with his brothers, he travels frequently and his apartment has a nice view.
But we’re careful, almost like we’re playing a game. Like whoever can ke ep the information we’re sharing as
non-revealing as possible wins.
The waiter returns with a small leather folder and places it on the table. “Mr. Steel, Ms. Irish, the penthouse is
ready for you whenever you’d like it. Here’s your card, room key cards, the Wi-Fi password and a QR code with
our room service menu, which is also available in your room. I hope you enjoy dessert.”
Noah’s not looking at the waiter when he says it. He’s looking at me. “I know I will.”