Chapter 21: Suite on the Boss: Chapter 20

I lean against the closed door of my apartment and watch Sophia walk down the hall, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, like she’s intruding.

“You can snoop,” I say with a grin. “Go ahead.”

“This place is your home? Like, your actual home, home?”

“Yes.”

“It looks like a museum!”

“The first couple of rooms definitely do.”

She peers into the study off the main hallway. It’s a massive space, with three of the four walls clad in built-in bookcases.

“Wow,” she breathes and runs a hand over leather-encased books. “Have you read these?”

“No. Most were printed half a century ago.” I look at the giant desk with the dark wood and leather inlay in the middle of the room. “My grandfather was the first to live in this apartment.”

“This was his study?”

“Yes.”

She pauses at three framed portraits. They’re ostentatious, commissioned for vanity, and yet, I’ve never been able to take them down. To change anything in these rooms. My father had felt the same.

Sophia walks past the one of my great-grandfather, coming to a stop at my grandfather’s, with the giant moustache and the pronounced frown lines.

“Anthony Winter Senior,” she says. “Right?”

“Yes.”

“Everything I’ve read about him says that he was a… demanding man.”

I snort. “Well, that’s certainly true. Complicated and brilliant.”

“Is it true that he had five mistresses?”

I wrap an arm around her waist and meet the gruff eyes of my grandfather over her heat. “Possibly. I don’t know the exact number.”

“I feel bad for your grandmother.”

“Don’t,” I say. “She was a viper. They were a well-suited pair in many ways.”

“You don’t think they loved each other?”

“I know they didn’t,” I say. Their marriage had been forged out of convenience and ambition; my grandmother’s was just of a different sort than my grandfather’s. They’d succeeded, too. Together they’d made the Winter Corporation what it is today.

I turn us toward the door. “Come on, there are more rooms to explore.”

“If every room is like this, we’ll be here all night,” she says.

“Well, were you planning on going back to yours later?”

Her smile widens. “I might have packed a toothbrush.”

“Good,” I say, “because I have no intention of letting you go.”

Watching her in my space, in the family’s space, is a peculiar thing. Like seeing a part of your new self meet with the old. The past with the future. Sophia wanders into the dining room and pauses by the twelve-seater table. The walls are spectacular with wainscoting and custom wallpaper, and from the ceiling, hangs a century-old chandelier.

“Oh,” she breathes. “This is… wow.”

“I eat in here most nights.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely not.”

She gives me a playful smile. “I could almost imagine you doing that. Sitting dignified at one end and wishing you could ask someone to pass the salt.”

“That’s what you think of me?”

“Yes,” she says and wraps her arms around my neck. Her body is a sinuous line, lithe beneath the dress and graceful even in stillness. “How often do you entertain in here?”

“Entertain what?” I say. “Indecent thoughts? All the time, lately.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, you flatterer. Guests.”

“Oh, guests.”

“Yes.”

I fit my hands to the soft swell of her hips. “Almost never.”

“Not even business associates?”

“Sometimes,” I say. “These rooms have a certain…”

“Gravitas?” she says. “Pomposity? Legacy?”

“Yes, Miss Thesaurus, I suppose they do.”

“But where are the rooms where you actually live?”

“They’re all here.”

She shakes her head. “No, where do you take off your clothes at night, where do you eat your takeout, where do you watch TV?”

I take her hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

We walk through the sitting room and into the butler’s corridor. From there, it’s a quick step into the kitchen. I point at the kitchen table. “For eating meals.”

She lets go of my hand and heads straight for the fridge.

“Hungry?” I ask.

She opens it and then gives a wide smile. “No. Just curious.”

I lean against the kitchen counter. “Found anything interesting?”

“No,” she says, “nothing at all, which is the funny part. Your fridge looks like mine.”

“Empty?”

“Yes.”

“I guess we’re not chefs.”

“No,” she says and shakes her head. “I’ve never liked cooking. Oh, what’s in there?”

She walks into the adjoining living room. It’s small, but it has a couch, a few bookcases, and a TV. “This is where you relax?”

“Some nights, yes.”

She sits down on the couch and rests her hand on a pillow. Having her here feels excitingly exposing. Her beauty and smile fills the well-used space.

“How many people have lived here?”

“On this particular couch? None. I got it when I moved in.”

“Good to know,” she says and pats the dark blue fabric. “But in the apartment?”

“Three generations, give or take. My great-grandfather died before the building was fully built, and my grandfather took over at nineteen. But I don’t have an exact number of all the family members who have passed in and out.”

“Don’t you want a place that’s just yours?”

I sit down next to her. The eyes that gaze back at mine are curious and open, and I don’t think anyone has asked me that question in years.

“It works well for now. It keeps me close to the business and to my employees.”

Her mouth curves into a smile. “Yes, that would be your answer. But I’ve heard people say it’s important to separate work and personal life. Balance, I think it’s called.”

Our legs touch, hers bare beneath a knee-length silk skirt. “You saying something over there, workaholic?”

She chuckles. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t throw rocks in glass houses.”

“A little pebble is okay, I suppose, but no more.”

She pretends to lock her mouth shut. “I’m done.”

“Good.”

“Except I have another question.”

I rest my hands behind my head and stretch out my legs so that one is right in front of hers. “Yes, I bought a new bed for the master when I moved in.”

Sophia’s eyes on mine glitter. “Not what I was going to ask.”

“But I’m pretty sure you were thinking it.”

She rolls her eyes again. “I wanted to ask how often you, you know. Entertain.”

“We spoke about that earlier.”

“No, I mean, how often do you entertain here?” She nudges my leg with her knee. “Before me, I mean. I know you weren’t big on dating, but…”

I run a hand over my jaw, trying to hide my smile. “You’re curious about my past, Bishop?”

“Maybe a little bit. You know so much about mine, after all.”

I shift closer to her on the couch. “Well, you know what happened to my last relationship.”

She nods. “Your engagement.”

“Yes.”

“Did you date anyone between then and… now?”

“No, not really.”

She lifts her eyebrows, and I sigh. The truth wouldn’t paint a flattering picture. “I wasn’t interested in dating long-term. I work too damn much, and the mess just never seemed worth it.”

Sophia nods. “I get that.”

“There was someone, though. We didn’t date, but we saw each other from time to time.”

“You were friends with benefits.”

“I guess that’s what the kids call it.”

She nudges my leg again. “You’re not an antique, you know, despite living in one.”

“Funny,” I say. There’s more to say about Beverly, but it’s not something I’m proud of. My relationship with her had been based on mutual physical attraction, tolerable conversation, and nothing more. She was stuck, and I was jaded, and it had been pleasurable for us both. No expectations. No future.

But it doesn’t belong here with Sophia.

“Did it end naturally?” she asks.

“Yes. I haven’t seen her in almost a year,” I say. “You know I’m short on time.”

She smiles. “Yes, I do know, which is why I couldn’t come over until nine p.m. tonight.”

“I was in supplier meetings.” I reach out and curve my hand over her leg, finding the hem of her skirt. The skin at the back of her knee is tantalizingly soft. “But I cut them short for you.”

“Did you? How gallant.”

“Mmm.”

“What was her name? Your old friend-with-benefit?”

My hand pauses. “Why?”

She shrugs. “In case we go to any more events together and we need to perform for another ex. You know mine, and I know your ex-fiancée. Also, I’m just curious when it comes to you.”

I let my thumb sweep higher. Touching her feels like an intoxicating privilege. “Beverly doesn’t go to many benefits.”

Sophia sighs. “Shoot. Then I guess I won’t have to kiss you dramatically in public again.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say, “but you can, if you’d like to.”

“You did tell me you’d never object to me kissing you.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“It was very comforting at the time.”

“It was the truth, too,” I say. “I think I still mean it, but maybe you should try, just to be sure.”

Sophia shifts closer on the couch. “Should I?”

“Yes.” My hand slides beneath the silk of her skirt. “Thanks for coming by at nine p.m. on a Wednesday.”

“Thanks for letting me invade your space.”

“You’re making it much better by being here.”

She settles astride of my lap, and I take her in my arms, the weight and feel of her becoming deliciously familiar.

“Let me try, then,” she murmurs and rests a hand on my jaw.

I let her kiss me. I even go so far as kissing her back, my hands tightening on her hips, just to show how much I don’t object.

She cocks her head, her mahogany hair sliding to one side. “You don’t seem offended.”

“I don’t think I feel it, either.”

“Good thing you weren’t the first time, or I would have lost you as a client.”

I chuckle. “Sweetheart, it would take a great deal more for me to quit the Exciteur deal.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You’re far too good at your job.” I glance down, at where I’m slowly raising her skirt. Her smooth thighs on either side of me are like an anchor, and yet, it’s one that grounds me rather than weighs me down.

I kiss her again. The rhythm of it is becoming familiar, and the familiarity itself is arousing. The knowledge of what she likes, how she moans when I deepen the kiss, how she grips my hair tight at the back of my head. Intimacy grows with repetition, not lessens, and I’m learning the shape of ours.

I shift us, spreading her out beneath me on the couch. A lonely throw pillow tumbles to the ground. Time fades and slips away, reality disappearing around me. She notches a leg at my hip. I look down, watching my own hand push her skirt up past her hips.

“Oh,” Sophia says. “I forgot to mention, I have to show you something. I just received prototypes for the Winter coffee-table book I mentioned!”

I rest my head against the pillow next to hers. “Jesus.”

She laughs. “Sorry. But I really think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I say, “but if you’re thinking about work right now, I’m definitely doing something wrong.”

Her laughter is warmer this time, two arms wrapping around my back. “Maybe I just want to impress you.”

“You already do,” I say, “and besides, there are other ways.”

“Mmm.”

“You actually requested a prototype of the book?”

She nods, her cheeks flushed. “I couldn’t resist. It was supposed to be a surprise at the pitch, something we’d throw in as a gesture of goodwill. It’ll only have ten sample pages, of course, but it’s a great prototype.”

“You’re such an overachiever.”

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she says.

A tendril of her hair has fallen over her eyebrow, curling at her cheek. I brush it away. “Sophia.”

“Yes?”

“Have dinner with me the night before the pitch.”

Her eyes widen. “In the fancy dining room?”

“At a restaurant,” I say. “Let me take you out on a proper date before…”

“Before it’s too late?” she says, a rueful smile on her lips.

“Yes.”

Her hand rests on the side of my neck, and she traces the edge of my jaw with her thumb. “It would help me take my mind off this really important work pitch I have the next day.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? A terrible client?”

“The worst,” she says. “He’s so demanding, and he never seems satisfied.”

“Sounds like an asshole.”

“Yeah, he demands perfection. Even describes himself as someone who won’t give less than a hundred and ten percent and probably expects it from everyone else.”

“Pretentious bastard,” I say and move down her body. The silk of her skirt is now ruched around her waist.

“He can be hard to please,” she says and runs her fingers through my hair. “But I think I’m learning how to.”

I kiss the inside of her thigh. Warm skin, soft skin, smelling like her. “Well, if he’s displeased with you, he’s an idiot.”

“I’ll have to remind him of that,” she says, voice breathless, “after the pitch meeting.”

“You should.” I push my arm beneath one of her thighs, grabbing a hold of it, and open her up for me. Her black panties are edged with lace. “Maybe you should focus on teaching him how to please you instead.”

Sophia’s breathing picks up, and in my peripheral view I see her arm curving over the back of the couch. “I think I could do that.”

I savor the moment I pull her panties to the side. Revealing her to me, to the room, a view I’ll never tire of.

“Only way to stop you from thinking about work,” I murmur, and lower my mouth. Sophia gives a shaky laugh and threads her fingers through my hair. “Give it a hundred and ten percent,” she says, “and I promise I’ll forget I’m even employed.”

I give it a hundred and twenty.