Page 2 of The Billionaire Bodyguard Next Door
A broad smile broke across his face. “I think that's a fantastic idea.”
He grabbed my hand and led me to the kitchen where the drinks were laid out on the counter. He snagged two beers and then led us through the living room and out onto the small rooftop garden.
If anyone glanced our way, I didn't notice. I was too focused on the man in front of me. We hadn't even exchanged names yet, and I wanted to know everything about him—who he was, and what he did for a living because this man was not a doctor. For one, I could feel the calluses on his palm. I'm pretty sure doctors didn't have time for the manual labor required to carve those into his hands.
Second, he had a mysterious glint in his eyes. One that made me think he was joking and wanted to run with this ridiculous ruse.
The man was so scrumptious I had no qualms about letting him do just that.
My kitty was certainly in agreement. It had been two long months since I'd gotten laid, and I was practically in heat.
If this gorgeous man had a working dick, he’d suit my needs just fine.
As long as he wasn’t a serial killer.
That would be a hard pass for me, which should go without saying, but I feel like I should mention it, nonetheless. I do havesomestandards.
But pending that, it was game on. While he sat down, I took a quick second to smooth my hair.
I had spent a considerable amount of time styling it, perfecting the 1950s movie starlet look I'd been going for. Earlier this week, I'd found a gorgeous dress at a thrift store and the whole vision practically formed in front of my eyes. It was frankly the only reason I dared to venture out tonight. I should be spending time working on my business plans. It was my only day off from Veuve where I worked as the assistant manager under my mentor Gigi Holstein.
But the lure of hot men and some much-needed me time tipped the scales.
The sizzling specimen in front of me patted the spot next to him. The terrace only had room for a small loveseat, which I planned to take full advantage of.
I sidled right next to him, our thighs touching. My bare leg against his tight black slacks.
In a swift—and frankly presumptuous move—he lifted my feet off the ground, turning my legs so they were in his lap. The gesture was reserved for an intimate partnership between two people who were completely comfortable with one another.
And us.
He grinned. “What's your name?”
I wasn’t distracted at all by his large hand right above my knee. Nope. Not even a little. “Luna, and yours?”
“Beckett, although all my friends call me Beck.”
I reached out and palmed the scruff lining his cheeks. “And do I get the honor of calling you my friend?”
He leaned over, his scent infiltrating my senses. Beck smelled of pine and mint. Fresh and clean, and for some reason a startling contrast to the way he looked. Although I should know by now not to judge a book by its cover, we all do it. His breath was warm as it hit the shell of my ear. “You can call me whatever you'd like, gorgeous.”
A shiver slithered down my spine. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He smirked. “There’s more where that came from.”
“I'm sure of it. Although I have to tell you, that was one cheesy line.” The man’s tongue was made of honey and if anyone could pull off cheesy, it was him. “How do you know Paige?”
He frowned. “Who’s Paige?”
That made me laugh. “She lives here with her roommate.” I pointed to the glass partition that separated us from the inside of the vast apartment most people would kill to have. “You know, the party you’re at. She’s the host. Bubbly brunette with a streak of pink in her hair, nose piercing.”
He nodded. “Ahh, Paige and Kristina, right? I just moved in on nine. I met some women in the elevators, and they insisted I come tonight. Apparently, they were worried there wouldn't be enough hot guys.” He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you? I think they mentioned a certain friend demanding hot men in attendance.”
I shook my head, the picture of innocence. My friends knew they could lure me here with the promise of good-looking men that could help me scratch my itch.
“Doesn't ring a bell, and that definitely doesn't sound like me.” Then I sat up straighter, leaning back to take him in. This man was what wet dreams are made of. Like hot book boyfriend material. Those men were just works of fiction.
That could only mean… “You're not some sort of gigolo, are you?”
