“Water?” I ask, unable to stop laughing on the inside at my own stupidity.

  “Please.” She smiles mildly, still standing where I left her. Is she experiencing the same level of uselessness as me? Shaky legs, brain malfunction?

  I pull two bottles of water from the fridge as she finally makes her way to the couch, giving me the perfect view of the perfect silhouette of a perfect body in that perfect dress. Good Lord, help me.

  I collect a glass. “Ava?”

  She pauses. Looks back. And my cock, the one that usually only responds under the influence, twitches behind my boxers.

  It’s alarming. Unsettling. How old is she? I’m frowning to myself again. Actually, how old am I? I haven’t celebrated a birthday since I lost Jake.

  “Yes?” she asks, turning to face me.

  “Glass?”

  “Yes, please.” She smiles and my dick very nearly fucking explodes. I work to talk it down as she settles and pulls something from her bag, setting it on the table before her with her phone, shaking her hands subtly as I wander over and sit opposite her. Right now, it’s the best seat in the house, and there are some fucking amazing seats around here. I put the waters on the table and relax as she scribbles notes on a pad. I can’t help but think she’s distracting herself.

  “So, where do we start?” I ask, trying to kill the awkward silence that’s fallen. She looks up as I take a swig of water, her eyes falling to my lips. I smile, and she startles, distracting herself once again by pouring some water. I should have done that. Poured her water. What kind of gentleman are you, Ward?

  “I guess you should tell me why I’m here.” She braves facing me.

  “Oh?” Yes, why is she here? My thoughts are all over the place, and she is dominating them. Just her. Nothing else. No shitty past. No guilt. No shame. No pain. Just her.

  “You requested me by name?” she murmurs.

  Ah. Interiors. This beautiful specimen is a dab hand at amazing interiors. “Yes.” My smile is natural. Not forced. I just love how she’s struggling to look me in the eye. She keeps taking a timeout, looking away, gathering herself, before facing me again. It’s . . . fascinating. I know I affect women, but none of them try to hide their attraction. Perhaps, maybe—definitely—because all the women I encounter are members of my fine establishment. Inhibitions are lost. Beating around the bush is just a waste of time, when you could simply spell out your desires and get-fucking-on with it. Which everyone does at The Manor, including me. But this woman . . . that’s not in her. Boldness isn’t the way forward here.

  But it’s all I know.

  I feel my forehead wrinkle again. The way forward to what exactly, Ward?

  “So, may I ask why?”

  “You may.” I inch forward on the couch and rid my hands of my water, keeping my arse on the edge, my forearms on my knees.

  “Okay. Why?” she asks, unsure.

  “I’ve heard great things about you.” Is she blushing? It’s cute. And something else I’m not familiar with.

  “Thank you. So why am I here?”

  “Well, to design.” I laugh to myself, my thoughts filthy. My answer could be very different.

  “Design what, exactly? From what I’ve seen, everything is pretty perfect.”

  She’s right, but as of now I’d have her redesign the entire place if it meant keeping her here for longer. Just to look at her. Admire her. Feel these odd tingles and be rid of the never-ending cycle of self-annihilation that is my life. “Thank you,” I say. “Do you have your portfolio with you?” I’m dragging this out. I don’t need to see her previous work. I’ve seen everything I need to see at Lusso to know she’s the woman for the job. But, shit, I’m getting far more than I bargained for.

  “Of course.” She pulls it from her bag and sets it on the table, and I rise without thought and move to her couch, lowering beside her. She shifts subtly.

  “You’re very young to be such an accomplished designer.” I start browsing the file.

  “How old are you?” she blurts out, and my hand pauses turning the page. Jesus, and I thought my brain-to-mouth filter was dodgy. Hers is completely knackered. But, God love her, she’s totally exposed her state of mind right now. Confirmed my thoughts. She’s attracted to me.

  Yet that question . . .

  It tells me age matters. It tells me she’s wondering. Fuck. How old do I look? My confidence in that department has been dented for the first time in forever. Maybe because I’m on unfamiliar ground with an obviously younger woman.

  I start nibbling my lip, thinking. Avoid the question. Simple. I glance up at her. Her face, bless her, is bright red. “Twenty–one,” I say, and she snorts, making my brows rise, part amused, but more insulted.

  “Sorry.” She swings her gaze back to the portfolio in my hand, and I start turning the pages again. And I’m smiling when the interior of my new apartment comes into view. “This, I like a lot.”

  “I’m not sure my work on Lusso would fit in here.”

  I find her eyes. What about you, Ava? Would you fit in here? “You’re right; I’m just saying . . . I really like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She clumsily grabs her water. She’s modest. Reserved. It’s refreshing after being surrounded by brash women my entire adult life. But she definitely needs to loosen up. Just a little, though. Not too much. Her disposition is endearing. Her awkwardness. Her terrible attempts to remain cool. That’s refreshing too.

  This is so strange, this feeling. My fascination. Her fascination. I smile at the photographs, feeling her eyes drilling into me. I move my knee a fraction and brush her leg, and she jerks, moving away quickly.

  “Do you have a toilet?” She’s up like a shot, faffing with her dress, and I slowly rise until I’m towering over her.

  “Through the summer room and on your left.”

  “Thank you.”

  I remain exactly where I am, not giving her the space she needs, forcing her to edge her way past. She’s holding her breath. I’m definitely holding mine. My eyes follow her hasty steps all the way to the door until the wood separates us.

  “Well, fucking hell,” I breathe, falling to my arse on the couch and staring forward. Ava O’Shea. I don’t know what I anticipated, but she most definitely wasn’t it. I blow out my cheeks, scrubbing my hands down my rough face. Just ask her out. Simple shit. Except, I don’t ask women out. I get plastered and fuck them in every filthy way imaginable, and something tells me she wouldn’t be all too amenable to an offer to join me in my private suite. She’s nothing like the women I’m used to, and I’m guessing Miss Ava O’Shea isn’t familiar with this lifestyle. But is she curious? Could she turn after she’s seen what I offer here? I pout.

  Frown.

  Recoil.

  No. This place, it wouldn’t suit her. She’s too . . . lovely. She’s more lace, not leather. More passionate lovemaking than animalistic fucking. I sense she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a fairy tale, and I know, better than anyone, that all I have to offer is a horror story. Darkness. Ugliness. Pain. Sin. Guilt.

  She’s out of your league, Ward.

  The door swings open and I jump out of my fucking skin. “For fuck’s sake, Sarah,” I snap.

  “Sorry. I finished earlier than expected. Want me to take ov—”

  “No.” I grab the portfolio and start flicking the pages. “I’ve got it, thanks.” I risk a peek up at her, discovering exactly what I knew I would. A massive frown.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yep.” That’s a lie. I don’t think I am okay. I feel . . . weird. And gutted. Because Miss O’Shea doesn’t fit into my box. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”

  That frown doesn’t leave her face as she closes the door. It’s an achievement, considering the amount of shit she has pumped into it. I toss the folder on the table and start trying to master a plan because, and it’s a fucking revelation, I am affected.

  I’ve just got to know what’s under that navy pencil dress. Got to taste those lips. Got to feel those hips. Get to know her. Woo her. Then ask her out, Ward. That’s the correct etiquette, I believe.

  All well and good, but I’m assuming she’s interested. I might have read this completely wrong. Perhaps she’s just off because she’s found herself at an elite sex club in a meeting with a man who, I fucking hope, breaks the stereotypical sex-club-owner type.

  My eyes fall to her phone on the table. Hmm.

  Like I said, boldness is all I know.

  I quickly claim it and bring up the home screen. Go to contacts. Add my name and number. And I dial myself so I can save hers. Stalkerish? Absolutely not. I’m just saving myself the time and hassle of calling the firm she works for to get her contact details. You know, just in case she forgets to give me her card.

  I rest her phone back on the table, my eyes on her bag. I look back at the door. Think. I’m in her handbag before I know it, finding what I’m looking for quickly. I pull out her wallet, open it, my shaking hands not helping me. I spot her driver’s license and pull it out, scanning the small card. And, horribly, my heart sinks a little. Twenty-six. She’s twenty-six. It’s confirmed. Way too young for me, and since she’s asked the question, she’s concluded I must be too old for her. “God damn it,” I breathe, deflating.

  I hear a knock at the door. Fuck. I shove her wallet back in her bag and quickly reclaim her portfolio.

  She enters, and I look up on a smile. It’s probably a guilty smile. Yes, I just totally violated your privacy. Yes, I’m wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.

  My smile falls when I detect a change in her disposition. She seems more together. Resolute. I shouldn’t have let her use the ladies’.

  She walks to the couch opposite, completely disregarding me when I make space for her to pass and join me on this couch. So she’s going to approach me professionally now, is she? Force herself to remain together?

  Not if I have anything to do with it.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, wanting her to know I’ve read the situation. That I’m aware.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  I withdraw as a result of her snappy reply.

  “Would you like to show me where your intended project is so we can start discussing your requirements?” she asks.

  My eyebrows jump up of their own volition. I’d happily discuss my requirements all day long, and it doesn’t involve any kind of designing. “Sure.” I fetch my mobile from my desk and follow her to the door, quickening my stride to pass her. Woo her in the traditional way, Ward.

  I bow as I hold the door open, unleashing one of my most dazzling smiles. She’s not amused. Oh, playing hard to get now, huh? Well, unlucky for you, Miss O’Shea, I’m quite taken by you. You only have yourself to blame.

  My eyes fall to the base of her back when she passes, and my hand is resting there before I can stop myself. Her shoulders jump up, her breathing becomes rushed, and she increases her pace, severing our contact, but she comes to an abrupt stop when she reaches the summer room. She doesn’t know which way to go.

  “Do you play?” I ask, pointing to the courts outside the window.

  Her laugh is pure and joyful, and it feels good to know I did that. Made her laugh. She’s loosening up. A point to you, Ward. “No, I don’t.”

  I grin, happy with myself. More so when her smile widens. Kill me now. Her beauty just increased tenfold. “You?” she asks as we walk on.

  “I don’t mind the odd game, but I’m more of an extreme sports kinda guy.”

  “What sort of extreme sports?”

  The kind that’ll make your eyes water. “Snowboarding, mainly, but I’ve tried my hand at whitewater rafting, bungee jumping, and skydiving. I’m a bit of an adrenalin junky. I like to feel the blood pumping.” I need to do that shit more often. Get the adrenalin pumping in healthier ways.

  I study her for a few pleasurable moments. This is nice. A normal conversation about normal stuff with a beautiful woman.

  “Extreme.”

  I can’t help myself. “Very extreme.”

  She loses her breath. She’s struggling. Might even blurt out something inappropriate again. That façade she returned from the ladies’ with? Bye-bye. “Shall we continue?” I ask. Her eyes close briefly—gathering herself—and when she opens them, I make sure the first thing she sees are mine. And she searches them. What is she hoping to find?

  “Yes, please,” she practically breathes.

  I smile and lead her into the bar, not surprised to find Sam propped on a stool; he’s a millionaire with nothing to do but fill his time with kink. But it’s unusual to see Drew here at this time of day. I give them both a hello slap on the shoulder. “Guys, this is Ava. Ava, this is Sam Kelt and Drew Davies.”

  “Good afternoon.” Drew, ever the cold one, takes Ava in from top to toe. Yes, I agree, mate, she looks all wrong around here.

  “Hi,” Ava says.

  “Welcome to the pleasure dome.” Sam raises his beer, and I roll my eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Jesse?”

  “No, I’m good. I’m just giving Ava a tour of the extension. She’ll be working on the interiors,” I say, turning a smile to her. Perhaps I’m being presumptuous. Her taking the contract is not set in stone at all, but I plan on making it happen.

  “About time,” Drew pipes up. “There are never any rooms available.”

  “How was boarding in Cortina, my man?” Sam asks, steering us away from Drew’s grievance.

  I settle on a stool. “Amazing. The Italian way of skiing follows pretty closely to their laid-back lifestyle.” I watch Ava as I speak. She’s interested, wants to know more, and that in itself is appealing. So I reel off what I got up to in Italy. Minus the women and drink.

  “You’re good?” Ava asks quietly, her eyes now comfortably set on me.

  At what? Fucking? Skiing? Wooing? “Very,” I reply, and she nods, thoughtful, our eyes locked. She’s wondering about the fucking part, despite the fact that, naturally, I didn’t mention my extracurricular activities of that sort while I was in Italy. Or would she call it making love? Whatever. My dick inside her. All the same thing. “Shall we?” I get up and gesture the way.

  She says her goodbyes to the lads, and I don’t miss both their interested looks. Whatever they’re thinking, I’m certain I won’t like it.

  “So, now for the main feature,” I tease, taking the stairs, Ava following. We circle the landing. “These are the private rooms.” I point to a few doors, my private suite included. Her. In there. I close my eyes briefly and try not to let the fantasy take hold as we reach the stained-glass window at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the communal room. I glance up, my mind off on another tangent. What would she look like up there? Hanging from a St. Andrews Cross? Shackled to a horse? Spread-eagled on a bed?

  But then . . .

  I look down at my feet, caught off guard by my next thought.

  If she was in that room, every other man in this place would get to enjoy her. I chew my lip, my thoughts spiraling. All eyes on her. That doesn’t sit well.

  I force my feet forward, shaking my mind clear. “This is the extension.” It doesn’t sit well at all. “This is where I need your help.” We enter the new wing, and I spy the carpenter in one of the rooms on a ladder, drilling into the ceiling.

  “This is all new?” she asks.

  “Yes, they’re all shells at the moment, but I’m sure you’ll remedy that. Let me show you.” I seize her hand without thought and pull her to the last room, smiling at her when she doesn’t protest. Because she feels it too. Whatever that odd sizzle is, she feels it.

  “Are they all this big?” She tugs her hand free, and it’s all I can do not to reprimand her for it. I don’t get much pleasure in life. Sex isn’t really pleasure. It’s a necessity. A means to an end. A habit. A vice. But physical contact with her is pleasurable and, frankly, it’s pretty fucking hard to let her withdraw from it.

  “Yes,” I answer, and she gazes around.

  “En suite?”

  “Yes.” I lean against the wall as she disappears into the bathroom. These rooms are the last thing on my agenda at the moment. And at the top? How the fuck I’m going to convince this woman to have dinner with me. Somewhere else. Away from here. Away from the eyes of the male members. Away from the women who I absolutely know will take an instant dislike to her, because she’s younger, fresher. And because I, the unfeeling, impenetrable lord of the fucking sex manor, am taken by her.

  Ava emerges. Takes me in. Thinks. I’m suddenly wary, my eyes narrowing evidence of that, but I’m fucked if I can help it.

  “I’m not sure that I’m the right person for this job.”

  Oh no she doesn’t. Not a chance. No way. Make normal conversation again, Ward. Talk about tennis. TV. Music. “I think you have what I want.” And I say that. And I don’t only say it, I say it quietly. Suggestively. Boldness is all you know. And, worryingly, I can see her withdrawing. So yes, fuck it, the gloves are off.

  I know attraction when it smacks me in the face, and this woman is attracted to me. So why the heck is she trying to be all cool? Could it be this place? Is she wary of my elaborate high-end sex club? That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever asked myself. Of course she is. Everyone unfamiliar with this lifestyle is wary of it. It doesn’t usually bother me. Not with anyone—my parents, my sister, no one. But this woman? I care that she might think it’s debauched. That I’m debauched. And worst, I care that she’s right.

  “I’ve always dealt in modern luxury,” she says, gazing around. “I’m sure you would be happier working with Patrick or Tom. They deal with our period projects.”

  I don’t know who Patrick and Tom are, but it’s out of the question. I want her working here so I can work on her. “But I want you.”

  “Why?”

  “You look like you’ll be very good.” Jesus, Jesse, you couldn’t be more diplomatic?

  Her eyes undeniably widen. “What’s your brief?”

  Oh, now we’re talking. I’m quickly concluding that instinct is all I have here. I act on impulse. Always have. I smile a little. “Sensual, intimate, luxurious, stimulating, invigorating . . .”