Page 30 of The Cruiser
ChapterTwelve
MORGAN
I duckout of the men’s room and she’s there, scanning the lobby for me. A geometry lesson in proportioned curves. Hair down and cascading onto the swell of her breasts that took me over the finish line moments ago. Blood rages hot through my veins and I run both hands over my hair, as if that might contain my hammering heart.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” I reach for the handle of her suitcase. “Is this all your luggage?”
“I downsized for the four days,” she replies. Upon closer inspection of my face, her expressive eyebrows knit together. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”
“Ah. It’s warm in here, no?”
Her head tilts, unsure if I’m joking. The air conditioner is blasting full tilt and granted, I’ve told better lies. But how can a man think straight after witnessing Vandana in a thong? I had to brace myself with one arm in the bathroom stall, my orgasm so damaging, the poor fellow who walked in to use the urinal must’ve thought an animal was dying. And now here I am, forced to play it cool, my cock half-stiff and ready for more. Hats off to her. Not a stitch of self-consciousness.
Not for someone who was tangled in hotel curtains minutes ago.
“How long is the drive to Genoa?” she asks, matching my stride across the lobby.
“Two and a half to three hours, depending on traffic.”
Outside, I pop the trunk to my Bentley Continental, adding her luggage in with mine. Vandana admires the car’s glacier-blue finish. “Great color. Custom?”
“How did you know?” I ask.
“One of my best friends in LA is a car nut. We test drove everything before she bought her Aston Martin. I know way more than I should. She was very jealous when I told her about my ride in your Chiron.”
A bubbly sensation fills my chest. She’s talking to her friends. About me. What else did she say? “Before we go, I need to swing past my apartment. A package I was waiting for just arrived.”
“That’s fine,” she says. “I don’t mind another tour.”
Like everything in Monaco, my apartment is close by, but I drive slower than usual, preoccupied with the floral undertones of her perfume. Preoccupied with the image of her ass swaying underneath my shirt. She is the most edible fucking woman I’ve ever met. I need a taste of her sinful, luscious gateau. Jerking off can’t sustain me much longer. How and when is all I can think about, and I will beg for it if I have to.
Like she’s reading my mind, I feel her bottomless brown eyes assessing me, unnerving me enough to second-guess.
Fuck. Did I zip up properly?
“Sorry to intrude,” she says. Her hand comes toward me and plucks a long, white hair from my black Thom Browne shirt. “I can’t let a client be seen with hair on his shirt.”
“That’s a donation from Asterix. Cat hair,” I explain.
She cracks the window and lets the hair flutter away onto Boulevard des Moulins. “You have a cat.”
“Are you a cat person?”
“I am, although my lifestyle isn’t great for pets. How do you balance yours with a cat, given you spend so much time on your yacht?”
“They always come with me.”
“They?” She glances at me. “How many do you have?”
“Five.”
I brace myself for the usual commentary, something along the lines of What normal man owns five cats? Like it’s somehow a personality defect to surround myself with unconditional love. Truthfully, I’ll take my cats on board with me sooner than I would most women. I often prefer to be alone. It’s easier. Always has been.
Instead of going down the predictable line of questioning, Vandana just smiles the way one does when privy to an inside joke. “Why did you name your cat after a punctuation mark?”
“It’s Asterix,” I clarify. “He was a character in a comic book series of the same name.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
