“No,” she moaned. “That’s not fair. I don’t like teasing.”

“I know you don’t. And I don’t like being told to fuck you hard,” he said, slowing his moves to drive as deep as he possibly could in her, making her breath catch in her throat. “You think I’d do anything but fuck you hard when I have been waiting all week for this?”

“All week? You’ve been waiting all week?”

He dipped his head to the crook of her neck, planting a bruising kiss on her skin as he slammed into her once more, his cock rubbing her clit and filling her at the same delirious time. She moaned loudly, so loud she was sure the next street over heard her, and she didn’t care one bit. He was fucking her worries away, and the harder he took her, the less she cared about the way she spent her Tuesday nights.

“Yes. All. Week. Long,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust. “I’ve been picturing your legs wrapped around me, your hot body against mine, and most of all, I’ve been thinking about making you come again. I want you to scream, Julia. I want to feel the way you grip my cock when you come on me,” he said, in that rough, sexy voice that sent sparks tearing through her body.

“Me too, Clay. Me too,” she whispered, letting go of the game, of the banter, of the way they teased each other because right now, she was starting to see stars. Beautiful, silvery stars, as the world slipped away, and he filled her, taking charge of her body, sending her over the edge. Her belly tightened. “Oh god,” she cried out.

“Yeah, just like that. Come for me now, come so fucking hard for me so I can feel you all over,” he said, holding onto her, as she shattered into the beautiful bliss of another orgasm, the pleasure riding through her, stretching and reaching into the far corners of her body and mind.

Then, as she was catching her breath, she felt her spine scrape the wall as he surged into her once more, the look on his face, the growl in his throat, making it clear that he’d joined her, and they’d come undone together.

She was willing to admit it. She had apartment envy and she had it bad. He had not one, but two sets of stairs. Which meant he had three floors. The loft level up top, then a living room level in between, then the kitchen and dining room floor.

She trailed her fingers along the granite counter in his kitchen, lined with dark oak stools. “And this is where you cook all your gourmet meals?” She eyed the gleaming stovetop in the kitchen that looked as if it had never been used.

“You think I don’t cook?” Clay handed her a glass of Belvedere, then poured another for himself.

“Do you cook?”

“I can cook. I don’t usually though.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I cook I want to cook for someone,” he said. Pots and pans hung on hooks on the exposed brick walls of the kitchen.

“And there’s no one to cook for?”

“Not lately,” he said, then gestured to the stairs. “Let me show you the balcony.”

They left the kitchen area and he led her up six steps to the sliding glass doors in the living room that opened to a balcony.

A gorgeous, drool-worthy balcony.

Her jaw threatened to drop but she knew better than to gawk outwardly. Inside though, she was ogling the spaciousness. This wasn’t one of those New York balconies you had to wedge yourself onto sideways and then lean over to catch a sliver of a view. No, the man had a balcony big enough for hosting a summer barbecue, for throwing a party, for strutting around and doing a dance.

“Yeah, it’s not too shabby at all,” she said dryly, as she peered over the edge of the brick railing, looking down at the cars streaming through the West Village, their taillights streaking six stories below. She drank in the view – all of New York City it seemed was visible from her vantage point, and the city was prettier when you watched it from above, when the noises were muted, and the sidewalk smells weren’t invading your nostrils. The distance was a protective layer from soots and scents and madness. She could see clear across to Broadway as it sliced Manhattan diagonally, then down to Tribeca, and over to the Hudson River, glittering like a sleek ribbon against the night.

She shivered once; the temperature had dipped some and while it wasn’t chilly yet, she was only wearing his white button-down shirt.

“You’re cold,” he said softly, wrapping his strong arms around her, pulling her close, her back to his naked chest. She glanced down at his bicep, and traced the lines of his ink. Passion, he’d told her. That’s what his tribal tattoo stood for, and it suited what she knew of him so far.

“Not anymore.” She smiled, and leaned her head back to look up at him. He brushed his lips against her forehead, and her heart fluttered. Actually fluttered, like a damn bird trying to escape. She was ready to swat it, but she decided to enjoy the moment instead. “I like your arms around me,” she whispered, stripping away her usual sarcasm.

“The feeling is completely mutual,” he said, reaching for her hand and sliding his fingers through hers.

“And I also like this view. It’s amazing.”

“It’s not too bad,” he said.

She elbowed him playfully. “Not too bad? This is magnificent, and I don’t care if that makes me seem all wide-eyed. But it’s true. Your apartment is gorgeous,” she said. She was a sucker for all the exposed red brick, and the warmth it brought to his place. “It’s funny, because I’d have pegged you as having some leather and chrome and steel furniture, all black and white and sleek.”

“You are confusing me for someone who has issues with his masculinity,” he said, holding her tighter, bending his head to her neck to plant a quick kiss.

“You’re saying a man who has black leather and chrome in his apartment is compensating for his small size?”

He laughed, a deep rumbly chuckle. “Don’t you think?”

She nodded. She liked that his home was warm and lived in. Yes, it was a man’s home, but it wasn’t the home of a man who was trying too hard. He even had a few plants on the balcony, and Julia didn’t have a green thumb herself, but still, there was something nice about this New York lawyer taking the time to have plants. “I can’t stand that whole I’m a man, I need my place to scream mannish. It’s sort of like driving a red Corvette.”

“You might notice I don’t have a red Corvette. Nor do I need one.”

“You definitely do not need one,” she said, trailing her fingers down his chest, between his pecs, and across the hard planes of his abs. “And your plants are adorable.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe if you’re behaved all night I’ll tell you their names.”

“You do not name your plants,” she said, giving him a serious look.

“You’re right.” He laced his fingers through hers, guiding her back through the sliding glass doors. “I don’t name my plants.”

They returned to the living room, with its dark brown sofa and a sturdy coffee table that boasted a couple of books, some magazines, and a few framed photos. There was a picture of Clay in a tux, standing next to another man, a handsome one too.

“Where was that taken?”

“Tony awards a few ago. That’s Davis. He’s a friend and a client. That was taken the night he won his first Tony. Bastard has a lot of them. Three now,” he said, shaking his head, but clearly proud of the accomplishment.

“And this?” She pointed to a shot of him next to a man who had similar features – square jaw, deep brown eyes, broad sturdy shoulders.

“Younger brother Brent.”

“Where’s he?” Before he could answer she held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me more.”

He furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“Because I’m famished.”

“And that means you can’t talk?”

“It means I am saving that conversation so we can have it over food,” she said playfully, as she started to unbutton his shirt.