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After a traumatic breakup with her college sweetheart, Aria Davenport meets an older, more sexually experienced businessman who promises to change her life forever.
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Nine Weeks Ago
Thursday Afternoon
When the elevator door opens, we step straight into the penthouse.
"What no front door?" I ask a little alarmed.
"The elevator is the front door."
Mind. Blown.
His place is beyond amazing. Simple and modern. The neutral tones, grays, beiges, tans, and hints of brown give off an air of luxury. While all the vases and accents give it edge. The art alone is to die for.
"Please don't tell me that's a Basquiat?"
"Yep. That's an original. It took a while to track that one down."
"That's so dope! I love Basquiat!" I stand there for a while, admiring the audacity of the painting. "Your taste in art!"
Phoenix stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "You like that, huh?" He kisses my neck.
"Really? Get a room!" Penelope yells from the peanut gallery.
"Well there's plenty of those here! Why don't you go and find one?" I shoot back.
Phoenix laughs. "OK. Relax, get comfortable. We've been traveling all day. Pick a room you like," he points to the right side of the condo, "put your stuff away. We can figure out what to do next once we all get settled."
"Alright!" Mia exclaims.
Penelope and Mia link arms as they begin exploring, leaving Riz and JC with their luggage. Carrying all the bags, the guys follow closely behind, looking amused.
Now that we're finally alone, I hand him my test results. He goes through his luggage and passes me his.
Scanning his paperwork, I like what I see. He's clean. Not that I thought he'd be otherwise. A girl can never be too safe.
"Looks like we're both good to go and I'm on the pill, so we don't have to worry about that. I like these odds, Mr. Prescott."
He flashes a naughty grin, after reviewing my test results. "Me too, Ms. Davenport."
We exchange papers, returning them to the original owners and tuck them away in our respective bags.
"This is our room." Phoenix points to the left side of the condo. We walk towards the master bedroom, passing the gray and white marble kitchen island.
"Our room?" I look him up and down.
"I know you like to share." He goes to a wireless sound system and turns the radio on. James Bay fills the space, singing about pink lemonade and love to high energy rock music and heavy guitar riffs. "You said it yourself, you're a giver, remember?" His smile tells me naughty ideas are springing up behind those gorgeous, dark eyes. He attempts to change the station.
