Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Back at home, I take a deep breath, trying to slow my heart, and guide Presley toward the guest room. She watches me with wide eyes, pausing in the center of the plush carpeting with her heels dangling from one hand.

“Get comfortable,” I say in a gruff voice, then head straight to the kitchen to pour myself a neat Scotch. On second thought, I make it a double. I’ll need some serious alcohol if I have any hope in hell of falling asleep tonight with this swarm of contradictory emotions fighting in my gut.

And with Presley sleeping just a few yards away, whispers a voice from deep in the less-evolved parts of my mind. Here with me, in my home, where we once shared so many happy memories.

I drink like I’m forcing down medicine. No, I’m not going to dwell on her. I’m not happy she’s here. Go the fuck to sleep and deal with it in the morning, like I told her. Stick to the plan.

Francine steps into the kitchen and watches me. I didn’t even bother to turn on a light, and in the dim glow cast by the moon, I can see her frown as she watches me. She must have a million questions about what’s going on between Presley and me, but I have exactly zero answers. It’s a very unusual predicament for me.

“Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry it’s so late,” I say, my throat hoarse from the liquor.

She makes a sympathetic noise and crosses the room to stand before me. For a moment, I think she’s about to hug me, which surprises me because Francine and I have never had any kind of physical contact. Even though she’s always treated me with a motherly warmth, it’s always lacked any affection, which has been just fine by me. But rather than hug me, she reaches around me and grabs her purse from the counter.

“Good night, Dominic. Try to get some rest. You need it.” She touches my forearm once, pats it softly, and then disappears around me toward the door.

“Drive safe,” I mutter into the darkness.

Once the tumbler is empty, I head back down the hall. But something slows me as I walk past the guest room.

It occurs to me that I never checked to make sure Presley was okay. What’s wrong with me? That client clearly scared her—she called me begging for help—and I didn’t even bother asking about what happened.

I need to know if he hurt her, did something to upset her. Touched her. There will be hell to pay with Allure if that prick did something to her. Their screening process is supposed to be rigorous, specifically to keep sick fucks away from their escorts.

The idea of Presley entertaining another man is an unpleasant one. I shake my head. Dammit, I don’t care who she did or didn’t fuck, taking care of her is just the right thing to do. I’d do the same for anyone in the same situation. Wouldn’t I?

I’ll just check on her quickly, I tell myself, and then head to bed. Just to see if she needs any help. She’s a guest, and she’s my employee, something bad obviously happened tonight . . . it’s the least I can do.

I ease open the door as quietly as possible and peek in. She’s facing away, her dark hair spilled luxuriously over the pillow. Her side rises and falls in a gentle, even rhythm. Fast asleep.

leave now. So, naturally, I find myself seated on the edge of the bed because I’ve made

I can tell in the dim moonlight, there are no bruises or any other marks, thank God. The covers have slipped, revealing her bare shoulder and the strap of her dress. It’s obvious she would sleep

carefully pull the top blanket back over

What am I doing?

idea. Maybe I

• • •

have fallen asleep sitting up, just like I used to do next to the girls’ cribs when they were babies and restless, because I quickly wake at the sound of the toilet flushing. I grunt and rub my eyes before glancing at

of the en-suite bathroom, spots

Coming in here was obviously a mistake. I don’t act

if you needed anything,

nods, not

asleep too,”

or because she thinks I don’t want to be near her? I do . . . which is precisely

“I’m okay,” she says.

“What happened tonight?”

stalling for time. “I went out with a client. I told you that. I needed the money.” Her voice is small,

client?” I ask, my

up, meeting my eyes. “He

does. I was the first man to touch her, the first inside her.

So you’ve sucked two dicks

verge of crumpling. “It didn’t get that far,” she says, her voice choked and wavering. She swallows hard. “In fact . . . when he tried to push me into touching him, that’s when I

and it just leaped out

like an asshole, I look

shakes her head. “He was really gross,

“Did he touch you?”