Sexy Love (Sexy Series Book 4) (14 page)

My face is applied and I’m locking up as I get the call from reception to say a car is waiting for me. I regret not pouring myself a small drink as I was getting ready because, quite absurdly, I’m a little nervous. This behaviour is most unlike me. What is it about him that makes me feel so much less confident?

Well, I don’t know what it is but I can override it, I won’t be nervous for anybody. I’m a lion… heck, I am woman, hear me roar! Helen Reddy definitely had something going with that song; I must remember to download it later.
Oh my God, I really am nervous.

The driver offers me a wonderful, friendly smile as I step inside the plush vehicle, the cream leather interior meticulously clean, and I feel a little more relaxed.

It’ll only take about fifteen minutes to get to Sebastian’s place, if I’m right about the area in which he lives, not far from me, so I don’t have a long journey ahead. I’m looking forward to taking my mind off work for a while and enjoying a glass of wine with some male company.

A flirt wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, either. Maybe a little kiss… some fornication would go down a treat.

There isn’t a whole lot of traffic, and Sebastian lives so much closer to me than I had realised! It can’t be more than a mile, mile and a half from my place – there’s only a portion of Wilshire Boulevard between our roads, I’m surprised he didn’t mention it when he saw my apartment!

The tyres squeal on the shiny concrete flooring as we pull into the underground parking garage of an apartment building after only about ten minutes. It isn’t particularly interesting; these places always look pretty much the same.

“I’ll walk you up to Mr Love’s place, Ms Berkeley, I’ve been advised that you haven’t been here before.” The driver says, politely.

“Thank you so much, that would be wonderful.”

He smoothly glides the car into an allocated spot and climbs out to open my door for me. I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door, but he got there first so I will just thank him like the nice polite lady that I am; he’s probably trained to do it, anyway. Note to all drivers: I’d thank you more if you let me open my own door.

We walk briskly through the modern and absolutely stunning building. For some reason, probably based on the fact that Sebastian wants a new place, I was under the impression that his current place wasn’t quite as nice as this. Well, thus far, anyway, the communal areas are spectacular; it must only be a few years old. I didn’t really get a good look at the outside of the building.

I am escorted up to the fourth floor, and I notice - in the elevator, that the building has five, so we’re just below penthouse level. I’m actually a little surprised that Sebastian hasn’t gone for the penthouse; he strikes me as someone who likes to have the best of everything, although his interest in my apartment did suggest otherwise. I do seem to have been getting this guy very wrong from the get-go.

“Number four-zero-seven,” the driver informs me with a smile as we walk along the hallway together, and he stops, silently suggesting I continue to the door - appropriately alone.

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your help,” I call, turning back to address him.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He turns and walks away, and I stand in front of the closed door. Sebastian Love’s front door.

Before I manage to knock, he surprises me, opening it with a gush of welcoming enthusiasm.

“Lexie! Come in! It’s so good to see you.” His bubbly manner amuses me, somewhat. “You look hot as coals, sexy lady –wow!”

I giggle. “Well thank you, Sebastian. You, too,” I say, an automatic response because I can’t say I’ve taken a good look at him yet.

He holds my arms in his strong hands and leans down to kiss my cheek. He smells divine.

“You smell incredible, Lex,” he says, coincidentally.

“I was just thinking the same about you, and I can smell something else delicious in here, too.”

He pulls back and releases my arms, pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the hub of his apartment. “Oh, I’m getting things ready to make a start on dinner. Garlic, right?”

“Mmm,” I say, nodding, stepping further into the entrance hall, “yes, and… is it cheese? Ginger maybe?”

“Wow, you’ve got a great sense of smell! Yes, I have blue cheese, and I also grated some fresh ginger.”

“Ooh I can’t wait to hear more about what we’re eating.”

“Well come on in… let me take your jacket.” He slips behind me and I shrug my jacket from my shoulders, into his hands. He opens a door and hangs it in the closet.

“Follow me,” he says, cheerfully, making his way through the light and airy apartment.

At the end of the hallway is a large, open space, split in two by a partial wall. To one side is a huge living room area, flowing through to an open plan kitchen behind me, and to the other side is a dining area.

The balcony at the far end of the living space attracts me, so I walk towards it. “Your place is beautiful, Seb.”

“Thank you,” he says, watching me from the kitchen. “I’ll show you around if you like – would you like a glass of wine?”

“Oh, yes please.”

When I step out, I notice that the balcony also has huge glass access doors on either side from the dining room and a beautiful bedroom, decorated in red and white. Considering I’m not particularly attracted to bright furnishings, this room really has my approval. I like it a lot.

I step back inside the living area, the colours flowing through the space and into the kitchen are all complementary ivories, biscuits and tans, with a couple of very dark accents. The under-counter cupboards in the kitchen for example, in a rich, ebony wood, bring out the colour of the large, dark, modern leather armchair in the sitting area.

A beautiful, thick brown fur drapes over the crook of the ivory corner couch. It makes me want to sit and snuggle my cheek into it; how very un-Alexia. Where the television might be expected, a huge and elegant painting hangs, bringing some vibrant reds and burgundies into the room.
Doesn’t he have a television?
Extremely interesting.

The flooring, which runs through the areas I have seen thus far, is an elegant and clean ash coloured wood, light and very subtle in style. “I love your flooring, Sebastian, what wood is this?”

He pulls the cork from a bottle, generating a satisfyingly loud and precise
‘pop’
. “I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t actually know – it was recommended when I bought the place. All I know is that it’s Italian hardwood flooring.”

“Well whatever it is, I like it a lot. The Italians have good wood!”

“I’m sure they do.” He winks, naughtily and walks towards me with two glasses of wine. He does look particularly handsome tonight – I haven’t really acknowledged his incredible chassis while I’ve been inspecting his wood, so to speak.

He wears a t-shirt, very simple and plain white. It’s not skin-tight, but I can clearly notice how it clings to his perfect muscular swellings as he moves. Those mesmerising tattooed arms are naked from mid-bicep, and they’re just begging me to run my fingernails through their luscious covering of silky blonde hair.

“Here’s your wine,” he says, approaching me, the site of that delicious arm clutching an enticingly huge glass, half filled with red wine, is one of the most appealing sites I think I have seen in two weeks.

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the glass, hoping it hasn’t been too obvious that I’ve been gawking at his outrageously provocative guns. This, to me – would be the equivalent to some seriously racy, seriously lacy, crotch-less, ass-less panties – to a guy who likes racy, lacy, crotch-less, ass-less panties.

This is my porn. And I’m only just realising it. I must have been living in a closet with a sack full of skinny, plain-armed geeks for the past thirty-something years, and only now have I escaped into the world of muscles and art and gorgeous masculine rawness.

On his bottom half, he wears…
oh my
, he’s very casual this evening. I’m amazed that I have only just noticed that he’s actually wearing sweatpants! Who on earth invites a lady around to their home for dinner and wears sweatpants?

Well, I suppose I know the answer. Sebastian does. And my God, I will admit that he can pull that look off with oomph. If this was anybody else (and when I say anybody, I mean Brad Pitt in his pre-Angelina, pre-seven-thousand-kids, pre-beard-like-a-tramp days) wearing sweatpants for a date with me, I would consider leaving. But the incredible view this man bestows upon me in the most heinous of garments - is something to respect. And like Stacy’s mom, he’s got it going on.

I really must stop referencing moments in my life to pop songs.

I’m happy to say that they’re an acceptable navy blue colour, but beyond that, because the colour is really not what I’m interested in here - I can see the outline of his perfectly formed athletic legs, standing so strappingly and steadily on the floor, his feet - bare, exhibiting a level of comfort around me, and his own home.

The pants hang loosely, but display more than I would have expected. As my eyes rise a little further, of their own accord - of course, I can see the outline of something else… something a little more clench-worthy.

He hangs freely, clearly without underwear (another Alexia would be thoroughly appalled by his disgusting state of commando-ism), and I’m reminded of just how superabundant God was, when he created this individual.

My new and insuppressible obsession with his delectable dick is really becoming quite annoying. I want to pull his pants down and suck on it right this minute.

“So!” I cry, a little louder than necessary, attempting to snap myself out of this penis stupor before he notices my conspicuous staring. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Come over,” he says, walking back to the open kitchen, offering me yet another inviting view, this time of his pert, round ass.
Pull it together, you imbecilic, juvenile moron. You’re exhausting yourself.

“Your kitchen is great – so spacious.” It’s all I can do; I have to speak of monotonous, non-sexual matters so as to avoid all thoughts of a carnal nature. I have never felt so ridiculously out of control like this and it’s highly disconcerting.

“Yeah, I like it to cook in – when I’m here. So…” he takes a large metal bowl from an under-counter cupboard in the central island, and places it on the worktop. He puts sugar, Dijon mustard and red wine vinegar in the bowl as he speaks. “I’m making a salad to start, I hope you like everything that’s in it.”

“I like everything so I’m sure I will.”

He seasons his unfinished dressing and slowly whisks in extra virgin olive oil, before putting the bowl to the side, and taking a pan and a pot from another cupboard. He fills the pot with water and heats oil in the pan. “Do you eat seafood? I’m making a shrimp dish for the second course, but I can easily change it to chicken or even a fish fillet if you’d prefer that.”

“Oh no, I love shrimp. Sounds great!”

“Fantastic. So, how was your day at work? You said you’re swamped?” I watch as he throws some mustard and cumin seeds in the hot oil and finely chops onions on a nearby chopping board. It has to be said; the man can multi-task!

“Yeah, it’s busy right now – my department has a few huge projects coming to a crux, all at the same time, so we’re working our asses off. It means a few weeks worth of long hours and heavy workloads, but the adrenaline does it for me.”

“I bet it does. I enjoy listening to you talk about business, I find your passion and intensity towards work highly attractive.” He throws the onions in the pan and returns to the chopping board to chop fresh cilantro and a bright, fat chilli.

“Oh really?” I smile. “It’s just what I do – what I’ve always done. I love it, though.”

“And I think that’s why it’s so sexy.”

“I enjoy hearing you talk about work, too. You’ve been busy, as well? Have you been to many places these past couple of weeks since I last saw you?” I ask, bravely broaching the subject of his lack of contact.

“Yeah, here and there, nothing too exciting. Anyway, we were talking about you.” He doesn’t seem to want to talk about work tonight, unlike the last time we spoke.

“Oh, well there’s not a whole lot to say. My projects really wouldn’t mean much to anyone outside of Henry Berkeley. You, on the other hand, fly planes! That’s fascinating, and something I’m sure we can all relate to, in one way or another.”

He chuckles. “I suppose that’s true. But I really don’t have much to report about the past couple of weeks. You like rice, right?” he asks, changing the subject, and I’m not sure whether to be quizzical about that or not.

“Sure, I like rice.”

He prepares it in the large pot and then adds the cilantro, chilli, garlic and ginger to the onion and seeds in the pan, which are now popping like crazy. Pivoting, he returns to his dressing, tearing lettuce and watercress into it. He slices kiwis and pears and tosses it all together. I watch silently, thoroughly enraptured.

He takes two plates and piles them high with the salad. He then breaks a large lump of stilton cheese into mouthful sized chunks with his manly hands, and scatters them over the juicy, green leaves, grinding black pepper on top when he’s satisfied with his presentation.