“What do you mean?”
“He screams, he runs around like a maniac, he throws temper tantrums. His parents can’t or don’t want to control him.” Or they didn’t care enough to notice.
“There’s always a reason for a child to behave like that. Maybe his parents aren’t giving him enough attention.”
Funny, Paul’s mother had said the same. And Paul himself was suspecting it too. “So, do you like kids?”
A warm smile spread on Holly’s face. “Yes. They are tiny little wonders.”
He felt himself return her smile. Then his gaze locked with hers, and he couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about. All he saw was the woman who’d turned his world upside down that night in the Hamptons.
And all he wanted was for her to do it again.
11
Over dinner at a small French neighborhood bistro, Paul had told her more about himself—practical things, like how he liked his coffee, what foods he liked and didn’t like, the clothes he felt comfortable in, where he went to school, what university he attended, and much more.
Holly had tried to commit every word to memory, and having to concentrate so hard had at least distracted her from how good Paul looked and how charming he could be when he wasn’t throwing her out of his house.
In fact¸ for the entire evening he’d been the perfect gentleman, opening doors for her as if she were a lady, rather than a call girl he was paying for. On the walk back to his place, he’d quickly switched sides with her when a drunk had passed them, making sure she didn’t have to walk too closely to the man who reeked of alcohol. She’d appreciated his thoughtfulness.
Now she lay in his bed, tossing and turning, thinking about whether she’d done the right thing in accepting his proposal. Having seen glimpses of the real Paul would make it even harder to go home after this week was over. Though when he’d said that he was indifferent to children, his words had reinforced her resolve never to tell him about the pregnancy. He didn’t want children, so why should she burden him with this knowledge?
Holly sat up in bed and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was well past midnight and she couldn’t sleep. Her baby-doll nightgown clung to her breasts and sweat ran down her cleavage. She reached for the water bottle on the nightstand and found it empty.
“Damn,” she cursed under her breath. She needed cold water to cool down her heated body.
With a sigh, she pushed back the blanket and got out of bed. The carpet swallowed the sound of her footsteps as she walked along the corridor toward the kitchen, when she heard a moan coming from the open plan living area.
She rounded the dividing wall and stopped, scanning the room. The shades weren’t drawn, letting light from the New York skyline shine into the room. The dim light was sufficient for her to see where the moan had come from—and why.
Paul lay on the couch, his chest bare, his boxer briefs pushed down to his knees, his groin exposed. One hand was gripping his erection, moving up and down on it, while the other cradled his balls.
Holly slapped her hand over her mouth to suppress the gasp that wanted to come out of it. She should turn around immediately and go back to her room, but her feet wouldn’t follow her silent command. As if they were rooted to the ground, they didn’t move. Fascinated, she watched Paul. His eyes were closed, the cords in his neck bulging as he pressed his head back into the pillow. His chest muscles flexed and the light danced on it with every movement, reflecting in the sheen of sweat that covered him.
Her gaze drifted lower again, drawn to his cock. With every downward stroke, the tip of it peeked from his fist, already glistening with pre-cum. She’d never seen a more erotic sight than that of Paul pleasuring himself. Her body reacted to him instantly. Wetness pooled between her legs, and her nipples hardened. She rubbed her hands over them to take away the sudden ache, but knew it was useless. Only one thing could take away the ache: Paul’s mouth on her and his cock inside her. But she couldn’t go down that road again. It would lead to nothing.
Yet it didn’t stop her from watching him. He would never know that she’d seen him, and at least she could enjoy the thrill that now raced through her at seeing him masturbate. It also told her another thing: even though he wanted sex, he hadn’t tried to force himself on her, despite the amount of money he’d paid for her company. Instead, he’d taken himself in hand and was slaking his lust on his own.
Or was he taking care of himself because he didn’t want to sleep with an escort again? Was he still as disgusted about having slept with her as he’d been that morning, after their night of passion? None of his demeanor earlier in the day or during their dinner had suggested that, but then, Paul was probably hiding his feelings the same way she was.