Chapter 20: The Foundation

That night there was no shaking and no vase.

I came into the suite with my shoes in my hand and my hair coming down, and I stood in front of the window.

"Two hundred ninety-one," Anson said behind me.

"Don't say the number."

"It's a good number."

"It's the best number I've ever had," I said, and turned around.

He was in his shirtsleeves, tie gone, a glass untouched in his hand.

He looked at me.

"Put that down," I said.

He set the glass on the sill.

I was twenty-six, and he was thirty-three, and for once I did not want to push him or pin him or prove a thing.

I wanted him to take his time.

"Slowly," I said. "Please."

He crossed the carpet and lifted my chin with one finger.

He kissed me like a man with all night and no reason to hurry, soft at first, then deeper, until my knees gave.

He undressed me a button at a time.

His lips followed each one, down my throat, over my collarbone, along the long pale scar on my side.

He kissed the scar.

I made a sound, and he did it again.

"That's mine," I said, barely.

"I know." He lay me back across the white bed. "Everything on you is yours."

His mouth traveled down my stomach, and I tangled my hands in his hair.

He pushed my thighs apart with his palms and put his mouth on me, slow and hot and sure.

I arched off the sheet, and he held my hips down and did not stop.

I said his name over and over until it stopped sounding like a name.

When I came, my hands had balled in the covers and my heels dug into his back.

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