Kevin Smith urgently unzipped his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt as Bianca, wearing just a lacy flame-colored bra and thong set and her favorite Jimmy Choo mules, calmly smoked a cigarette and stared at the rain pouring outside the window. Manhattan looked gloomy that night.
Bianca and Kevin had gone to Café Rouge, where a cocktail turned into seven and where they’d decided to go back to his place.
With what seemed like animal hunger, Kevin wrapped his arms around Bianca’s waist and kissed her neck. “God, I want you,” he whispered in her ear.
Bianca did not stir. She found the rain crashing against the French windows far more interesting than Kevin’s arousal. She also found it interesting that most of her conquests were tall, dark and handsome investment bankers who owned enormous Park Avenue apartments. She’d never met an interesting man in her life—though she hadn’t a clue what made a man interesting. What was so interesting about an investment banker who lived on Park Avenue? Aside from their healthy bank accounts, the aforementioned men were as fun as plucking one’s eyebrows.
And Bianca hated Park Avenue—the thought of having rich old women with tiny dogs in their handbags as neighbors didn’t sit well with her. She’d much rather hang out in her neighborhood in SoHo, where eclectic cafés, fashionable restaurants and stylish art galleries dominated the area. God, she wished she had suggested going to her place instead. Now she had to struggle to get a cab in this God forsaken place.
Kevin traced his fingers up and down her spine as he pressed his erection against her hip. “You drive me crazy, Miss Cox,” he cooed.
Her back still facing him, she says, “Do I really?”
“Yes,” he whispered, kissing her softly on her shoulders. “You’re a strikingly beautiful woman, you know.”
