fabric of her dress. She rolled back to her left. He couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, which was even deeper with her breasts squeezed together like that.
His dick was starting to tent his trousers. He forced his gaze to the painting above the bed, trying to think of spreadsheets and profits. R&D. Product development. Aunt Julia. He let out a breath as his erection began to subside.
“Okay, so it’s comfortable,” Polly admitted. “I don’t know that all your swanky bespoke and goose down makes it any more comfortable than my bed, but it’s nice.”
He approached her. “And what’s your bed like, Peach?”
“My bed?” She waved her hand loftily in the air and spoke in a British accent. “My bed is a bargain basement sale mattress with collapsing springs, cheap foam padding, and a deep sag in the middle designed specifically for the shape of my body.”
She shot him a grin. Though Luke smiled for her sake, something hard twisted in his chest at the thought that—joking aside—her description was even remotely accurate.
Polly shifted to one side of the bed, as if she were expecting him to lie down. He sat warily on the edge, not wanting to scare her. But she was gazing at the painting on the opposite wall, one hand behind her head and a thoughtful expression on her face.
Luke stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to make sure there was a good distance between them—which wasn’t difficult given the size of the mattress.
“I actually like that,” Polly remarked.
He looked at the painting, which was a splattering of black, gray, and white paint on a black canvas. Had he ever really looked at it before? After he’d bought the house, Julia had swept in with her Swedish interior designer and furnished the whole place. Luke had left her to it, not caring where he stored his clothes or what kind of table he sat at to eat breakfast.
He had ordered the mattress, though. Eight years ago, after Evan came home from a stay in the hospital, Luke had had one of the custom-made Savoir mattresses waiting in his brother’s house. Though Evan had protested the expense, after one night he’d lauded the bed’s comfort to such a degree that Luke hadn’t been able to resist ordering one for himself.
Evan had been right, too. The mattress, and resulting quality of sleep, was a luxury Luke didn’t regret.
Especially now that Polly Lockhart was lying next to him on it.
“It’s kind of free .” She spread her hand out to indicate the painting. “All the other art in this house is so geometric and symmetrical. But that one looks like the artist actually had some fun splashing paint on the canvas and maybe even going a little wild. It’s like a bunch of spun sugar strings all tangled together.”
When Luke didn’t respond, he sensed her look at him.
“Don’t you think?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
She shifted onto her side, facing him. Against his better judgment—because looking at Polly in his bed while lying beside her would be a monumental test of his self-control—Luke turned onto his side to face her too.
She looked good. He suspected she’d look good doing anything, but lying in his bed with her hair fanned out over her shoulders, her hands tucked beneath the goose-down pillow, and her brown eyes fixed on him with all that curious innocence . . . yeah, she looked edible good.
“Hi,” he said.
Polly smiled. “Hi. This is weird.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If you’d asked me three days ago if I thought I’d ever find myself in the fancy bespoke bed of the Sugar Rush CEO, I’d have said you were nuts.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
His for the taking.
She didn’t have to say it.
Luke had been around. A lot. He knew what women liked, what they wanted, what they needed. All he had to do was reach over and sink his hand into Polly’s soft hair, curl his palm around the back of her neck, and pull her gently toward him.
All he had to do was press his mouth
His dick was starting to tent his trousers. He forced his gaze to the painting above the bed, trying to think of spreadsheets and profits. R&D. Product development. Aunt Julia. He let out a breath as his erection began to subside.
“Okay, so it’s comfortable,” Polly admitted. “I don’t know that all your swanky bespoke and goose down makes it any more comfortable than my bed, but it’s nice.”
He approached her. “And what’s your bed like, Peach?”
“My bed?” She waved her hand loftily in the air and spoke in a British accent. “My bed is a bargain basement sale mattress with collapsing springs, cheap foam padding, and a deep sag in the middle designed specifically for the shape of my body.”
She shot him a grin. Though Luke smiled for her sake, something hard twisted in his chest at the thought that—joking aside—her description was even remotely accurate.
Polly shifted to one side of the bed, as if she were expecting him to lie down. He sat warily on the edge, not wanting to scare her. But she was gazing at the painting on the opposite wall, one hand behind her head and a thoughtful expression on her face.
Luke stretched out on the bed beside her, careful to make sure there was a good distance between them—which wasn’t difficult given the size of the mattress.
“I actually like that,” Polly remarked.
He looked at the painting, which was a splattering of black, gray, and white paint on a black canvas. Had he ever really looked at it before? After he’d bought the house, Julia had swept in with her Swedish interior designer and furnished the whole place. Luke had left her to it, not caring where he stored his clothes or what kind of table he sat at to eat breakfast.
He had ordered the mattress, though. Eight years ago, after Evan came home from a stay in the hospital, Luke had had one of the custom-made Savoir mattresses waiting in his brother’s house. Though Evan had protested the expense, after one night he’d lauded the bed’s comfort to such a degree that Luke hadn’t been able to resist ordering one for himself.
Evan had been right, too. The mattress, and resulting quality of sleep, was a luxury Luke didn’t regret.
Especially now that Polly Lockhart was lying next to him on it.
“It’s kind of free .” She spread her hand out to indicate the painting. “All the other art in this house is so geometric and symmetrical. But that one looks like the artist actually had some fun splashing paint on the canvas and maybe even going a little wild. It’s like a bunch of spun sugar strings all tangled together.”
When Luke didn’t respond, he sensed her look at him.
“Don’t you think?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
She shifted onto her side, facing him. Against his better judgment—because looking at Polly in his bed while lying beside her would be a monumental test of his self-control—Luke turned onto his side to face her too.
She looked good. He suspected she’d look good doing anything, but lying in his bed with her hair fanned out over her shoulders, her hands tucked beneath the goose-down pillow, and her brown eyes fixed on him with all that curious innocence . . . yeah, she looked edible good.
“Hi,” he said.
Polly smiled. “Hi. This is weird.”
“Yes, it is.”
“If you’d asked me three days ago if I thought I’d ever find myself in the fancy bespoke bed of the Sugar Rush CEO, I’d have said you were nuts.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
His for the taking.
She didn’t have to say it.
Luke had been around. A lot. He knew what women liked, what they wanted, what they needed. All he had to do was reach over and sink his hand into Polly’s soft hair, curl his palm around the back of her neck, and pull her gently toward him.
All he had to do was press his mouth
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