He looks me over. Beyond being angry, his gaze is hot. It makes my skin tingle, which is annoying.

“Would you like me to?”

“No.”

I follow him to the lobby. He angles his body in such a way that I’m partially eclipsed by his broadness as we pass the security guards.

“Worried someone’s going to judge you for being seen with me?” I mutter.

He gives me an icy glare, slides his keycard over the elevator sensor that takes us to the penthouse floor and ushers me inside. It’s dedicated, so very few people use it. The elevator ride to his condo is full of more silence and tension.

I’m relieved that we don’t run into anyone in the hallway. Particularly Ms. Blackwood. I’ve seen her a few times coming and going and she’s always polite, but in that way rich people are when really they think they’re better than you. Which is exactly the reason I’ve kept this job a secret, because I’ve grown up in an environment where that’s the rule, not the exception.

Bancroft lets the door close with a heavy slam. He throws his keys on the counter and kicks off his shoes, then starts down the hall.

“Where’re you going?” I call after him.

“To my room.”

I plant a fist on my hip. “That’s it?”

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “I’d like to get changed.”

“You came all the way to my work to glare at me and be pissy and drive me home, just to go to bed?”

He strides back down the hall toward me, eyes flashing. Jesus. Why is he so hot when he’s pissed off? “No. I came to your work so I could see for myself exactly how involved your lie was. I came to your work because I’m worried about the location and your safety. I came to your work because I wanted to see you perform. Now I would like to get changed and I think you should, too.”

“What if I don’t want to?” I’m being a combative brat right now. I think it’s because I’m scared; of this conversation, that I’ve ruined any possibility of this being more.

“I don’t think I can have this conversation with you while you’re dressed like . . . like—” he flails his hands around, gesturing at my outfit.

I jut my chest out. I’m rocking some insane cleavage. This outfit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. His eyes drop and have a hard time coming back up to my face.

“Like what?” I bark.

“Like this!” he snaps back.

“And what am I dressed like?” I know the answer to this question, but I want to hear him say it. I want a reason to go off on him because he’s a damn hypocrite if he can go out on a date with someone like Brittany who wears skimpy, slutty clothes on purpose, and get his balls all twisted because my costume is revealing. I mean, there is a lot of skin showing and half my butt is on display some of the time, but it’s not like I have a full coverage option for this gig. And it’s not as if I’d wear it off the stage.

Bancroft’s face is red. His eyes close and stay that way for a while before they open again. “Everyone was looking at you!”

I don’t get why he never seems to answer a question directly. I throw my hands up. “They’re supposed to! I’m performing.”

“But why do you have to wear this? Why do you have to look so . . . so—” He takes a step closer, hands clenched at his sides.

I lift my chin in defiance, challenging him to say what I know he wants to. “So what?”

“So fucking hot!” It’s more growl than words.

And not the words I expect. At all. I expected him to say slutty, or like a streetwalker, or a lady of the night. “I’m supposed to look hot. It’s how I make money right now. Is this another reason why you’re so angry? Because I’m too provocative?”

“Yes. No. You lied. This. You. You’re driving me insane. I want—” Bancroft’s breath leaves him on a hard pant.

I have no idea what’s going on. Two minutes ago he was pissed because I lied and now he’s mad because I’m hot. “You want what?” We’re almost nose-to-nose, me pushed up on my tiptoes, Bancroft leaning down so his shoulders are hunched.

His hands flex at his sides. “You. Fuck. I want.”

“Is that supposed to makes sense?” Sweet Christ is he saying what I think he is?

His voice drops to a gravelly whisper. “I want you.”

He admitted it. Out loud. Thank God. He doesn’t make a move to take me, though, so I push what I hope is his very last button. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“You can’t make anything easy, can you?” His hand shoots out, fingers sliding into my hair, twisting into the strands. His grip tightens as he tilts my head back and then his mouth is on mine.

It’s nothing like the time he accidentally kissed me at the engagement party. If that kiss was a fizzled-out candle, this one is an entire store of firecrackers going off at once.

Weeks of pent-up tension explode as his tongue pushes past my lips and he groans into my mouth. I latch on to his hair, because there’s no way we’re stopping this now that it’s started.

In the back of my head, reason tells me this is a seriously bad idea. I still live here. He’s angry at me for lying to him. I’m angry at myself for caring what everyone thinks, and for getting myself into this kind of situation. We need to have a discussion. One with words and some logic. But logic has gone out the window. Jumped the twenty-plus stories in a free fall.

Sweet button of lust in my panties, this man can do amazing things with his tongue. I bet his talents extend far beyond mouth skills, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to find out if this is true.

Bancroft slides his hand under my skirt. He doesn’t actually have to do much work to accomplish that since it’s so damn short. He grabs my glitter-panty-covered right ass cheek and pulls me against him. Like the last time I ended up with his tongue in my mouth, I can feel his ample hard-on against my stomach. I can’t wait to get my hands on it. Better yet, I can’t wait to ride it. Screw worrying about arguments and conversations. Forget worrying about having a place to live.

I have a free hand, so I mimic him and grab his ass like he is mine. His grip tightens, and he shifts his hips, seeking friction. I can totally relate to that need.

He breaks the kiss long enough to say, “I want you in my bed.”