Sticky Fingers: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 5

  I walk towards him, and he holds his hand out for me to take. With a mocking grin on his lips, he plants a kiss on my hand, all while keeping his eyes on me.

  Holy crap, he’s hot.

  “Glad you came,” he says with a smirk. “You look stunning. Ready to eat?”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “And yes. Starving.”

  We take the elevator to the fourth floor and into Per Se, and we’re lead to a table by a window with a stunning view of Central Park and the city at night.

  Malcolm pulls a chair out for me before taking his own and then orders an expensive Pinot Noir for us to get started.

  Seems like the man can be a gentleman if he tries hard enough.

  As I take my first sip of the wine, I decide to come out swinging. Malcolm doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy that pussy-foots around hard subjects, so I think he’ll appreciate it.

  And if he doesn’t?

  Well, maybe he’s not as exciting as I thought he was. Which would be a real shame, you know? Considering what he did to me the other night after I hid the painting.

  But just between you and me? I think this is going to be great.

  “So, Malcolm,” I start, running my fingertip over the rim of my glass. “I read quite a bit about you recently.”

  Malcolm looks at me, mirth glinting in those soulful eyes of his.

  “Oh?” he asks. “Where did you read all this?”

  I smile. “A file,” I say demurely.

  “And what exactly did you read?” he presses.

  “You’re not just a run-of-the-mill asshole… You run things in this city, or so people think.”

  As I say it, I suddenly find my heart beating a little faster. I’m curious about how he’ll react. Will he be mad; will he lie?

  “Is that so?” is all he says as he sips his wine.

  Well, that was easy. He isn’t backpedaling; sure, he isn’t confirming anything either, but I guess he already knows that I know. So, I simply carry on.

  “Malcom Push of the Push Organization…” I begin, smiling at him, I brush the tip of my shoe against his legs.

  I make it seem casual, although I’m definitely doing it on purpose.

  “I’ve always been curious though. From what I’ve heard, you run things…in a soft manner. You’re cautious about the way you do business, aren’t you? No drugs, no contract killings, nothing that will draw the wrath of the law. It seems rather…tame.”

  “Tame?” This time he just laughs, leaning back against his seat and looking straight into my eyes.

  I hold my ground, matching his stare. God, he’s so beautiful. Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

  “Trust me, baby,” he says, angling his head downward towards me and lowering his voice, “there’s nothing tame about me.”

  “Then why isn’t the Push Organization out there selling dope and making hits?” I ask with a shrug. “You act differently from the rest.”

  “You really expect me to tell the daughter of the police commissioner my business plan as a crime lord?” he asks me with a smirk.

  “Well, you already used accusations of her being an art thief to get her on a date,” I hit back.

  “So, it’s a date then?” he retorts.

  He’s got me pinned. I take a sip of my wine.

  “It’s…” I start and pause again, “an audition.”

  “An audition for what?” he asks.

  “To see if you’re able to lift my boredom maybe,” I reply. He remains silent. “You’re very different from every other rich asshole I’ve ever met. And I’ve met quite a few.”

  “And that’s because I am different, baby. I’m not like the others” is his only reply.

  And this time he doesn’t seem to be fooling around. He actually means it.

  No, he definitely isn’t like other crime bosses. Or even other men. So, if he isn’t the type of crime boss to meddle with drugs and murder, what kind of crime lord is he?

  “Give me a bone to chew on, handsome,” I say seductively, once again brushing one foot against his leg.

  He smirks.

  “Alright,” he says, a tone of seriousness in his voice. “I don’t want to deal with all that shit because it’s not who I am. My money might come from crime, but I’m not a monster.”

  As he says it, he places his elbows on the table and leans in toward me, lowering his voice. “Besides, I want to go legit. As fun as it is to move in the shadows, nothing beats basking in the sunlight.”

  Can’t fault him for that, I guess.

  “It may be a thrill for others, but for me…” he continues. “I want to keep all the shit I work hard for.”

  “Is that so? Hard to go legit if all your money comes from—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he cuts me short, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I have various legitimate businesses…the kind the cops can’t touch.”

  “Such as? Don’t tell me you run laundry services. That’d be such a cliché.”

  “Laundry services?” He laughs, and then finishes his wine. “Come on, I’m not an idiot. If you really want to know, a few years ago I came up with the plan to go legit in all my enterprises. I invested in a series of strip clubs. It grew phenomenally fast and spread throughout the country. It’s going to be my ticket out of…the less savory businesses.”

  Strip clubs? Is he fucking kidding?

  I can’t fault a man for making money, but…doing it like that? By exploiting the bodies of women for sleazeball men? Men who can only get a woman to undress if they pay for it?

  “I take it you’re not a fan of strip clubs,” he merely says, seeing the look on my face.

  “Not really,” I admit.

  “You think it’s exploitive towards women who are down and out?” he asks me, and I nod. “That only douchebags who can’t get laid head to strip clubs to get women to undress for them?”

  How is this man in my head?

  “Listen, Malcolm,” I say to him, touching his arm, “you may very well get me in bed with you. And it may very well be good. But a man who makes his money off exploiting women… Well, he may get into my pants, but he’ll never capture my heart.”

  You know what’s unreal though?

  He doesn’t even bat an eye. It’s like he’s been waiting for me to make this declaration.

  “That’s very high and might of you, Sonia Sawyer,” he whispers. “And it fits with everything I’ve read about you.”

  Now he has me reeling back all of a sudden.

  “Read about me?” I ask. “Where?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “In a file.”

  Game. Set. Match.

  But I’m not bested yet.

  “What you call high and mighty might just be having standards of decency for other people,” I say to him.

  “Last I checked you weren’t so innocent either, Sonia.”

  Boom. Playing the art thief card.

  “The difference is that I don’t use others or their misfortune to make me money,” I growl at him, pulling my hand free from his grasp. “A couple swirls of paint missing that only a very small number of very silly rich people care about isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  “You like the thrill,” he declares.

  I can’t help it. I giggle and nod my head yes.

  “You like avoiding getting caught,” he reinforces.

  I smile.

  He’s smirking again, the tone of his voice a confident one. He knows that he has me, that my feet are glued to the floor, and that it doesn’t matter how despicable I find his method of going legitimate…I simply can’t resist that magnetic pull he has on me.

  Point for Malcolm.

  “What exactly are you trying to run from?” he asks me.

  Slowly, I let the words out—I never admit to him that I was the one behind the Picasso robbery, but I tell him all about my past life. He listens intently, taking in every single one of my words as if my voice was silk and my words were gold. Swear to God, I d
idn’t know that just having a man listening to you could be this fucking sexy.

  We chat and eat for the next two hours.

  And, God, I’ve never had such delicious food. It all melts in my mouth and sends me straight into heaven. And the wine…it’s getting me dangerously tipsy.

  The kind of tipsy that makes me have a lot of wicked thoughts.

  As Malcolm speaks, every once in a while, he touches me in some way. A touch on my hand or arm, or a graze against my legs, either with his own or even once with his hand.

  The sneaky bastard. I guess I’m not the only one who knows how to play that game.

  By the time we’re ready to leave, my blood is boiling and my thong is soaked. I may need to bust out the battery-operated boyfriend tonight. It’s kind of a shame I promised myself nothing would happen between us…because I’m definitely in the mood for it.

  But a promise is a promise. Right, babe?

  Slightly tipsy, I let him lead me out of the restaurant. We leave in his limo and head back to Clarendon Tower, my heart hammering away as I try to ignore the desire coursing through my veins.

  Once the limo pulls up to the curb, I turn to Malcolm and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Thank you for dinner,” I whisper then get out of the limo as fast as I can.

  I don’t want to tempt fate. He follows after me fast, and I turn around to meet his hard—and panty-melting—gaze.

  “We’re not ending the night with a simple kiss on the cheek,” he whispers, a hard edge to his words. An edge that tells me he won’t be denied.

  He pushes me up against the wall, and his lips devour me.

  His hands are on my hips but then migrate downward to grip my ass. I moan as I feel his hard cock rub against me. My hands thread into his hair, and I kiss him back with all the pent-up desire burning my soul.

  He groans as the kiss deepens, his fingers digging deep into my flesh.

  Soon enough though, my senses break through, and I push against him. I meant it when I said this shouldn’t—and wouldn’t—go any further tonight.

  He stares down at me for a few seconds. I can see him struggling to let me go.

  Finally, he steps back.

  “Now that’s a good night kiss,” he says with a smirk. “Sweet dreams, Sonia Sawyer.”

  I can’t even decide who scored a point right now. I managed to push him away and get what I wanted, which was not to fall in bed with him, but then again…he left me wanting him in my bed twice as much.

  I sigh. We’ll call it a tie for now.

  Chapter Nine

  Malcolm

  Leaving her and going to my own place was way fucking harder than I had anticipated. And I’m not just talking about the fucking permanent hard-on in my pants.

  She’s a breath of fresh air. Frustrating but refreshing.

  And dinner went well—except for the whole strip club conversation, that is. She wasn’t too keen on that fucking part.

  Truth be told, that’s a blip on my radar compared to all the fucking past issues I’ve had with arm candy.

  I never gave a fuck about any of that before, but with Sonia… Well, I still don’t give a fuck, but it was a bit disconcerting to see her reaction.

  As I take the elevator to my floor, I can’t help but sigh loudly. It wasn’t easy, you know? I was hard the whole fucking night. It’s hard to keep focused when all your blood is fucking concentrated between your legs.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  I love it and hate it at the same time. I’m just not used to not getting down to business. It’s been quite a few years since I’ve experienced blue balls.

  I mean, let’s be real—I don’t think I’ve even experienced blue balls before. I’m used to having chicks drop their panties just by snapping my fingers.

  I’ve never had to chase a woman before. Usually, I’m the guy beating them off with a fucking stick.

  When you have money and power, women fawn all over you. Of course, I’m not the kind of guy who lets shit like that go to his head. It’s easy to get fucking laid.

  Getting rid of them is the hard part.

  Unlocking my door, I take a few steps in before Drake steps into view.

  I know what you’re thinking—why the fuck does Malcolm have a dude inside his apartment? Chill out, there’s nothing weird going on. You’ll see what this is about in a minute.

  “Welcome home, sir,” he greets me.

  Hanging my coat up quickly, I follow his ramrod-straight back into my living area where two other guys—Brian and Jim—are set up.

  Their own laptops are placed next to my computer, which I left out for them to transfer data to.

  “Thanks for doing this on such a tight schedule. How did it go?”

  Drake’s Secret Service experience shows as he spreads his legs and links his hands behind his back. Still, judging by the way he’s glancing at me, I can tell that that he’s uncomfortable with…something.

  “Everything went…extremely well,” he starts, swiveling his chair around to look straight at me. “We got in easily and spent an hour rummaging through her stuff.”

  “Found anything interesting?”

  “Well…definitely.”

  Fucking-A. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.

  Sonia might act like a fucking smartass, but she’s up against me. And I don’t fuck around.

  Did you think I asked her out just because I wanted to go on a date? Fuck, no. Sure, I wanted to be with her…but, at the same time, I wanted her apartment empty.

  Now let’s see what these guys found.

  Supposedly, they’re the best at what they do. They’re discrete, and their background is flawless. They’re the kind of guys who could fucking hack ISIS blindfolded and steal all the goat-fucking porn stashed away in their computers without anyone noticing.

  I was referred to them years ago by an extremely wealthy bank manager who passed their name along to clients when necessary. They still get the occasional marriage and divorce customers and all that shit, but their specialty is the fact that they can keep their mouths shut.

  Which, you know, is exactly what I need.

  As they wave me over to the laptops on the dining table, I settle into a chair in front of them.

  “Brian spent the entire time on that chick’s computer system, and Jim was in charge of video and photo documentation. I went through the apartment thoroughly.”

  “Alright, good.” I wave him down. “Just show me what you found. Did you find the painting?”

  “Not exactly,” he whispers, scratching his head.

  Then, he puts up a few pictures of Sonia’s apartment on the laptop screen; immediately, my eyes are drawn to the walls of her kitchen and living room. There are a few paintings hanging there, all of them tastefully chosen, but there’s no Picasso in sight.

  Good—I don’t like having things handed to me that easily.

  “Anything suspicious in there?” I ask Drake, and there’s a long pause as the three guys look at each other.

  “Depends on your definition of suspicious,” Drake finally says, his fingers hovering on the keyboard. “Aside the fine taste in liquor, art, and décor, this seemed like a pretty normal apartment. Until we stepped inside the bedroom, that is.”

  The bedroom? What the fuck is he going on about?

  “Well?”

  Hesitantly coughing into his hand, he opens another folder and shows me a few pictures of her bedroom. Looks perfectly normal—king-sized bed, abstract painting hanging on the wall, and an expensive lamp on the bedside table. Aside from the fact that the place isn’t a fucking mess, this looks like a regular woman’s bedroom.

  “What am I supposed to look for?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and leaning in toward the screen.

  “Well, uh…I don’t know if this helps, but we spotted a few interesting things as we started poking around.”

  Taping a key, he changes the picture. I lean back as I see the inside of Sonia’s gigantic drawer—tight dress
es everywhere, a collection of expensive-looking high-heels, and…

  “Is that…?”

  “Yeah, looks like it, sir.”

  I hold my breath as my eyes wander to the end of the drawer, where a mountain of lingerie has taken up residence.

  G-strings, thongs, lace bodysuits, and more than twenty fucking corsets. They’re black, pink, blue, red, and God knows what else. Seems like she was hellbent on collecting all the fucking colors of the rainbow.

  Now, I know—there’s nothing weird about a woman owning lingerie. But Sonia has enough of it to open a fucking department store. I’m getting hard thinking about her small, curvy body in those.

  Stockings, lace and ribbons seem to spring from everywhere.

  Forget about her painting collection; her lingerie is way more interesting.

  What fucking asshole do you suppose she bought all those for?

  “Any idea why she owns this much, uh, underwear?” Jim asks, and I can already tell that he’s just asking me that to satisfy his personal curiosity.

  I could tell him that maybe Sonia is the kind of woman whose body demands that kind of clothing, the kind of woman who knows exactly who she is and isn’t afraid to show it in the bedroom…but, of course, I say nothing like that.

  Instead, I merely shrug.

  “No idea. What else?”

  “We found something that points to her being law enforcement, too,” he continues, running his tongue between his lips.

  As he pulls up another picture, my heart skips a beat as I look at a fucking collection of handcuffs.

  I shit you not. There are metal handcuffs that you see on police officers.

  But then there are furry handcuffs.

  Handcuffs in black leather.

  Handcuffs with buttons—how the fuck does that work?

  Handcuffs in sets of four. As in hog ties.

  Jesus fucking Christ, this chick is a wild one.

  Not law enforcement though.

  “Carry on.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Drake coughs again, his cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, in one of the drawers, we found some odd equipment. If we’re talking about a specialized art thief or someone working with the police, this might give you some insight into how she operates.”

  Alright, now we’re talking.