Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Presley

So far, my experience of London hasn’t made it past the view from the hotel room window. Although you really can’t call this a hotel room at all. First, it’s much larger than Bianca’s entire apartment.

There’s a formal entryway with crystal vases containing fresh-cut flowers, gleaming marble floors, then a formal sitting area with teal-colored velvet chairs and elegant paintings on the wall. The living room boasts a gray sectional sofa and a large flat-screen TV. A bar area is beyond that, with a wall of windows that overlook the city, and then a private bedroom with a massive adjoining bathroom. The bed is positively oversize, and the slate-colored carpeting is the plushest I’ve ever felt. This place is a dream. Bored, I’ve already filled my cell phone’s camera roll with pictures of its opulence.

I don’t know why Dominic’s wealth still surprises me; he is a billionaire, after all. But I guess I haven’t wrapped my head around that just yet.

Sighing, I sit perched on a tufted stool in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom, gazing out at the bustling city below. I’m not complaining. It’s a spectacular view. Our hotel stands tall, towering over the dense fog of the city. The skyline here is so different than that of Seattle. But even though the buildings are different sizes and shapes, the blue-gray hue of the city reminds me of home.

So far today, I’ve napped and eaten room service, twice, and surfed the channels on the TV—amused by the posh accents of the newscasters—and have been content, for the most part, to sit taking in the view. But it’s been hours since Dominic took off to do his business in the city, and I’m getting increasingly antsy as the minutes tick by.

I’m not used to napping during the middle of the day, nor am I used to having so much downtime to myself. Even before college, I’ve always operated at 110 percent, balancing my studies with work and a social life.

I never knew it would be so hard to actually relax. My only excuse is that there is quite literally nothing for me to do here but laze around.

If I’m going to be confined to the hotel, I may as well make the most of it. The freestanding bathtub is massive with all sorts of bubble bath concoctions to choose from. I select the one called Peachy Clean, listening to the satisfying glug-glug-glug as I pour it into the steaming water. One foot at a time, I submerge myself in the bath.

Holy shit. This is heaven.

I let my back slide against the warm ceramic, an involuntary sigh escaping my lips. As a twenty-something always on the brink of breaking the bank, I never have the luxury of taking a bath. My morning routine is simple—get up, take as fast a shower as I can, and get out. My showers aren’t even enjoyable, since I’m usually saving the hot water for Bianca, cognizant of my couch-surfing status. To make it worse, the pipes in her building are old and finicky. I’m lucky if there’s decent water pressure.

bubbles, willing this moment to last forever. I can barely remember the last time I took a bubble bath . . . God, I must have been only five or six

Michael.

present while I’m here. He’ll totally flip out when he learns I’ve been to London. What should I get him? More importantly, how will I explain this trip? I can’t exactly tell him

what he wants to hear. It was a work trip. I was chosen to accompany my boss. (I’m his intern, after

last part is true so

like pale little raisins, I wrap myself in a towel and re-enter the bedroom to get dressed. It’s already past six o’clock. Is tonight the night to wear lingerie? Should I put it on now? Is it something women usually change into later in the evening? So many questions

about it later,” I grumble to

my hair but don’t bother with any makeup. Then I slip on a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt. There’s exploring to be done first. I’m not supposed to leave the

tiny gift boutique that sells pleasant and affordable little trinkets, ranging from functional to simply ornamental. I find a magnet for the Royal Ballet.

anything for Bianca? What about

out in my mind—me, giving tiny snow globes of London to those wide-eyed, beaming angels while Dominic sweats from

pull it out to find a message from the

me in the hotel bar

cheeks and belly all at once. He can’t be serious. But that’s the thing about Dominic—he’s

Oh my God.

trembling hands, instantly forgetting my plans to shop for anyone else. I head straight for the elevator, ride it up

shared bed. The little black dress I brought has miraculously survived the trip without any wrinkles. Thank goodness. I tug off the leggings and T-shirt and put them and the rest of the clothes I’ve scattered

the material over my breasts and hips. I’ll have to