I step outside of his legs and push them together. And then, in a super unladylike move, I hike my leg over his lap and straddle him, resting my knees on the cushions to either side of him.
“Oh my fucking gawd,” I whine. “My balls are so much warmer now.”
“Uh…Mads?”
I lean forward, pressing my chest to his with my arms tucked up on my sides. “Oh yes, Anthony. This is everything.”
“Mads, this isn’t—”
I hold out my hand, interrupting what would no doubt be a boring speech on appropriate behavior. “Wine, Anthony.”
His chest rises and falls on a sigh before he obliges me.
“Why are you so warm?” I ask, adjusting against him.
“I’ve always run hot.”
I hum, sipping more wine as I roll my hips. “I bet you do.”
He doesn’t respond, so I sit back and find him looking off to the view of the city.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, embarrassment heating my cheeks. I’ve really cocked this up.
Straddled as I am across his lap, my attempt to dismount is a clumsy affair, all hunched attempts and flailing elbows, and I end up with one foot hooked on his thigh, one foot on the ground, and approximately half of my wine down his shirt.
“Mads, stop,” he says, using his calm Edgerton Securities voice.
“No, it’s fine,” I say, nearly pitching forward, sloshing the other half of my wine onto the decking, staining the pristine concrete. Fuck. I’m going to pay for that.
S’okay, I’m richer than God.
And just as lonely.
I snort and cough, trying to hold back the sob which has suddenly appeared at the back of my throat. He grabs my glass and leans over, setting it on the concrete. The movement finally frees me of the tangle of his body, and I stand, wavering like a drunk in an earthquake.
“Oof.” I grin, the gesture painful. “That was almost embarrassing.”
I turn and stumble toward the French doors, hoping to get into my room before falling apart.
“Mads.”
“It’s okay, really. Sorry. I get a little silly when I drink,” I warble out, cursing myself for not having the vocal control God gave a chipmunk.
My hand lands on the door right as his presence warms my back.
“Hey,” I say, marginally more in control of myself. At least I don’t lean back against him and steal his warmth into my frigid bones. “You’re not into it. You don’t have to feel bad about it or explain yourself, Edgerton. I’m not that kind of billionaire.”
My dry chuckle falls apart like a sandcastle in a dune a thousand miles from shore.
I turn the knob, but his deep rumble stills my hand.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t call you what?”
“Edgerton.”