Chapter 5: Thigh

Winnie

In less than twenty minutes, we were in the most beautiful apartment. Unfortunately, the contemporary furniture clashed with the elegant, nineteenth-century design. However, it was still breathtaking.

"So, your client won't be upset you're bringing someone who isn't a client here?"

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Chandler removes his bowtie and a few buttons on his dress shirt.

I kick my heels off and sit on the red velvet couch.

He joins me on the couch, inches away.

There's a chill in the air, which makes me hug myself.

In front of us is a floor-to-ceiling bay window with a stunning view of Hollywood.

"I'd buy this place just for the view alone," I tell him as he leaves the couch.

I see him punch a few buttons on the box next to the door when I glance back. Then, suddenly, the heat roars, and the lights dim. Soft big band music plays.

Chandler returns to his seat next to me.

We stare out the window, watching the iconic scenery.

I cross my right leg over my right.

Chandler places his palm on my knee, caressing it.

I trace the back of his hand with my index finger and place my head on his shoulder.

"Big band?" I ask, yawning.

Chandler lets out a throaty chuckle. "It's the best way to relax after a long day."

There's a long pause.

I desperately try to think of something to say.

"You never told me why you were at the gala," I say.

He shrugs. For a moment, he looks like he's going to answer. Instead, however, he asks, "Why were you there?"

Mother comes to mind.

I laugh, unamused.

Am I going to tell him that I'm a LaBelle?

No.

Why?

I don't feel like a LaBelle. But, if Mother's goal was to make me feel like an outsider, she succeeded.

I frown and slide my index finger along Chandler's wrist and gold watch. "You're left-handed, huh?"

"Yeah," he nods.

"Well, you're a real estate agent to the wealthy. You're connected enough at LaBelle to get a working prototype vehicle—and you drive like a grandmother coming from church service." I stifle a giggle. "Besides being left-handed, what else should I know about you?"

Chandler gives me a look. Whatever he concludes makes him laugh. "Are you into politics?"

"Politics?" I shake my head and shrug. "In Columbus, yes."

"Columbus?" He gives me a sideways, questioning look. "Ohio? Georgia?"

"Ohio." I stop speaking when he slides his hot palm over my hand. "I moved there shortly after I turned eighteen years old."

"You're a native Angeleno?"

I nod.

Chandler rests his head on the back of the couch and frowns. Then, he looks at me again. "Who are you running away from?"

I gasp. How would you know I'm running? Well, I'm not running. I made a conscious choice to leave.

F*ck.

Who am I kidding?

When I look in Chandler's direction, I see he's still staring at me.

I give him a challenging stare. "Why can't I be running from something?"

He points at himself. "That's where I come into the picture. When people are running from something, they want a different home in another neighborhood. When they run from another person, they typically make a cross-country move and find a place to stay themselves."

I concede with a shrug. "My mother. I resist calling her outside her name, but she wants to control my life."

"Control? Huh?" He pulls his shirt out of his pants. "Do you want me to guess?"

Without thinking, I move my hand against his thigh.

Chandler sharply inhales.

I bite my lip.

Did that arouse you, Chandler?

I look at him.

Chandler avoids my stare. Instead, he leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. Then, he gruffly asks, "Do you want me to guess?"

He wants an answer to his question, but I want an answer to mine first. Oh God, I don't do sh*t like this.

I squeeze his thigh.

He clears his throat and stares out the window.

Slowly, I caress his thigh, moving my hand upward.

Chandler takes another sharp breath.

I cock my head and study his profile.

What if I went further and discovered Chandler's weak spot. Can a man get hard just by touching his thigh?

"Did," Chandler sounds like he's struggling to breathe, "your mom threaten to send you to military school?"

Chandler, do you get hard when a woman touches your thigh?

My hand is at the top of his thigh.

He grunts and looks in the opposite direction.

Okay, Chandler, I'll be nice.

"Mother believes I'm too stupid to work. So she's done everything to find me a wealthy suiter."

He looks at me and frowns. "I'm sorry to hear that. Your mom obviously hasn't met you."

Oh, no.

I tense.

Why did you say that? It's the same thing Andrew does about Mother.

I look away.

Maybe I should leave.

No, maybe I should know the answer to my question.

Suddenly, I do it. I move my palm to Chandler's crotch.

He grunts.

Chandler's already hard cock grows harder as I caress it.

"I know the answer to my question," I tell him.

"What?" Chandler struggles to talk. He shakes his head as if he's decided not to ask the question. Instead, he leans forward, "May I kiss you?"

I move my hand away from his crotch until he captures my wrist in his hand. Next, he places my hand on his crotch and slides his index finger up my lower arm, caressing it.