My smile broadens. “I would love a tour.” And a kiss. And a night worshipping every inch of you. And maybe breakfast. And more kissing. And lunch. I’ll feed her until she could burst, then rub her tummy until she’s ready to eat again. Or kiss again. I smile to myself. Sounds like heaven. I just need to convince her that it absolutely will be. She’s as blindsided as I am, albeit less willing to crack. Imagine how she’ll be when she does crack. When she accepts and embraces this.

I watch her virtually stomp out of the kitchen, frustration leaking from every pore of her gorgeous body. That dress is definitely too short, and I glare at a guy across the room when he catches me observing him staring at her. He blinks and looks away, his smile falling. Wise man.

I follow Ava, and she starts waving her hand around aimlessly. “Lounge,” she declares, not giving me time to look around, not that I need to. So I keep my eyes on the gentle sway of her hips as she leads on. “You’ve seen the kitchen,” she calls over her shoulder, giving me a small peek of her luscious lips. “View.” She points across the terrace before trekking back into the penthouse and stalking across the open space towards the gym. I smile, placing the catalogue I’m still holding on a table as I pass. People try to stop me, say hello, shake my hand, and I ignore every single one of them, my pace quickening to keep up with her.

“Gym,” she mumbles as she enters, before leaving as soon as my Grensons cross the threshold. I laugh as I follow her up the stairs, my eyes nailed to her arse. How I want to get my hands on her and haul her into a bedroom.

After opening and closing every door and shortly declaring what rooms lay beyond, she marches into the master suite. My bedroom.

Oh fuck, if she only knew she’d just entered the lion’s den.

“You’re an expert tour guide, Ava.” And sexy when you’re stroppy. I arrive in front of quite a boring piece of art, but there’s something about the shabby old rowing boats—something charming. “Care to enlighten me on the artist?”

“Giuseppe Cavalli,” she practically sighs, but it’s not a tired sigh. It’s one of admiration. She likes this painting. A lot.

“It’s good,” I say, studying the piece as she remains behind me. “Is there any particular reason why you chose this artist?” Talk. Conversation. I can’t believe I’m taking advice from John. The man who has been eternally single.