“I’ll do that,” he mumbles, his head moving, one eye opening to watch me. I bend over and slide the first one closed, and the corner of his mouth lifts up. “Never mind,” he muses. “You do it much better. Especially naked like that.”
“Shut up.” I close the other two and return to him, stepping over his chest and stopping, extending my hand. “Come on. We both need showers.”
“You’re evil,” he groans, his eyes between my legs. “I thought you looked good in my lingerie but fuck.” He drawls out the last word, his eyes shameless in their perusal. “I’d rather you work naked.”
“That won’t work.” I wave my hand impatiently in front of him. “My fiancé is a jealous bastard. He doesn’t like it when other men look at me.”
It’s as if I’ve given him a gift. His eyes lift to my face, and his lips twitch into a new smile, a shy one. “I think he likes it when they look. He just doesn’t like it when they touch.” He finally takes my hand, his legs coming up underneath him, and I lift my chin to look up into his face when he stands.
“Is that so?” I say.
“I wouldn’t blame any man for ever looking at you, Kate,” he says softly. “You’re the most beautiful woman any of us have ever seen.”
“You’re so full of shit.” I smile.
His hands come up, and he holds my face, his eyes deepening as he looks into mine. “Tell me more about your fiancé.”
“Hmm.” I muse. “He’s very smart. Almost annoyingly so. And he knows it, which makes it even worse. And he’s cocky. But in that confident, sexy way that makes you want him to rip off your clothes as soon as you meet him. But he’s also unbelievably sweet.” He presses his lips to mine, just a gentle pull of love, and then a release, his eyebrows raising for more. “And generous,” I add, earning a second kiss. “And…” I scrunch my brow, as if I am thinking hard for another compliment. And kind. And funny, and loving, and vulnerable, and witty, and intoxicating, and every positive word that Webster ever created.
“Addictive?” he supplies.
I twist my lips. “Kind of.” I venture. “I’m not sure yet. It’s a fairly new engagement.”
“Do you think it will stick?” His hands tighten, and he draws me closer.
I look up into his eyes. “I do. I want it to.”
“It will.” He lowers his mouth, and this kiss—it is more of a promise, the sort that wipes away all doubt and tells me a thousand times over, with each brush of his lips, that he means this. That we will stick, that all of this will last.
He lifts his mouth from mine. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I pull the blanket back and crawl under the sheets, the act almost reverent in its execution. I’ve never been in his bed with him, never slid, bare skin to bare skin, against his body. He had insisted on my sleepwear—a sheer slip from last season, and he wraps a hand around me, pulling me across the king bed and against him, my bottom snug to the bend of his body, his hand closing possessively over one breast. I relax against the pillow, my eyes picking up all of the details before me. The closed curtains, their edges framed in soft moonlight. The glow from the bathroom’s nightlight giving subtle definition to the art, the dark blue walls, the elephant lamp on the bedside table. His breath is warm against my neck, and he squeezes me gently, just a test, as if to see if I am still here. I cup my hand over his and lower my mouth to his fingers, one kiss pressed against the digits.
In the morning, maybe all this will be gone. In the morning, we both might regret everything.
I stay awake as long as I can, enjoy as much as I can, the feel of him, the sounds of him sleeping. In the quiet room, I whisper my love for him.
Chapter 21
Him
“It feels weird,” I confess, sliding a box of cereal toward her. “Being able to do the things I’ve thought about for so long.”
“I know.” She smiles, opening the top of the cereal box. “I feel the same. Like I’m cheating or something.”
“Should I have done this sooner?” I ask, leaning my forearms on the counter and watching her, the fall of her dark hair as she looks down, watching the frosted Cheerios fall into the bowl. “Made a move on you?” God, the wasted years. All of the trips we’ve made, the late nights we’ve worked, the times I’d locked myself in my office and jacked off, thinking of her lips around my cock, her body in my hands.
“I don’t know,” she says, considering the thought. “I’m not sure we would have worked out if we had tried to date earlier.” She uncaps the milk and lifts it, pouring into the bowl. “Like … after I broke up with Craig?” Her eyes meet mine as she sets the jug back down. “I feel like our relationship was so weak back then. I mean, compared to how we are now. There was attraction … but I don’t know if it would have lasted.”
I scowl at the idea of us ever not making it, even if in a fictional scenario.
“Plus, you hadn’t dated Chelsea,” she points out. “You probably would have tried to get me in some kind of kinky ninesome.”
I make my way around the island, hating even the idea of it. “I told you, you don’t have to worry about that.”
“I know, but I’m just pointing out that Chelsea helped with that. Just like Stephen helped me to see one version of a relationship, and Craig helped me to see a different one.” She scoops a spoonful of cereal and brings it to her mouth, her lips parting for the silver utensil, my dick hardening at just the tiny glimpse I get of her tongue. I want to hop up on the counter right now. Slide her stool over until it is before me, my legs hanging before her, her hand digging into my thighs, her feet bare against the stool’s rungs. She chews, her jaw moving, and I think about how hard she had tried to take all of me, her eyes moving to mine, that jaw stretching, the play of her tongue against my shaft, the—
“Trey.” Her lips part around the word, and I am off of my stool and pulling her against me, the spoon clattering against the tile floor, her arms wrapping around my neck, and she tastes like sugar and milk, her mouth as greedy as mine, her body light when I lift her up and onto the counter. The reality is better than my fantasy, her panties easily skimmed off, her knees parting, and I pull my mouth from her kiss and move down, to the only thing better.
Chapter 22
Her
five months later
I close my eyes and rub my forehead, glancing at my watch, the minutes passing interminably slow. Over the phone’s speaker, the translator talks slowly, filling in the gap in time before our French distributor launches into another spiel.
“Adrien,” I interrupt. “Let’s focus on the root of the problem for a moment. When do you need the catalog? Give me a realistic timeframe.”
I wait as the translator speaks, French quickly flying between the two, and glance again at my watch. Outside my window, the city lights move, cars driving, office lights turning off, a plane twinkling from its place in the sky. I used to enjoy late nights at the office. I loved the quiet, the productive hours without interruption, my inbox finally worked through, any sleepy spells taken care of via a fifteen minute catnap on the couch. Now, I eye the couch, a sleek modern piece that has gotten more than its fair share of use lately, all of it of the X-rated variety. My phone buzzes, and I glance at the text from Trey.
Jet’s ready. Take your time. I’ve got a call with Frank in ten minutes.
I don’t respond to it, moving the cell phone aside and pulling up my calendar, looking at design schedules, and our concepts in progress. It takes another forty minutes to come to a date that pleases Adrien, and another ten minutes to stop his attempt to renegotiate our rate. By the time I hang up, my head hurts. I move to email, firing off updates to the involved parties, and eye the calendar one last time, mentally moving through all of the pieces, making sure that everything is in place before I push away from the desk. I snag my phone and text Trey back on the elevator ride down.
On my way. France is happy.
I walk through the lobby, smiling at the security guard who unlocks the front door and escorts me to my car. “Have a safe trip, Ms. Martin,” he says.