My orgasm is like I’ve nothing experienced before. A detonation that shatters me to a billion nano-pieces.
When we’re done, he cleans up as if we hadn’t just had a mind-blowing sex session.
I lie comatose in bed. I’m on a high that has nothing to do with the alcohol. I’m catching my breath, sweaty and aware that my muscles feel completely weightless, while I watch him search his clothes. He lifts his cigarette pack and I grin, forget about my buttery muscles and go open a window. We lie on the bed, smiling at each other as we light up.
I start wondering his name as we alternate drags. Maybe Drake.
“Drake. That’s your name.”
“If I’m Drake, you’re Mindy.”
“No way.”
“No way I’m Drake, Fanny.”
“Hmm . . . Donathon?”
We start thinking up ridiculous names for each other until I say, “Good night, Harietto.”
“Good night, Pippa.” He strokes a hand down my back and whispers in my ear, “I enjoyed doing a thorough search for those clusters of freckles.”
I wake up in darkness. Red neon lights a few feet away blink as the number strikes 3:28 a.m.
I’m curled against him. The memory of what we did rains down on me, soft as rose petals. I press my eyes shut, shifting closer and peering into his face. We had the hottest sex of my life, and I still want more. I want him inside me.
I’d never had an orgasm with a guy before, only on my own.
My world still feels a little off its axis.
His eyes are closed, his chest rising evenly. I’m in his arms, well, one of them at least. And it feels so nice! I could keep him as a muscular teddy bear. And a wicked sucking machine. And a free smoke, and well, I really do feel a little bit taken with him. Not that he’s in my plans. But here I am. I have never before felt more like a woman, and he’s holding me like he very much wants this particular woman to not get away. His arm is almost like a vise—but even that feels . . . so, so nice!
I touch his lips and settle deeper into his arm around me, craving the closeness. Craving all this nice.
I wake again to a ringing phone that doesn’t sound familiar.
I stir and see a very gorgeous, disheveled man getting out of the bed, gifting me a glimpse of his ass. Sunlight streams through the window and he looks so perfect, I can’t even think.
He slips into his slacks and pulls out his phone. “What time is it?” I ask groggily, sitting up in bed.
He checks his watch and zips up. “Eight. I’ve got to go.” He raises his ringing phone, then takes the chair at the corner of my room and strokes the top of his head as he answers with a crisp, “Yeah.”
My temples are throbbing from last night’s wine. But my brain is whirling because of all of last night. My hair is tangled and I run my fingers through it as I sit on the bed, watching him. He smiles mischievously at me as he listens to someone on the other end of the line.
I get the tingle. Suddenly just thinking about that sucking thing he does. Just looking at him and that chest. He has a swimmer’s body, lean and muscular but not overly so, and I find that very hot. As you can tell by the rampant hormone-fest of last night. I drop the sheet to my waist to see if I can entice him to come back to bed when he finishes his call. The idea of spending all Saturday morning with my sucking machine makes me sweat a little bit.
I drop the sheet farther down and watch his eyes start to blaze as they trail over me.
“Your sister? No, I’ve got other things on my mind. I just closed a deal that took months. I’ll check in with her this week. Get an update from Lincoln.”
His eyes suddenly watch me as he listens, and I see him spot a picture on my nightstand of my family and the realization seems to hit him the same instant that it hits ME.
He said “sister” and “Lincoln,” and the panic is suddenly so overwhelming I can’t breathe.
He looks at me, and I suddenly can’t move.
“T, something’s up.” He hangs up.
We’re both quiet.
He looks at me, all naked in my bed. All naked and thoroughly fucked by him. In my bed.
“Olivia,” he says, softly.
I swallow. “Callan.”
He drags his hand over his face.
His mouth is all red and kissed by me. Oh. My. God.
“I’m very, very late,” he says.
“Yes. Go. Please.”
So I slept with my boss. My boss’s boss. Also my brother’s friend. The guy who’d always been off-limits. The womanizer, everybody claims.
I feel like puking. I almost wish I could puke already, so I can get rid of the nausea.
The lines of concentration deepen around his eyes and mouth, and a shadow of disappointment crosses his face as he glances at the door. “I’d better go.”
“Yes. Go.”
I pull the sheet up and I want to hide from him, everything that yesterday I was too eager to show him. There’s a silence as he opens the door, a hesitation, then I hear him shut the door.
I don’t think I move from where I sit in shock on the bed for the next hour.
I refuse to think of him sucking my breasts. Filling me up. Calling me beautiful. Talking to me, listening to me. Oh god.
I take a bath and stew and feel like I swallowed a bowling ball all morning.
You could say I feel a little bit uncomfortable now that I had sex with the boss.
The boss’s boss.
Big whopping whoops!
Shit, really. Mega shit. I want to hide—better yet, die!
Well. That’s not happening again.
Sometimes you think you have it all figured out. Get hooked on a detail. Make an assumption and that is the law in your eyes. An assumption that won’t let you see anything else even when it’s staring you in the face in a red tie. And once you finally see the big picture you feel so stupid to not have known. To have written down some theory as law. You feel so stupid. I feel so stupid I have replayed every scene in my mind, focusing on all the ways I should’ve been alerted that he was Callan Carmichael.