Chapter 14
Brennan Diamond
I finish towel drying my hair and drape the damp fabric back over the drying rack. A soft noise from the bedroom leads me out of the bathroom.
Audrey whimpers and shifts restlessly on my bed. I suck down a steadying breath before slipping between the sheets and gathering her into my arms. She sighs and cuddles into me.
Despite the quick masturbation session I finished two minutes ago in the shower, my cock twitches as she wiggles her soft feminine curves against me. My heart stalls before galloping into my throat when she drapes her thigh over my hip and tugs our bodies flush against each other.
Despite my sweats dwarfing her—or maybe because of—lust hammers in my veins. She’s too soft and sweet.
She gives me the greatest compliment when she falls fast asleep in my arms. I brush her hair off her temple and stroke her back, needing to touch her but refusing to break her trust and take more than she’s willing to give.
With the woman of my dreams tucked tight against me, I slip into deep, regenerative sleep only to jolt awake when her alarm chimes.
It’s the quietest alert I’ve ever heard used to wake someone, but without my worries running laps in my head, the slight change in my surroundings yanks my senses into the present.
When Audrey twists to grab her phone off the bedside table behind her, the position arches her back and presses all her glorious curves in all the right places. I groan and pull her arm back around me before reaching for her phone.
Her gasp doubles the urgency pulsing between my legs. I wrap my arms tighter around her and tuck her head under my chin.
“Be still, baby doll. Let me hold you a little while longer,” I mumble.
“I need to get up,” she insists.
I shake my head and pull the covers over our heads.
“Your boss is right here, and he says you should sleep in,” I say.
“But you’re hard,” she accuses.
“Yes, I am. I’m always hard around you. Don’t worry about him, love. He doesn’t control me.”
She honors me again as she slowly relaxes against me.
We enjoy each other’s embrace until my alarm rings a few minutes later.
She pushes out of my arms and rolls away.
I grind my teeth, shift onto my back, and pull myself up to lean on the headboard. The collar of my shirt slips off her shoulder and reveals creamy smooth flesh. My mouth waters. I adjust the blankets and my cock tenting them underneath.
She brushes her hair back and pulls my shirt back onto her shoulders.
“I’ll take the bathroom first,” she says.
She rounds the foot of the bed and heads toward the restroom. My entire lower half clenches. She’s a wet dream in the flesh. I yearn to pin her to the mattress and worship every inch of her with my mouth.
Makeup free with her hair a mess and wearing my clothes, she’s a tempting bundle of vulnerable and soft compared to my raging hard on.
I clear my throat. She stops with her hand on the doorframe to the bathroom and looks at me over her shoulder.
“You’ve worn that suit two days in a row already. I’ll drive you to your apartment and wait for you to change, so stay in that for now,” I say.
The excuse sounds plausible enough, but really I just want to see her in my clothes for a little while longer.
She rubs her hands over her face before shrugging.
“That’s the only way I’ll make it to work on time now, so okay. But you have to drop me off a few blocks away from the office,” she says.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“I’ll drop you off at the coffee shop,” I counter.
She narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she begins. “Don’t argue or I’ll find more things to buy you.”
“Fine. Wait… the coffee shop? Do you wait like a creep outside and watch me there, too?” she asks.
“I do not. I sit at the back corner table.”
She groans and shakes her head as she steps deeper into the bathroom.
I smile and pinch the insides of my arms to prevent myself from darting across the room and living out my fantasies doing unspeakable things to her in the shower.
She doesn’t need to know I only saw her once in the coffee shop by happenstance. Her reaction says she won’t believe me even if I told her, and it’s much more fun to tease her like this anyway.
She turns and meets my stare, but there’s no heat in her gaze despite her dramatic, “You. Are. The. Worst.”
She shuts the door and engages the lock with an audible click.
I chuckle and grip the base of my cock through the blankets.
With a punishing squeeze, I silently warn him not to embarrass me before whipping the blankets off and rising.
I ignore the incessant throbbing between my legs and putter around in the kitchen making coffee, pouring juice, and gathering a simple breakfast.
By the time Audrey emerges from the bedroom, my cock no longer demands attention.
“Are you cooking?”
The surprise in her tone shouldn’t insult me, but I suppose I deserve it.
My father never let any of his family into the kitchen.
He always claimed he paid good money for someone less fortunate to prepare our meals.
Cooking was beneath us. Even boiling water was a sin.
I still have a scar on the back of my hand to prove it.
“I am. Toast, scrambled eggs, and fruit,” I say as I turn off the stove.
After dropping the last spoonful of eggs onto her plate, I turn and set her food on the bar.
“It’s not much, but—”
Audrey’s haunted expression drops my stomach to the floor.
I realize my mistake too late.
I rush around the counter, but she wards me off with an outstretched arm and steps back.
“Thank you, but I don’t eat breakfast.”
She disappears back down the hall to the bedroom. The bathroom door closes with a soft click.
I sigh and rub the back of my neck. I’d feel less guilty if she slammed the door.
Toast, eggs, and fruit was her favorite breakfast for the longest time growing up. No matter what ridiculous thing my father demanded I eat, he always spoiled her and let her have what she wanted.
I wasn’t thinking when I started cooking. I didn’t mean to dredge up memories and would never purposefully do something to put that look on her face.
With my spirits in the gutter, I dump the food in the trash and stack the dirty dishes in the dishwasher before taking a few breakfast bars from the pantry and placing them beside the drinks.
I take my coffee into the living room and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the panoramic view of the cityscape as the first rays of sun gleam on the tops of the buildings.
Less than five minutes later, Audrey emerges wearing yesterday’s suit. I bite back a sigh and recognize her need to don the armor.
She pauses, gives me a once-over, then heads into the kitchen. Unable to resist the draw to be near her, I follow her behind the counter under the guise of putting my mug in the dishwasher. When I stand, she stares down into her coffee without reaching for it.
I close the distance between us and trap her in place with a hand on either side of her on the counter. Her hair, coiled in a loose bun, brushes against my shoulder as she cranes her neck to look back at me.
“I can pour you a fresh cup if it’s gone cold,” I offer.
She turns her attention back to the mug.
“You really are a stalker, aren’t you?”
I hate the flatness of her tone but don’t trust myself, so I keep my hands on the counter and press my chest against her back.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“My coffee.”
She sounds too robotic. I lower my head and peer over her shoulder, putting my face next to hers.
“What about it?” I ask.
“You’ve never gotten me coffee before. How do you know how I like it?” she asks.
“Because I’m obsessed with you,” I admit.
She sighs. Her shoulders slump.
“Aren’t stalkers supposed to deny their obsession?”
“Can a husband stalk his wife?”
“We’re not married.”
“Yet.”
“Brennan,” she warns.
I take a turn sighing and wrap my arms around her from behind. She stiffens and sinks her nails into my forearms.
“I’m sorry, Audrey. I wasn’t thinking when I made breakfast. I made a mistake. Please don’t pull away.”
For a few heartbeats, she doesn’t respond. Alarm spears through me when I realize she shakes from head to toe. A tear lands on my forearm.
I release her, turn her by her shoulders, and suffer a mini heart attack at the vacant expression in her eyes.
“Audrey, baby doll, what’s wrong?”
She blinks, shifts her gaze up to mine, blinks again, shudders, and burrows against my chest.
“I’m sorry, I was fine. I am fine,” she lies.
She wraps her arms around me and fists the back of my shirt.
I return her embrace, humbled at her trust and grateful to have her close.
“You’re not fine, love, but I’ve got you. What did I do?” I murmur into her hair.
She shakes her head and squeezes me tighter, but says, “Don’t hug me from behind. I was fine until you grabbed me.” Her shuddering breath reverberates through my chest. “God, I’m still a mess. I thought I had gotten better. Ten fucking years,” she curses.
Every muscle in my body locks. She’s suffered for so long, but I cut ties with my father thirteen years ago, not ten. This is the first time she’s referenced any dates beyond my leaving.
Her reaction to Donald the other day, along with today’s revelation, compounds my hatred for him.
He attacked her from behind before hurting her. I force my muscles to relax and rub her back with slow, soothing strokes.
“I want to learn how to cook,” she whispers.
The sudden admission slashes deep into my soul.
“I’d love to teach you,” I say.
“How did you learn?” she asks.
“By necessity and with pure grit. I had no money, no basic life skills, a head full of dreams, and too much to prove.”
She nods.
“I should’ve learned, but was too broke at first, and then when I was making enough money for groceries, I was too afraid to waste food and so was never brave enough.”