37. Marlowe
CHAPTER 37
Marlowe
T he sound of my alarm is exactly as violating as a power drill to the head.
I don’t actually possess the energy to sit up, so I turn my exhausted body over with great difficulty and slide out of my bed on my stomach before crawling over to where the alarm is ringing shrilly across the room.
I plugged my phone in over here on purpose last night—I knew that if it was within reach from the bed I’d most likely turn it off in my sleep.
The only motivation I have to shut the damn thing up is the acute desire not to wake Tabs, who is hopefully sleeping the sleep of the exhausted next door.
She was too broken to sleep in her warrior princess tent last night—or at one o’clock this morning, rather—when we got home from the hospital, instead opting to curl up in her bed.
They put us through the wringer last night, with a million tests and the inevitable hours of waiting before and after each one.
I stroked her hair until she fell asleep, but I sat on the edge of her bed for hours afterwards, gazing at her in the dim light of her nightlight and willing her heart to give us just another week.
Just one more week until we can get on that plane.
Until my little girl’s heart will finally be in the hands of the people who can make her suffering go away.
I turn the alarm off and reach deep within me to find the strength to get to my feet and into the shower.
I am, ironically, on my hands and knees.
It’s probably not the last time I’ll find myself in this position today.
I cannot think of anything my poor, broken heart and exhausted body is less capable of this morning than having to be someone’s sex toy.
No matter that Brendan is objectively drool-worthy, or that the dynamic between us has been supercharged and, dare I say, intimate since we “worked” from his home.
Yesterday, I gave everything I had to ensure my child survived the night, which means that today I am broken, broken, broken.
T he good news is that, after depositing Mark at the office and grabbing some files, Brendan heads out on a site visit for most of the morning, buying me some breathing space.
Elaine, bless her, is very solicitous, bringing me a delicious double espresso and a pain au chocolat from the fancy, overpriced café across the square.
She enquires after Tabs and is endlessly patient while I spew out all my worries.
After all, I can’t vent to my parents.
I sent them home when I got to the hospital yesterday evening.
If nothing else, I needed them well-rested to look after Tabs today.
‘Just take it as easy as you can this morning,’ she tells me.
‘There are some beds in the basement by the doctor’s surgery.
You could take a nap there?
’
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I tell her, hoping that my layers of concealer will do their job and conceal the purple bruises under my eyes, even if they can’t do much about the reddened puffiness.
‘I want to get through as much as possible before we fly.’
She nods, mouth pursed.
‘Okay, but just look after yourself. You’ll be no good to that little girl of yours if you’re an exhausted shell.
’
The bad news is that Brendan texts me from the building site he’s visiting.
Got us a suite at the Kingsley Canary Wharf
I’ll be there at 1
I want you naked and waiting for me in that bed
Fucking excellent.
H oly crap, this suite is gorgeous.
Not to mention vast. I can’t even imagine how much it costs.
Thousands and thousands, probably.
What a waste of money to use it for an hour.
Usually, I’d be drawn to the incredible west-facing terrace that looks out over the iconic chrome-and-glass skyline of Canary Wharf to the Shard and beyond, but today there’s only one siren’s call in this room, and it’s the bed.
The huge, white bed with its fluffy-looking duvet and its mountains of plump pillows.
Oh my dear Lord. I may not be religious, but someone up there is answering my prayers.
I undress as swiftly as my poor, dulled motor skills will allow, draping my clothes over the back of a nearby chaise longue and chucking several pillows off the bed so I can get access.
As my exhausted body slides between the cool sheets I let out an actual moan of appreciation.
What is this sorcery?
Did angels pluck feathers from magical geese to stuff this mattress topper?
I have never in my life been in a bed quite as comfortable, as cosseting, as this.
After the tribulations of last night, it’s like going back to the womb.
A very soft, very expensive womb.
I snuggle further down into the bed, one perfect pillow cradling my cheek, and I close my eyes.
brENDAN
I feel like the king of the fucking world.
This building, a mixed-use skyscraper encompassing retail, residential and some office space, is set to be the fucking bomb.
It’s green, it’s glamorous, and has Sullivan written all over it.
(Literally. Our hoardings are heavily branded.) I’m obsessed with momentum.
Each project we undertake needs to build on the ones before.
To push the envelope in terms of aesthetics and construction expertise.
To show the world—and our shareholders—that Sullivan Construction will never rest on its laurels.
I grab a key card from the very attractive, very interested brunette at The Kingsley’s check-in desk and take myself up to the tenth floor where my suite is.
I feel like a rockstar, and I want to fuck like one.
I’ve been thinking all morning about how I’m going to take Marlowe.
Maybe pressed up against the shower tiles first—a scorching hot quickie to take the edge off—before tying her up and edging the fuck out of her.
Yeah.
That’s what I’ll do.
If this morning’s site visit was foreplay for my ego, having the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on restrained and writhing and begging for my cock will have my self-confidence going stratospheric.
I know she loves it when I’m in alpha mode.
I know submitting to me gets her off like nothing else.
Except that when I swagger into our suite, the very same beautiful woman is not lying back for me, legs spread and smile teasing, like I’d demanded.
Instead, she appears to be out cold.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
‘Hey, love,’ I say quietly.
I don’t want to scare the bejesus out of her, as my parents would say.
Nothing.
I tiptoe closer.
She’s snoring very softly and very prettily.
One arm is folded over the covers, its hand under her cheek, its shoulder temptingly golden.
The rest of her is concealed.
Her gorgeous hair is splayed over the pillow.
‘Marls?’ I whisper.
Still nothing.
Fuck.
I debate heading into the bathroom and getting myself off in the shower, but I’d like to think I’m not that weak-willed.
I cast my mind back to first thing this morning, when I saw her briefly, and begrudgingly admit that she didn’t look great.
Stunning, obviously, but not too well.
She looked bloody exhausted, come to think of it, and I recall too late that she went home early yesterday because she was feeling sick.
I sigh.
Fuck’s sake.
Looks like I’m sleeping with my executive assistant today without actually sleeping with her.
I strip off my clothes and lay them next to Marlowe’s, noting with interest that her lacy bra and thong are on top of her pile.
So she’s naked under there, is she?
This should be fun.
Carefully, I turn back the covers and lose a pillow or two before sliding in next to Marlowe.
The sheets are cool, but my skin picks up the warmth of hers even without touching it.
She has her back to me, but as I pull the duvet over myself, she stirs with a whimper and rolls over.
I freeze for a second.
She’s still fast asleep, and, honestly?
It’s a captivating sight.
I never, ever spend the night with women, so I never get to see women sleeping up close.
Her face is so peaceful, it tugs at my heartstrings.
The little crease she so often has between her eyebrows is gone, smoothed out by sleep.
Her long lashes, black with mascara today, fan across her cheeks.
She looks like an angel.
An actual seraph, in the most literal sense of the word.
And, as I watch her sleep, something akin to awe floods my body like warm treacle.
If she’d ever stop bolting for the doors at 6 pm every day and agree to go out with me one evening, I’d gladly let her sleep over, if just for this.
I know this: my dick may be hardening appreciatively at her scent, at the proximity of all her soft, golden skin.
But the rest of me has no intention of waking her.
If she needs a nap this badly, I won’t be the one to deprive her of it.
Besides—and this is pretty creepy, to be honest—I can do without sex this once if I get to watch her sleep instead.
I thought both our walls were coming down after that amazing sex at my place, but she’s still so bloody boundaried in many ways.
I still don’t feel like I know her properly—like I’ve earned the right to know her properly.
In this moment, she’s giving me something without knowing it.
A piece of the side of her she keeps so carefully hidden away.
And I’ll damn well take it.
I’m paying her for plenty of exclusives.
I can still feel that flash of pleasure I got when she confessed that I was the only guy she was fucking, let alone the only guy who could make her come.
But for some reason the knowledge that I’m the only one who gets to see her like this , sleeping and vulnerable and trusting, feels even more precious.
I ease in closer to her, sliding an arm around her waist and tugging her in more flush against me.
She shifts a little, snuggling even closer, and my chest tightens in a way that usually only happens when Mark and I are cuddling.
I settle her with a whispered shh and stroke my fingertips lightly down her spine until she stills again, her head tucked in beneath my chin.
As her breathing returns to that slow, steady state I assume is normal for someone sleeping, I lie there, tense and alert.
Tense because I don’t want to wake her and I also don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.
Alert because my consciousness has shrunk to this little world under the covers, where my entire focus is on her shallow, even breaths, and the rise and fall of her ribcage, and the sensation of her satin-smooth skin beneath my fingertips, and the way her hair smells when I inhale it and feels when I brush my lips over it.
This is not the way it was supposed to be.
I was supposed to hire a Seraph PA to run my office and ride my dick on demand, both equally competently.
Marlowe has upheld her end of the bargain.
After all, she nails both sides of the role admirably.
I’m the problem here, the creepy boss snorting his EA’s hair like an addict and holding her while she sleeps instead of fucking me like I’m paying her to.
Let’s revisit that last part.
Holding her while she sleeps.
I don’t do girlfriends, commitment, even regular dating.
Marlowe is the person I’ve racked up by far the highest number of orgasms with.
I suppose, if I think about it logically, regular fucking would engender some level of…
familiarity, for want of a better word.
But it honestly never occurred to me that fucking the same woman day after day would make me want more .
If anything, I was worried I’d get bored and want to trade her in after a month or two.
I never, ever thought to worry that I’d get attached, that I’d want evenings with her.
It never struck me that I’d lie here one day and feel grateful to be having an experience with her that feels more intimate than a quick fuck at lunchtime.
And I certainly never expected to find myself daydreaming about this very thing happening on a lazy Saturday morning in my bed.
Jesus fuck, no, Brendan!
Intimacy is not a dynamic I’ve ever, ever craved.
It’s just not. Why would I want that?
My sister may be happy, my brother may have fallen hard for Athena, but I’ve always wanted more.
More wealth. More success.
More validation. More adulation , if I’m honest. Recognition.
And all the trappings that come with that.
Models on my arm at events.
Sports cars. Penthouses.
Catamarans. I don’t want to tie myself down, for fuck’s sake.
More accurately, I don’t want to want to tie myself down.
I have no desire to put limits on my success or my rewards.
Because if I limit myself to one woman, no matter how incredible, it’s just a fucking waste.
My FOMO will go through the roof.
I want to live a big life, a fast life, a life where the pace keeps me on my toes and the prizes get more and more glittering and the steady stream of women hotter and hotter.
I want to be untethered.
Unencumbered.
I don’t want to be feeling sick to my stomach because my EA is taking off for two weeks on some fucking civic duty that she’s insisting on seeing through because she thinks society’s needs are more important than my needs.
I don’t want to be so thoroughly disinterested when I look at any other woman.
When I even think about the parade of willing, gorgeous women I’ll take out on the town when she’s off martyring herself to our judicial system.
I want my mojo back.
I want my self-respect back, for fuck’s sake.
And I’ll get them.
I’m Brendan fucking Sullivan.
Having Marlowe is supposed to make my crazy schedule run more efficiently.
I know that. But for now, I’ll just let myself lie here and inhale the honeyed scent of her hair for a few more minutes, and I’ll allow each warm exhale she makes against my chest to bleed into my heart and warm it up, and I’ll try my absolute damnedest to bottle up the way this makes me feel.
God knows, when she’s gone, I’ll need to pull myself the fuck together and get back on that damn horse.