Chapter Fifty #3
To the left, was the rest of the house, so I took a right and took a chance on the other door in the hall, finding the bathroom.
It was generic, likely exactly the way it had been when he'd moved in—all white tiles and standard off-white sink cabinet. There was a crack in the mirror near one of the holders, likely that way since the thing was hung in the first place, not bothering Barrett enough to replace it.
The only personal touches in the room were the toothbrush in a holder with a clip cover, the tube of toothpaste, and the laundry basket nearly overflowing.
It was cleaner than I expected, considering his usual oversight when it came to cleaning up. But the grout was all white, there was no toothpaste in the sink.
After finger-brushing my teeth and trying to rake my hair back into order, I made my way back into his bedroom, stealing an oversized zip-up hoodie to replace my ruined dress before making my way back into the hall, this time taking the left, moving into the main area of the house.
It was the size I expected—about his bedroom and a half—only with an in-line kitchen and appliances that may have predated me, so old their white was now yellow.
The only new item there was the coffee pot—the kind with a stainless steel carafe to keep the coffee hot for hours after the pot was brewed.
The living room had an oversized blue sofa, one whole cushion stacked with file folders from the office that he had likely forgotten to bring back. And since he never needed the other side of the couch, it never bothered him enough to handle the task.
There was a TV in this room, but no cable box, no DVD player—just a gaming console, a controller, and a pile of discs. Likely games.
Barrett himself was nowhere to be seen, so I made my way over to the stack, flipping through them. I couldn't claim to be a big fan of video games as an adult, but I found myself wanting to know which kind he was into. Simple shooting games?
But of course not.
Barrett wasn't an action guy.
He got off not on the testosterone-driven violence, but on the mystery, on solving complex problems.
That was what I found waiting beside his dusty console that hadn't seemed to have seen much play in a long while.
"You're up."
He moved like a mouse sometimes.
It was unsettling.
My body jolted before I turned slowly, finding his eyes on my legs as they often were before they moved upward.
My eyes, however, were on the bags hanging from his arms and the tray in his hand.
Coffee.
"You brought coffee," I declared, reaching out with gimme hands.
"You like the latte from She's Bean Around."
He was right, I did.
I didn't have them often because I liked it with full fat milk, caramel, and mocha with a heaping serving of whipped cream even though it melted before I could even drink it. It added to the flavor, damnit.
I'd never actually had one while working for Barrett, but I had once mentioned the fact that I was going to treat myself to one because that was what I did after a hard day.
He knew I'd had a hard day. So he'd gotten me my hard day treat.
There was a fluttering feeling in my chest that I tried to drown in the magical liquid.
"Thank you." My voice sounded a little thick and, hearing it, I realized my eyes were a teary—something I rapidly blinked away.
"I brought food too. You haven't eaten in a full day," he informed me, making me acutely aware of the gnawing in my belly. "I didn't know what you'd be in the mood for," he admitted, dropping the bags down on the counter.
"So you got a little bit of everything," I finished for him, watching as he grabbed plates that were really more like platters out of a cupboard.
"Lo mein, fried rice, baked ziti, slices of pizza with mushroom and onion, burger and fries, grilled cheese, and chicken noodle soup."
"Chicken noodle soup?" I repeated, it being the only one that didn't fit in with the rest—all things he knew I liked.
"In case you... I don't know... don't feel good," he said, shrugging.
In case I didn't feel good.
Like when you were sick as a kid, and your mom made you soup.
It was maybe the sweetest thing I had ever heard.
This time, when the fluttering started, I didn't try to ignore it, tamp it down.
No.
In fact, I placed my perfect coffee down on the cabinet holding the TV and made my way across the room, pressing Barrett back against the counter, my hands raising to frame his face, catching the bewilderment followed by recognition just a second before my lips pressed to his.
There was a solid moment of stunned non-reaction before his lips came alive under mine.
His hands, at his sides when I pressed my lips to his, rose, one going behind my neck, the other wrapping around my lower back, pulling me closer, holding me there. As if I had any ideas of trying to get away.
Not anymore.
To hell with potential work difficulties.
I had to explore what was going on here, what was building between us. I had to know if it was more than just a camaraderie, the attraction of the unattainable.
Or if it was infinitely more than that.
I had a strong feeling it was the latter.
It was worth the potential fallout; I knew it.
A low, whimpering noise escaped me as Barrett suddenly moved, turning us, pressing me back against the wall. The arm at my back moved, landing mid-thigh instead, tracing a slow path upward.
There was no mistaking the shiver as it coursed through me. And there was no way he hadn't felt it, his chest crushed to mine, his pelvis pinning mine to the wall, his hardness promising an end to the clawing, desperate need for release in my core.
Desire hummed through my body, starting deep within, working its way out until it vibrated over the surface of my skin, so strong that I was sure he must have been able to feel it.
But then his tongue moved inside to find mine, and I forgot about wondering what he was feeling right then, focusing instead on what he was making me feel: the hard pressure of his lips, the curl of his fingernails into the nape of my neck, the way his hips shifted slightly, making his cock push against my heat, dragging a moan out of me, something intense enough to make my lips rip from his, my head tilt upward toward the ceiling.
When I looked back down again, Barrett's mood-changing eyes were more green than brown, the lids heavy. The intensity there was enough to make my breath stall in my chest.
But then his hips shifted back slightly.
And his hand moved between my thighs instead.
That gaze never faltered as his finger traced over my sex through the barely-there material of my panties.
As a whole, I'd never encountered a man who didn't care about my pleasure. But that said, I had never known one who seemed absolutely captivated by it.
That was what I saw in Barrett as his fingers shifted, gliding under the material, running his finger up my cleft without a barrier, his finger doing a slow semi-circle over the hood of my clit, taking the need for release from intense to damn near crippling.
Apparently, the focus with which Barrett approached some aspects of his life extended to this.
I was pretty sure—even in these early stages—that I had just hit the sexual jackpot.
Then his finger finally swiped just right
And I was sure of it.
Because the orgasm—too fast, completely unexpected—tore through my system, sapping the strength from my thighs, leaving me desperately grabbing at him to stay upright as the waves crashed through me.
"Fuck," I hissed, my forehead resting against his shoulder.
"Was that what you were thinking about when you were in the shower?" he asked, his voice huskier than usual, a sound that moved over my nerves like liquid.
"Not quite," I told him, sealing my lips to his again as I started moving forward—pushing him backward—through his apartment, slamming us against a wall twice before there was finally a free-fall that landed with a grunt as my weight crashed into his, pinning him to the mattress for a second before I planted my knees to the sides of his body, pressed my hands into the mattress, holding up most of my weight as my head shifted, moving down his neck.
To my absolute delight, a shiver coursed through his body much like it had moved through mine, something I had never accomplished with someone before.
But it made sense, didn't it?
He was sensitive to things: noises, lights, crowds, extreme temperatures, the types of clothes he wore. And maybe that last thing had a lot to do with over-sensitivity to touch.
That, well, that sounded like I was in for some real fun.
My hand lifted, yanking at the collar of his shirt, pulling it wide, giving me the space to trace my tongue under his clavicle, feeling his hands suddenly grab my ass, sinking in hard.
Emboldened, I shifted downward, peeling up his shirt, pressing my lips in an excruciatingly slow path down between his pectorals, the slight indent of his abs thanks to his rail-thinness, then, finally, over the lowest part of his belly above the waistband of his jeans.
There was always a give and take in sex. And women, as a whole, tended to give a lot. But never before had the prospect of pleasing him completely outweighed my desire to be pleased as well.
Yet there was no denying that reality as my hands worked his button and zip, as he lifted up to allow me to pull his pants and boxers down.
"Wait," he demanded when I straddled his thighs, ready to press downward, see where else he was overly sensitive.
"What's the matter?" I asked, brows raising, not used to someone stopping me right before things got good.
His head shook slightly as his body folded up at the waist, arms reaching out, snagging the zip at the center of my chest, slowly dragging it downward.
Nothing had ever sounded louder to me than the slider clicking down the teeth.
At the bottom stop, his chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath, his hands moving back up toward my shoulders.