Chapter 7
ABI
The light is too bright, and I squeeze my lids shut, praying for another few minutes of sleep. Seriously, I know I’m closer to the equator, but does that mean that the sun needs to launch itself up out of the horizon to stab death lasers into my—
A soft snore has me waking up a hell of a lot faster than the glare of the sun.
I lay stock still, though, trying to pry the cobwebs out of my mind and remember.
Lorenzo.
In my bed, by my side, damn near snuggled up next to me.
I should be mad. This is not what we negotiated during our hotly contested discussion last night.
“You get the couch. This is my room.” It takes all I have not to stomp my foot as I make the decree. Dinner was amazing, sexy, and romantic, and he boldly told me he wants to spend more time with me, which gets my blood racing and my pussy slick.
But I don’t think I’m strong enough. That’s why I’m dying on this hill . . . we are not sleeping in the same bed.
“Suit yourself. If you don’t want to share, we don’t have to.” It’s too easy, plus the quirk of his dark brow tells me he’s got something up his sleeve.
Still, I’m not expecting a king-size feather pillow to fly through the air and bop me square in the face. I sputter, “What the hell?”
He shrugs, pulling off his shirt and tossing it carelessly to the floor beside his suitcase. Utterly at ease, he tells me, “You don’t want to share, and I assume you’ll want a pillow to sleep on the couch. No?”
I bend down to grab the pillow and throw it back. But my aim isn’t as good as his and it goes sailing past him and into a lamp. “Shit!” I yell. But he catches it, righting it on the nightstand with sure hands.
“We are doing this pretending for your Emily, and I am not sleeping on a cot in my room or on a couch in yours. We can be adults about this, Abigail. This bed is near the size of some rooms.” He sounds so damned reasonable and mature.
Good for you, asshole. You can be mature and not attack me like a sex-starved bear in the middle of the night. I can’t say the same and I’m trying to save you—and myself—from getting sprayed with bear spray.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off, and sighs at my ridiculousness.
He’s right. I know he is. I just have to manage to not impale myself on his dick for eight hours. I glance at the clock . . . make that six hours, if I’m lucky.
“Okay. But you’re sleeping on top of the blankets and I’m sleeping under them. No funny business.”
“Of course.” I think we’ve reached an accord, but he stands once again and drops his slacks to the floor, kicking them and then his underwear into the same pile as his shirt.
I screech, “What are you doing?”
He is nude. Fully nude and half hard. And not a blurry shape behind a foggy shower wall. No, he is live in Technicolor, every carved muscle and ink line, right down to his cock, which is lying down his leg.
My eyes lock on it. His hair is trimmed short and tidy, very European, and as I stare, it grows. “Uhh—”
“Abigail.” My name is soft on his lips, as though he’s in pain, and when I glance up to meet his eyes, he cups himself. “I sleep nude. I’m going to sleep as you requested, but you’re making it hard.”
“I can see that,” I murmur, wishing he’d move his hand again.
He chuckles, a deep vibration in his chest that makes his abs jump, and I come back to myself.
“Shit. Sorry. Okay, we can sleep in the same bed, but you have got to wear underwear. Briefs, boxers, tighty whiteys for all I care, but you have to cover up.” Or I’m never going to make it till sunrise.
That is my final offer. Every other line, he’s blown right past, and though I argued, I secretly wanted him to. But this one . . . I need him to do this for me.
“Very well, mia rosa. For your honor, I will respect this. This time.”
A shiver runs through me when he basically tells me tonight will be one of many nights he sleeps by my side.
Back in the morning light, he snores again, kicking a leg out of the sheet and rearranging himself.
The blankets have fallen by the wayside to leave him gloriously exposed, and I’m rethinking my demand that he cover up because behind those boxer briefs, his morning wood is tall and thick, proudly greeting the day too.
And I want to see him fully aroused. I want to touch it. I want to taste it. I want to feel it.
Maybe I could just peek a little? If I’m careful, he might even sleep through it.
“Good morning, Abigail. Every filthy thought running through your head is written on your face, mia rosa,” he growls out, his voice rough with sleep. “I love it, so bold and eager.”
Busted!
But I’m not one to throw my cards down and walk away from the table, even when I’ve lost. I double down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was looking out the window at the beautiful sunrise.”
“Mmmhmm,” he says, not believing a word. He casually reaches down and scratches his balls, and I track the movement. Until he chuckles again. That gets me moving.
I hop out of bed, snatching up my robe to throw over my own nightclothes. Thanks for the super-short nightgown, Archie!
But before I can escape into the bathroom, my bedroom door opens. Janey stands there with two cups of coffee and a mouth open so wide, she could catch flies. She recovers quickly, though, her open mouth becoming a wide grin. “G’morning, Boss. G’morning, Boss’s dick du jour.”
“Janey!”
She has zero shame or apology as she hands me one of the cups. Then she has the nerve to bypass me and offer the other to Lorenzo. “This one was supposed to be mine, but you can have it. It’s black, and you’re hard.”
“Seriously? Can you cover up?” I shriek at both of them as Lorenzo nods his thanks for the coffee.
“She’s a little grumpy in the morning,” Janey stage-whispers, “but with you here, I’d think she’d be a little more chill.
Unless you didn’t get the job done?” she pries with narrowed eyes.
“You’re working with quality dick, but it’s not just the equipment.
You gotta put in the work too. Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work. ”
“Janey! Get out!” I yell, forcibly pushing her out of the room. As I slam the door, Lorenzo laughs heartily.
“Get dressed, Abs. We need to be downstairs for the meeting in an hour. No time for hanky-panky, Romeo,” Janey says.
“Lorenzo,” he calls out to correct her.
I don’t think she misspoke, though. She knows his name, and she knows me. I like love and romance, and she thinks Lorenzo might be my Romeo. But did she forget that everyone dies in that play?
We get dressed, and the process feels intimate, a dance around the room as we take showers, brush teeth, and pull on clothes for this meeting.
“I think we need to leave a few minutes apart so we arrive separately. Less suspicious that way,” I tell Lorenzo as I slick waterproof mascara onto my lashes. The heat here is fierce, and I might cry angry tears if Meredith gets too bitchy, so the heavy-duty stuff is a necessity.
He pauses to give me a narrow-eyed glare. “Everyone will be arriving at the same time because that’s when the meeting starts.”
That sounds so reasonable but feels so risky. I’m not sure I can walk in there at his side and not be tomato-faced and obvious about where we spent the night. Even if it’s not exactly what people would think.
When I don’t answer, Janey does for me from the bedroom doorway. “Just go along with it, dude. She needs to be on her A-game, and I can’t have you fucking up this opportunity.”
He shakes his head. “Fine. I’m ready, so I’ll head down now.” But he doesn’t leave. No, he comes over to the vanity, framing me with his arms and pressing me to the cabinet. Meeting my eyes in the mirror, he says, “Go to this meeting and be The Abigail Andrews. Later, you will be mine.”
He passes by a starry-eyed Janey with a nod, and once the door of the suite opens and then closes, she screeches. “Ahh! Holy shit, Abs! I need to hear everything. Every. Single. Thing.”
I open my mouth to share some of what happened last night, but she holds up a hand.
“Not now. As much of a greedy bitch as I am, we have to get our asses in gear. Unless Lorenzo got yours? I’ll be late this morning if you’re telling tales of anal with that particularly wow specimen of maleness.
” She holds out her hands in a movement that reminds me of Carly reaching for her beloved Cheerios. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
“No! Nothing like that!” I claim.
“Then you, out the door. Now.” Janey’s not kidding, literally shoving me toward the door.
Downstairs, Meredith looks at her watch with a lift of her brows as Janey and I walk in, despite the fact that we’re not only on time but early. The room is full, way more people than I expected.
“Now that everyone’s here, let’s get started . . .” Meredith directs.
She starts to her left, working her way around the room. I sit through check-ins with makeup artists, hair stylists, photographers, videographers, security, drivers, a DJ, musicians, decorators, and even Meredith’s assistants. God, what an awful job that must be.
Lorenzo gives a quick rundown of meals he’s doing, ending with the reception’s fettuccine alfredo.
“Last and least . . . oh, pardon me! I meant, last but not least, of course,” Meredith says, eyes dancing as she smirks at me. That was intentional, for sure. What does she have against me? “The flowers.”
She can be petty if she wants, toss insults my way, and call me ‘flower girl’, but I’m on top of things. I did the checks with Janey and everything looks good. The boxes arrived and have been sorted and refrigerated.
So take that, Meredith! Check, check, checkity check.