Chapter 21
EVIE
“I need help,” I whisper as my arms bounce against the mattress, mortification filling me with restless energy. “Psychiatric help. Who talks to themself in a busy restaurant?”
I relaxed a little too much—I wasn’t prepared to enjoy myself! And Oliver’s friends were so cool. Total charmers, and I enjoyed watching him play the straight man of their comedy trio. Maybe it’s because they were so nice that I let my guard down.
The wine didn’t help. Or the drool-worthy dessert menu. Man, I wish I ordered that heavenly slice of gateau. Layers of almond sponge soaked in Amaretto liqueur, layered with featherlight Belgian chocolate mousse and topped with a mocha ganache. My mouth watered just reading the description, and I hummed in anticipation of sliding all that deliciousness into my mouth.
Come to mama!
But when I glanced up, three pairs of eyes were staring at me like I’d just sprouted another head. I felt like such an idiot, so I left. In haste. And now I’m repenting (and cringing) at leisure because all I can think of is how crazy I must’ve looked. Maybe food obsessed? Which is better than a country club clone, I guess. The girlfriend of a rich dude who doesn’t eat real food.
I shiver, the ghost of my not-yet-dead mother shimmying over my not-yet-dug grave. A minute on the lips, an inch on the hips, Evelyn. That’s not how you get a husband!
“Yeah, well, brownies not frownies, my skinny sisters,” I mutter as I reach for the box of Maltesers stashed in my nightstand. Maltesers are like if a Whopper and a square of Lindt milk chocolate had a love child with a British accent. The only negative thing I have to say about them is their sharing boxes aren’t fit for purpose. Who shares candy?
I give the box a shake—sad face. There’s no telltale rattle. I must’ve finished them off already.
“Ah!” I have another idea as I jump up from my bed, ignoring Bo’s unhappy glare. Bitch, who disturbs my slumber?
Pulling on my door handle, I peek into the living area. But then I remember Oliver went out. He had come back to the suite not long after me, tense jawed and not in the mood for conversation. Jerk face. At least he’d thanked me for coming to dinner, though he stopped short of saying the meal was a success. Next thing, I heard the door to the suite close as he left.
My mind slides to the notification I received about my visa. I can’t contemplate what it might mean if I haven’t convinced his friends. I need sugar, stat. Sugar is my stress companion of choice.
Maybe that’s why I was ready to lick the dessert menu clean.
I make my way into the tiny, immaculate, and largely unused kitchen, not bothering with the light as I pull a bag of giant-size marshmallows out from a cabinet.
So I might have sugar stashes all over the place.
As I rip the bag open, I look up at the tippy-tap of claws.
“Nothing wrong with your hearing,” I say to Bo as he appears in the open doorway. Whoever said dogs don’t smile has never seen one near a rustling bag. “You got the munchies too?” He does an expectant little dance. “You know your cute face alone does not earn you treats.”
As though understanding, he trots into the room and, like a busking magician, unpacks his bag of party tricks. He sits, offers me his paw to shake, then balances himself on his hind legs to beg.
“Impressive. Can you teach Oliver to do that?” The dog cants his teddy bear head. “I’d give you all the treats if you teach him to beg at my feet. Add in a little tongue and ...” Well, I’d be done for. What that man and his tongue can’t do is something I shouldn’t be dwelling on.
Oliver Deubel = no Romeo.
Meanwhile Bo, impatient for his treat, spins twice in a circle before plonking himself onto his fluffy butt.
“You went for the whole shebang, huh?” Well, nearly. I make a gun with my fingers. “Bang!” Bo throws himself theatrically to the floor—dead dog. “Fine, you earned it.”
Reaching into the overhead cabinet, I pull out a bag of doggy treats and pay up. Bo trots happily away with his chew, leaving me with the bag of marshmallows.
I’ve just shoved a whole bunch of pink and white into my mouth when the entrance door beep s. My heart trips over itself as I hear it swing open.
Oh, my fuckery! Bad enough that I’m out here in the communal area, stuffing my face when I said I didn’t want dessert, but I’m also dressed for bed. Kind of. I’m not wearing pajamas like a sane person would—no super slinky or cute nightwear for me. Nope, I’m wearing a T-shirt and huge granny panties. “Novelty knickers,” so Yara had called them when we’d met up for a coffee earlier in the week.
They’re her contribution to my homeless status, apparently. She knows about Mitchell holding my clothes hostage and I told her, thanks to Lori, I’m holed up in some cheap B the realization, that base word—those images—they’re too hot to process.
“Does that shock you?”
I shake my head.
“And if I asked you to watch?”
Ho-ly heck. “I’m not sure how that would help.”
“It wouldn’t hurt either.”
Innuendo. It makes me chuckle, at least until his hands slip under my T-shirt and up my naked back. His approval is a low hum as he realizes I’m braless.
“I’m not having sex with you.” God, I ache for him. But torment and annoy. Maintain the upper hand—those were my plans. If I give in, everything changes. If I give in, it means not only that I can’t trust him but also that I can’t trust myself.
I shouldn’t muddy the waters any more than they are—it’s been hard enough to fight the brand of sweetness he’s shown me this week. The peanut butter and the fancy-Italian-chocolate spread that appeared on my breakfast tray. In my book, there isn’t a Monday that can’t be faced because of the existence of Nutella, and I’m not sure where he learned that about me.
He made sure the hotel ordered Bo’s kibble and arranged for one of the porters to take him for an extra afternoon walk. A little self-serving, sure, because a tired dog is a sleeping dog, not one disposed to crotch-sniffing antics. He didn’t even make that big of a deal about waking in the wee hours on Tuesday to the sound of continual flushing water. That was the day we learned Bo prefers to drink running water. It’s just a pity he learned to work the toilet and not the bidet. Not that it mattered, considering a doggy water fountain turned up in the suite that same day.
I know Oliver has a mile-wide determined streak, but it seems to be rolled into a sweet cinnamon bun. Unless it’s all a ploy, and he’s an expert at playing the long game.
But we don’t have forever. Ten weeks at my last count.
“Who’d be having sex?” he purrs.
“You. With your hand, I heard.”
“I imagine you watching. Every night.” I feel him swallow and love that tiny contradiction to his tone. “Your eyes dark and your breath held, anticipating every slide and twist. The tiny gasp as I paint your neck and your chest.”
I’m hot. Bothered. Wet. This is so wrong, but I want it. Want him. “Still sounds like sex,” I hear myself say, ever his antagonist.
“It can be whatever we want it to be.”
I press my hands to the side of his face. “Well, look at you, getting all persuasive.”
“Because it doesn’t have to mean anything?” That haughty brow spikes before I can answer as he adds, “Nothing about this is careless.”
“I’m still not having sex with you,” I answer as I bring his face to mine.
There are no words to explain this. I no longer possess the will to condense this heat and need into reason as my fingers tangle in his hair and our mouths fuse. The hot, hard feel of him is incredible as his lips weave the magic I so remember. Slow, slick slides and deep, dirty tongue. He kisses like he fucks, and I’d be lying if I said he’s the only one who has trouble sleeping. The only one who resorts to touching themselves at the memory. I turn a little wild at the thought. This is madness, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
“Not in the kitchen.”
He doesn’t seem to immediately register that my hands are still around his neck, that I’m pulling him. Come with me, my biting kisses say. He follows, and we stumble from the room. No sooner are we through the door than I find myself backed up against the other side of the wall.
“My room”—his hips press against mine, the thick length of him enough to make a girl swoon—“or yours.”
“No beds,” I rasp.
“Don’t need one.” He takes my hands, almost slamming them to the wall. He gives a slow, dirty roll of his hips, and everything draws tight inside me.
“Good.” I push him in the center of his chest, stepping after him. “Because we won’t be using one.”
In answer, he spins me, lowering me swiftly to one of the pair of long couches.
“I mean it,” I say as his body follows. “Not sex.” I’m not at all convinced what my deal with penetration is. I want him. He wants me. But I’m still not giving in.
“She who holds the pussy, holds the power.” His hands on either side of my head, he looms over me.
“Freak.” My hand trails lower, plucking at the waist of his running shorts. “Take these off.”
A slice of moonlight cuts across his broad chest as he straightens, his eyes turning silvery as he pulls on the cord at his waist. “Take off your T-shirt. Give me something to work with.”
“Tit for tat?” But I’m already crossing my arms at the hem. I pull it up and over my head, then trail my hand between the valley of my breasts. “You’re up. Tat. ”
He glides his shorts down his thick thighs, and I can’t pull my eyes away. The sum of his parts is just breathtaking. Warm flesh, the supple sloping of muscle, ridges and angles, and the thick length of his cock jutting between us. His head rolls back a little as he wraps it in his fist. Veins stand to attention in his forearm, the muscles of his abdominals flexing at his slow slide.
With a blink, I glance up. “I lied. I do think your cock is pretty.”
His deep chuckle doesn’t last as I touch my palm to his thigh and sweep my mouth over the silken head.
“Fuck.” His curse is thick and husky as he tightens his grip, rubbing the pearly bead at the tip across my lips. My tongue follows the path, and he makes a masculine sound of approval as I take him into my mouth.
“Feels so so good.” His words are husk over gravel as I lick and suck, savoring the taste and musk of him. Between my legs feels heavy as he gives himself over to me with a sweep of those dark lashes, his hands sliding into my hair. “That’s ... fuck. Yes, like that.” His words are all aching need and want, his thighs trembling beneath my fingers. “You’re so good, darling. So beautiful sucking me.”
I swallow his words like the delicious compliments they are—savor them as I savor him, drunk on this power and his taste as he gasps.
“Wait, not like this.” His chest rises and falls as his hands cup my face. “I’m too wired to be gentle.” His thumb swipes over my bottom lip. “I want my mouth on you. Let me make you come.”
I close my eyes for a beat, unable to speak, the hammering between my legs suddenly a frenzy. He drops to his knees in front of me, lifting the weight of my breasts in his hands.
“You’re so fucking edible,” he whispers, licking my nipple. Sucking wetly, tautening and tugging, alternating with languid licks. “One day, you’re going to let me fuck these.”
I shut my ears to the implication of other days, shivering as the central air turns over, the air brushing across my wet, tingling skin. He begins to kiss his way down my body.
Oh hell, Granny panties, I think the moment before he presses his nose between my legs with a deep inhale. I almost levitate from the couch.
“One hundred percent,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband. “Breakfast, lunch, and supper time. Elevenses,” he adds as he slips the black cotton down my legs. “Afternoon tea. Midnight snack. A whole-day fucking buffet, because you make a glutton out of me.”
His low rasps of appreciation make little sense, but maybe it’s infectious, this madness, as I writhe under him.
I whimper as he blows a cooling breath over the ribbon of flesh between my legs. Cry out, my breath hitting the air in tight gasps as the point of his tongue slides over my clit. My eyes tighten as I undulate against him, seeking to deepen the contact from this torturous tease.
“You’re so slick, Eve.” His tongue circles slowly. Skims a filthy flick. “So shiny and pink. I could swallow you fucking whole.”
“Please!” Spasms begin to rack my body, sparks of starlight flickering behind my eyelids. “Oh, God, please!”
“I love to hear you beg. I love you fucking wild. Come for me, Eve. Give it to me.”
Heat courses through my veins, the riot inside me building to a crescendo. Waves of pleasure roll through me, bursting from my toes and my fingertips. But waves are supposed to fade, not be endless.
“Too much,” I whimper, pushing at his head. He doesn’t budge or let up, grasping my hands in his. Something inside me snaps, the threads of this orgasm tied so tightly to the previous. I cry out, my mind and body at war. My hips tip, my thighs closing around his head, “No, Oliver. I can’t.”
“Yes,” he purrs. “For me.”
The sounds of our pleasure fill the room; licking and sucking, filthy whispered encouragements. Whimpers of utter pleasure. And something else. Something obvious but out of sight. Oliver’s hand working his cock as he gets me there.
I close my eyes, imagining the sight. Veins standing to attention in his forearm, the muscles of his abdomen taut as his hand slides from root to crown.
I sound like I might be running, my breaths tight and my moans unrestrained. My body suddenly bows as though lashed by an electric line. Sparks flood outward as I peak with a startled cry, arching from the couch. Oliver moves with me, determined to drain every ounce of my pleasure.
“You’re so good, my darling. Fuck, yes. ” His husky compliments turn to masculine grunts, his broad shoulders blocking the light as he presses his knee between my splayed legs.
There’s no need to imagine now, my eyes falling to his right hand working slickly along his length. As he breaks, my insides pulse and contract as though to join him. I make a noise, one I can’t classify, the sight of him covering me in pearly strands shockingly hot.
With a curse, he falls forward, catching himself on the velvet arm. Then I’m tasting my arousal from his lips as he kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m his life raft.
“You.” He drags in a breath, his words a rush of air across my neck. “Oh, God. You have no idea what you’ve done to me.”
My laughter vibrates against him. “Have I broken you?”
“Eve—”
I press my finger over his lips. Smiling, he bites the tip.
“You can’t be broken, because we didn’t have sex.”
And maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend he’s not here.
“Fine, we didn’t have sex.”
“So it doesn’t count,” I assert. “What just happened was nothing more than a ... very personal workout.”
“I should fire my personal trainer.” Before I can respond, his body dips, his next words a low growl in my ear. “Sex or not, I agree with your underwear. I could eat you out forever.”
I mean, sure. Go for it. Meanwhile, what?
And then I remember. I remember which pair.
FIVE STARS—WOULD EAT HERE AGAIN
I begin to chuckle, our skin sticking together. Oliver opens his mouth to speak, only, with a sudden spasm, he jumps up with a roar. His ass hits the floor, and I lean over the edge of the couch.
“What the heck was that all about?”
His jet hair falls across his forehead. It does nothing to detract from his thunderous expression. He inhales, blowing air from his nose like an angry bull. “That,” he mutters, filling the word with such distaste, “was the result of your dog licking my arsehole.”