Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NO CLUB OR PARTY FOR THE B-LISTER? SOURCES SAY SOMETHING IS DEFINITELY UP
GREER
Iwas not, in fact, up by six.
Instead, it’d been after eight when Tripp had carefully eased himself out of bed.
After apologizing for waking me—and then kissing me in a way that woke me even more—he’d explained that his personal trainer would be there soon, and they would be in the basement.
Then he’d ordered me to stay in bed before grudgingly accepting that I needed to run home for my computer and a shower.
When I’d gotten back to his place, I’d snuck downstairs in a strictly professional capacity to see if my boss needed anything.
Okay, fine, I’d wanted to enjoy the view.
I’d gotten a double whammy. For one, his basement wasn’t a dank space with a leaky water heater and crumbling drywall.
It had an old-school cigar club vibe, with dark wood, a long bar, and an expansive wine cellar that made up four of the pentagonal walls.
From my quick glimpse I got through the glass of the temperature-controlled storage, the space was empty.
I wasn’t a wine drinker, and even I knew that was a waste.
But it made sense since the rest of the space wasn’t made up of lush leather armchairs and couches the way it should’ve been.
Instead, it was a full set of equipment that put some commercial gyms to shame.
The room itself had been nice and all, but it’d been nothing compared to the shirtless, sweating Tripp who’d been getting his ass kicked by his trainer. I wasn’t sure what the hell he had to train since he was already cut and sculpted to perfection, but apparently the camera was unforgiving.
As were the viewers sitting behind their faceless avatars.
When my ogling had lasted an awkward amount of time—and had been spotted by Tripp and said trainer—I’d retreated upstairs to work on my final paper.
Actually do it that time.
There was no way I was ever going to be unethical.
I handed in lost wallets and dropped cash.
I’d never cheated on a test or copied someone else’s work.
Hell, I’d contemplated turning my father in for abusing his prescriber privileges.
I might’ve actually done it if my mom hadn’t beaten me to the punch—or the golf club.
It was something that filled me with a tremendous amount of guilt every time it popped involuntarily into my head to invade my thoughts and ruin my mood.
My personality just didn’t allow for rule breaking in the name of greed.
But as Tripp pointed out—which in turn formed my idea—I was a control freak.
Okay, he’d phrased it nicer than that, but the point was still the same.
And it was the truth.
I’d leaned into that, discussing how my need for things to be done just so could create a negative work environment as I micromanaged my employees into quitting.
I wasn’t sure if my professor would think I was trying to take the easy way out with a watered-down paper that I was rushing to get done. That last part was true, but not the first. It was uncomfortable to hold that mirror up to my flaws.
And the longer I’d worked on it, the happier I became that Tripp had insisted I stick around all day. Once he’d finished with his trainer and showered, he’d joined me in the living room to read through his script. If I was alone, it would be even more depressing.
We’d been at it for a while when he suddenly set his papers down and scanned the chaos that surrounded me where I sat on the floor. My notes were spread on the coffee table and floor as I worked.
Or at least, that was what I was supposed to be doing.
What I was actually doing was sneaking peeks at Tripp.
“I feel you staring at me,” he said with a questioning brow raise.
I lifted a shoulder. “You’re very expressive when you read.”
“Am I making crazy faces?”
I held my index finger and thumb close together. “A little bit.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, though, it’s cute.”
“You think I’m cute?” His tone was teasing but also… not. There was an intensity that lit a fire low in my belly and a genuine delight I found endearing.
I didn’t share either.
I rolled my eyes instead. “You know you are. According to JoltNews, you’re also the most popular fan edit subject this month, and their dream pick for romantic lead casting.”
I would think both those things would bring him more joy than me simply calling him cute, but I was wrong. He seemed unimpressed, but he did shake his stack of script papers. “I’ve got the last one covered.”
According to him, Summer wasn’t a true romance, but it was closer than any of the action flicks he’d done. And probably closer than Old Flame since that was a thriller, and he wasn’t supposed to be appealing in it.
Though he was—to me and the thousands of fan edit creators.
“Come tell me more about how cute you think I am,” Tripp rumbled, but there was nothing cute about the way he crooked his two fingers to beckon me closer.
If we were in a cartoon, I would’ve floated through the air to him. As it was, I was having trouble remembering why going to him was a bad idea.
Oh.
Right.
Responsibilities.
I forced myself to stay in place. “Read the comments on the videos I reposted on your accounts. I’m sure they’ll inflate your ego until your head doesn’t fit through the doorway.”
His handsome face twisted in horror. “I’d rather butt-scooch my naked ass down Hollywood Boulevard during peak tourist season than look at a comment section.
” His expression smoothed out just as fast, and he added a chin jerk to the two fingers as he tried again.
“Anyway, I don’t care what other people think. I care what you think.”
How the hell am I supposed to say no to that?
I was already in the process of standing when I added a condition. “I need to keep working.”
“Of course.”
“I really need to finish this tonight.”
“No problem.”
“That means no distracting me.”
Lifting both hands, he gave a forced innocent smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
This is a bad idea.
I did it anyway.
As soon as I was within arm’s reach, Tripp grabbed me and yanked me down onto his lap. It wasn’t close enough for him, and as he kissed me, he repositioned us so he was slouched, and I was straddling him.
With just his basketball shorts and my own thin shorts and panties separating us, it would be so easy to slide the meager fabric out of the way. As it was, I was likely leaving a wet spot as he gripped my hips to grind me harder against him.
Embarrassing, yes, but not enough to make me stop.
I thought he would take it further. I hoped he would.
But after only a few minutes of intense making out, he shifted me off him so I was lying on the couch.
He moved, too, and my pulse jumped in my throat and my clit, but he didn’t follow me down.
He simply arranged some pillows behind my back to prop me up before handing me my laptop.
When he was done, he returned to his spot to stretch my legs over his lap.
Then, he casually picked up his papers and started reading.
Reading!
Like I wasn’t a restless, needy mess.
“Tripp,” I started before he shot me a ruthless glare as his nostrils flared. I quickly corrected myself. “Sir.”
He jabbed a finger toward my computer. “Work.”
“I can take a break.”
“No.”
“Or finish tomorrow.”
“You have brunch tomorrow that you’ll enjoy a helluva lot more without this hanging over your head.”
He was right.
He also sounded a lot like me when I talked to Maddie.
Although according to her, she no longer had a procrastination problem.
We’d apparently swapped personalities.
With a resigned sigh, I leaned to drag the table closer so I could see my notes, and his grip on my legs tightened preventatively like he thought I was going to move.
I was stubborn, not stupid.
When he realized what I was trying to do, he grabbed the table and did it for me. I had to position some stuff on the couch, but it wasn’t like there was a lack of space. The thing was massive.
Even still, I muttered, “You need more surfaces.”
“Noted.”
“I’m kidding. I need to make fewer notes.”
He didn’t look offended by my dig at his decorating choices, but he did look outraged by that. I just shook my head, not understanding his reaction but knowing it didn’t really matter because there would be no decrease. Electronic notes didn’t hit the same way physical ones did.
I was making good progress—okay, decent progress—when Tripp’s hand began rubbing a short path up and down my calf. Then a little longer of a path. Then longer still.
It wasn’t a surprise.
According to Wren, everyone had a main love language they used to show affection—platonic or otherwise. She claimed mine was acts of service. If any of that stuff was true, then Tripp’s love language was definitely physical touch. Little grazes. Tight hugs. Frequent kisses.
Even in sleep, he kept the connection. When I’d woken during the night to pee, we’d been facing opposite directions, but he’d had his arm stretched back to rest on my ass.
With as lonely as he said his life was thanks to his career, it was no wonder he needed that.
I didn’t mind the leg massage as I worked, so I didn’t pay much attention.
Not until I noticed that his trail was slowly increasing farther up my thigh.
I tried to stay locked in, but my breath hitched each time he neared the top, only to retreat back.
The arousal that had just waned grew into a bubbling anticipation that left me tense and on edge.
A little closer.
Almost.
Almost.
But each time, his large hand would skim back down without touching me where I needed him most.
After long, torturous minutes his palm finally covered my sex, and my breath whooshed out in a relieved rush. It took every last bit of willpower I had to not move. Or beg him to move. But I was a quick study, too. I knew that making demands would just extend his teasing.
It was the right decision, and my obedience was rewarded when he shifted my shorts and panties aside to slip his thumb into my soaked pussy.
I braced, waiting for more. Waiting for him to fill me with his thick fingers or order me to do something.
It didn’t happen. He simply flipped the page like he was reading the newspaper over coffee and not tormenting me.
“Sir,” I whispered, my hips undulating on their own accord.
He splayed his four available fingers across my pelvis and used them to still my motion. “Finish your assignment.”
“Take your thumb out of me,” I shot back on a frustrated growl.
His dark gaze turned to me, and he arched a menacing brow. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I rushed out before pressing my lips together.
“That’s what I thought. You said you had to work, so work.” He returned to his script, and I returned to dying a little inside with each passing second.
Why did I make that stipulation?
When will I learn?
It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t like the leg thing. He wasn’t going to gradually amp up his motions until I found my release. He was happy to just sit there.
That twisted monster.
I took matters into my own hands. Shifting. Readjusting. Squeezing my muscles around him in the hopes that it would spur him on.
The only thing I accomplished was riling myself up more and more while he remained unfazed.
I busted out the big guns. “Let’s get dressed and go to Gilded.”
“Not tonight.”
My brows lowered. When he’d asked—or ordered—me to stick around, I’d assumed it was because we would be ending the night at Gilded again, so there was no reason for me to go home in between.
Clearly, I was mistaken.
If he was aware of my confusion, he didn’t show it. He just kept reading.
With his thumb in me.
And with no other option, I started typing.
With his thumb in me.