Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
My phone rang somewhere beneath the pillow beside me.
I ignored it the first time.
When it started again, I cracked one eye open and reached beneath the pillow with a groan. Daylight pressed around the edges of the closed curtains, but the room still had that expensive-hotel quiet that made eight in the morning feel unnecessarily early.
My body had other complaints.
My bottom lip was faintly tender where Dre had bitten it in the elevator, and apparently sleep had done nothing to erase the memory of his hand squeezing my ass while mine stroked the hard length of his dick through his jeans.
I had eventually fallen asleep.
My pussy had apparently remained awake.
Anybody calling twice this early either had an emergency or lacked home training.
When the phone buzzed again, I dragged it from up under the pillow, ready to reject the call on principle.
Then I saw the name on the screen.
Andre Malik Jones.
My body woke up before the rest of me did.
For a second, I only stared at it. His name, still saved in my phone like eight years had not happened, like I had not once told myself deleting it would mean something I did not actually want to mean.
The phone kept buzzing.
I answered before I could talk myself into sense.
“Andre.”
A low laugh moved through the line. “Damn. You sleep?”
My eyes closed for half a second.
That voice woke up every part of me daylight hadn’t reached.
“It’s morning,” I said, pushing myself higher against the pillows and looking at the clock.
“Good observation.”
“Did you call me before eight to admire my awareness of time?”
“No. I called because I had to get your number from Jabari, which is crazy considering you had mine saved this whole time.”
I looked at the screen again, as if his name might explain me to myself.
“I didn’t know it was still your number.”
“Why would I change it?”
“People change numbers, Dre.”
“Not when they tell somebody to call if they ever need them.”
My throat went quiet.
He let that sit for a second before adding, softer, “I meant that.”
Heat crept up my face.
There was nothing sexual in his words, which somehow made my body respond like there was.
Maybe because the tenderness had always been part of the problem with Dre.
He could make a woman ache without touching her.
Could say one honest thing in that low voice and pull warmth into places a man had no business reaching over the phone.
I looked down at the white sheet twisted across my lap.
“Oh.”
“That all you got?”
“What am I supposed to say to that?”
“The truth.”
I rubbed my thumb over my bottom lip. “I didn’t know you meant it for this long.”
“I did.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then fabric shifted on his end, followed by a low exhale.
I pictured him before I could stop myself. Probably shirtless, beard slightly mussed, stretched across some enormous bed in the presidential suite, phone against his ear, diamonds somewhere on the nightstand, voice rough from sleep.
That image did absolutely nothing useful for me.
“Are you still in bed?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You called me from bed?”
“Soon as I woke up.”
Something warm moved through my chest before the rest of me could make it sexual.
Of course the rest of me managed anyway.
“That sounds very intentional.”
“It was.”
“You know, calling me was probably smarter than coming downstairs.”
A pause.
“I thought about that too.”
My hand stopped.
“Coming downstairs?”
“Yeah.”
“To my room?”
“Yeah.”
His voice had dropped enough to pull heat low into my stomach.
“We said we were taking our time.”
“We are.”
“You showing up at my door at eight in the morning would not qualify.”
“That’s why I’m on the phone.”
I laughed softly.
“At least one of us has sense.”
“Don’t get carried away.”
Something shifted again, then I heard a faint groan.
The heat left me just enough to pay attention.
“Your knee?”
“It’s fine.”
“Dre.”
He sighed. “About a four.”
“How long has it been bothering you?”
“Off and on since last night. All that standing didn’t help.”
“You were on your feet most of the gala and half the day before that.”
“I know.”
“Did you ice it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes, though he couldn’t see me. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. I iced it.”
“Good.”
“That approval?”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.”
I smiled.
There was a time when pain would have irritated him enough to make him push harder simply because his body had dared tell him no. The man on the phone sounded different. Still Dre. Still stubborn. But no longer trying to outrun every limitation.
“You staying in bed for a while?” I asked.
“Probably.”
“I like that.”
“What?”
“You not forcing yourself up because the day started.”
He was quiet for a second.
“I’m learning.”
“I can tell.”
“Careful, Mani. You keep sounding like you like me.”
My smile came before I could stop it.
“Last night gave you entirely too much confidence.”
“Nah. Last night confirmed some shit.”
Heat moved through me again.
“What exactly did it confirm?”
“That you still like putting your hands on me.”
My eyes closed.
“And you still like putting yours on my ass.”
“I loved putting my hand on your ass.”
“Dre.”
“What? We both were there.”
My thighs pressed together beneath the comforter.
“You’re doing a lot for eight in the morning.”
“Am I lying?”
I rubbed my thumb over my bottom lip, still tender from him. “No.”
His laugh came deeper this time, lower, rougher around the edges.
“See?” he said. “You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
The words slipped out before I decided whether I wanted him to know that.
Silence settled between us.
Then Dre said, quieter, “Me too.”
My nipples tightened.
I pulled the blanket higher, which was stupid because he was nowhere near me. Also useless, because there was nothing beneath the sheet but me.
After Mason’s, after that elevator, after standing in my room with my lips still swollen and my body still mad at me for letting him leave, I had stripped out of the cream knit, washed my face, and climbed into bed naked because clothes felt like one more thing touching me when all I wanted was the memory of his hands.
Unfortunately, the memory had hands of its own.
“You got quiet,” he said.
“I’m thinking.”
“That usually concerns me.”
“It should.”
His laugh moved low through the phone, then faded when I heard another small shift from him.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked.
“I’m good.”
“You just said your knee was at a four.”
“It is.”
“So good means what, exactly?”
“It means I’m in bed, leg propped up, ice pack doing its job, and you not about to start fussing at me before breakfast.”
“I have not begun to fuss.”
“I know. That’s why I’m trying to distract you.”
“With what?”
His voice changed.
“What you wearing?”
My whole body went still.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t need that information.”
“That sound like an answer.”
“It is not.”
“It told me enough.”
I stared at the phone like his face might appear on it through sheer nerve. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you would’ve told me if you had on something smart-mouthed.”
“Clothes can’t be smart-mouthed.”
“Yours can.”
I laughed despite myself.
“They be saying a lot.”
“You are insane.”
“So what you got on?”
“Nothing important.”
Dre went quiet.
Too quiet.
My stomach dipped.
“Mani.”
“What?”
“You naked?”
I pulled the sheet higher against my chest and looked toward the closed curtains like they might save me.
They did not.
The sheet slipped over my breasts as I moved, and my breath stuttered at the sudden drag of fabric over my nipples.
The suite probably had some obscene thread count designed to make people feel rich and rested, but right then every soft inch of cotton knew too much.
My nipple rings pressed against the fabric, and the sensation went straight through me, turning both peaks tight and sensitive beneath the sheet.
That had always been one of the quickest ways into my body.
A mouth there.
A tongue.
The right amount of pull.
Damien had liked my breasts. Complimented them. Touched them like they were beautiful, which they were. But Dre had always treated my nipples like they were connected to every other place I could feel pleasure.
Dre wasn’t in the room.
My body did not seem to care.
“You’re very nebby this morning,” I said.
“That wasn’t a no.”
“It wasn’t a yes either.”
“It didn’t have to be.”
My thighs pressed together again.
He exhaled slowly, and the sound moved across my skin as though he were close enough to pull the sheet down himself.
“You always did like sleeping naked after I got you worked up.”
My mouth opened.
Then closed.
“Dre.”
“What?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I remember.”
The certainty in his voice reached into places I had been trying very hard to leave alone. I had spent so long pretending memory was a box I could keep closed if I stayed busy enough.
Dre apparently had a key and no manners.
“I remember something else too,” he said.
My voice came softer than I meant it to. “What?”
“One morning at my apartment. You had on that little tank top and panties.”
I knew immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“You know exactly which morning I’m talking about.”
“I know you need to behave.”
“I woke up before you,” he said, ignoring me completely. “Sun coming through the blinds. You were on your back, hair all over my pillow, covers down around your waist like you had kicked them there in your sleep.”
My breath changed before he said the rest.
“You looked peaceful. Face soft. Lips parted a little. One arm over your head like you owned my whole bed.”
“I probably did.”
“You did.” His voice dipped. “And that little tank had shifted.”
I closed my eyes.
“One of your breasts had slipped out.”
“Dre.”
“Your nipple was already hard too. Just sitting there pretty as hell while you slept, like you were trying to ruin my whole morning before you even woke up.”
My fingers curled into the sheet.
“I laid there for a minute trying to be decent.”
“You?”
“I said trying.”
A laugh slipped out of me, soft and shaky.
“Didn’t last long. I leaned down and put my mouth on you.”