Chapter 25
25
I do not sleep tight. I sleep scattered, my limbs thrown across the sheets, searching every inch of the king-size bed, trying to find fresh pockets of cold like an octopus on acid. I gave up a while ago. The thunderstorm outside isn’t helping the feeling that I’m stuck inside a bubble that’s about to burst. The air seeping in from the city crackles with energy. I’m not a good sleeper at the best of times; after I moved to the city it took me months to get used to the sounds of ambulances, drunk people and horny foxes all having street-side screaming contests every night. But the intermittent thunder—which seems so much louder up this high—and Bancroft’s naturally overwhelming presence in the room mean there is absolutely no chance of me having a restful night.
“We were never just friends.”
I debate whether to cancel the date with Jack. It’s 2 a.m., the date is in six hours. I’ll be so tired. I’ll have to wear yesterday’s work clothes. Susie will be pissed off if I get in a minute past 9 a.m., so it’s barely worth going.
The only thing stopping me from canceling is the fact I’ve already, stupidly, told Bancroft about it. If I cancel, he’ll assume it’s because of him. Because of what he said.
His voice replays in my head like some lust-edged ice-cream truck circling the block over and over and over.
“Is it a real date?”
What does that even mean? And why did he try and bolt the minute I confirmed it was?
Shifting slowly so the bed barely makes a sound I look over to where Bancroft is sleeping soundly. His existence in the room is so... loud. He always commands attention but now it’s as if some otherworldly being is bellowing “Helloooooo, do you see that stunning man sleeping meters away from you?” directly into my skull. The warm glow radiating from the expansive living-room windows gently caresses him as he sleeps. I’m pretty sure he’s just in his boxers under that blanket. His exposed chest rises slowly up and falls gently. It’s not fair. Why couldn’t the person I am set to destroy be some annoying, unattractive oaf without an ounce of charm? Not the smoky-woody-with-hints of-lemongrassy-smelling Adonis who’s so tall his bare legs are dangling out of the blanket over the edge of the sofa. Urgh.
I bite my lip as my hand rubs in long, drawn-out circles over my belly, tracing the edges of my underwear. I’m just frustrated; it’s nothing to do with him. But why can I not stop staring at his jaw, thinking what it would be like to trace my fingers over it; his chest, what it would feel like pressed against mine; his mouth, and what it would whisper to me in the dark? Something curls in my stomach as I remember his lips feathering against mine in the winter lamplight, his eyes hardening and throat bobbing as he tried to comfort me in his office, the ghost of his thumb lightly tracing my ribs during the yoga class. My hand trails up and down over the lace of my underwear in rhythm with his moving chest.
He shifts onto his back and throws a muscled arm over his face. My fingers stop dead.
My eyes scrunch closed as I mirror his movement, lying flat on the bed.
What are you doing? Snap out of it! This is Bancroft. You hate him. You are currently plotting his professional demise!
Sighing, I reach through the darkness to the side table for a glass of water, only to bump my hand against an almost empty champagne glass. The round base teeters back and forth debating whether to fall and break. Punishing me for my indiscretion, it decides to topple. My hand lurches out and I screech through gritted teeth as my finger touches the edge of the glass. The flute hits the edge of the side table and splits cleanly in half against the wooden surface. I thank the universe it didn’t completely explode into tiny shards of expensive crystal all over the rug, or cover my notebook in flat champagne. Glancing back to Bancroft, I check if the sound woke him; thankfully, he’s still asleep, arm taut over his face. I quietly untangle myself from the sheets, rubbing my eyes.
With a piece of champagne-coated crystal in each hand, I creep on tiptoes like a Scooby Doo villain through the living room, praying Bancroft doesn’t wake to see me in a T-shirt and underwear inching past him with a shard of glass weapon in hand. I let out a held breath as I round into the kitchen, gently placing the two pieces of glass into the copper sink. My head feels heavy as I look out on the sparkling city skyline. Purple, blue and red lights from passing boats bounce off the river, piercing through the rows of twinkling high-rise buildings. This time of night has always filled me with an eddying comfort. It’s like being stuck between waking and dreaming, in a world where anything could happen, but none of it seems real.
My body jolts as my peripheral vision catches sight of a figure in the kitchen entryway.
“Thirsty?” the shadowed specter asks with a smirk.
My entire body turns into a canvas of goose bumps. “Parched,” I confirm, swallowing.
“Same.” He stalks toward me, the light of the city pulling him from the shadows.
It is, of course, Eric Bancroft, standing in just black boxer briefs.
I suck in my cheeks and stare intently out of the window, avoiding dipping my eyes anywhere below his neck. If I did, I’d see rounded pecs with a smattering of chest hair darker than the hair on his head, at least six abs just surfacing on his stomach, and taut, defined Vs dipping into his underwear like a runway. And right next to them: the healing scar I gave him at El Turo.
I shuffle out of his way, letting out a stuttered laugh as he opens a cabinet. His back and shoulder muscles shift like tectonic plates as he reaches for two wide-rimmed tumblers, every movement smooth and deliberate. He clears his throat, snapping me out of my sleep-deprived trance.
“Water OK?” His normally bright eyes look almost navy in this light, city lights blinking in them like constellations.
I nod silently and he fills the two glasses at the sink, not acknowledging the broken glass in the basin. Did he not notice it, or did he already know it was there?
“Sorry if I woke you up,” I test.
“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for hours.” He glances up from the sink to test me back. “Light sleeper.”
My cheeks heat as he hands me one of the glasses, not breaking his dark gaze when his fingers trace the edges of mine. I can’t even think of the words, just look into the bottom of the glass wishing I was a hundred times smaller so I could jump into it and never come up for air.
Sensing my discomfort, he shifts, returning to the default cockiness I know and loathe.
“I know that’s probably a shock to you, seeing as most of the time I look so well rested.” He shoots a confident smile while taking a step back from me.
In an attempt to ease the familiar sensation building between my thighs, I lean against the counter and try to match his sarcastic tone.
“What, sleeping on your usual one-million-thread-count emperor bed isn’t good enough for His Highness?” I stare at him, eyebrows creased in confusion. This version of him is so different from the man in the bathroom earlier, as though the moment the words “real date” loosened themselves from my lips a switch flipped in his head.
A dimple appears on one cheek as he takes another step forward. “You seem very invested in my bedroom setup.” He takes a nonchalant swig out of the carved tumbler, attention fixed on me. I cross my arms over my breasts to cover my hardening nipples. He’s considerably more naked than me but I can’t help but feel as though I’m the one exposed.
He frowns because I won’t play whatever this game is. “Why did you ask me to stay?”
He takes a step closer, leaving an arm’s length between us.
I parry, pushing my exposed backside against the cold onyx countertop. “I pitied you.”
He steps back, ending our dance and leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window. The skyline frames him in a white humming glow, a devil masquerading as an angel.
“If that’s what you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night. But...” He pauses as if he’s deliberating something, turning his gaze to his glass and then flicking hooded eyes back up to me. “... you weren’t sleeping either, were you? Show me what you were doing.”
“What?” I ask, the word coming out more breathlessly than I had intended. He relaxes against the window, crossing his muscled arms over his stomach.
“Show me,” he repeats.
The bottom of my stomach throbs with a heavy mix of shame and excitement. He stares at me with sure eyes as he gestures with his chin, slowly trailing his eyes from mine, down to my underwear just poking out underneath my T-shirt. The way his gaze moves isn’t like a question... more like a challenge. A dare leaving his eyes and landing straight between my thighs. It takes every ounce of confidence in me, emboldened in the dark, to meet his eye. We grip the drawn line with both hands and twist in opposite directions. A defiant smirk flickers to life across my mouth as I accept the dare.
He will not win.
My left hand remains laid casually on the counter as my right gravitates toward the top of my thigh. I steady my breathing as my fingers gently move across my skin, getting higher with each stroke until they reach the hem of my T-shirt. Shifting, the worn cotton fabric pushes up, exposing my underwear to him. I am so glad I’m not wearing the old pair of Muppets-themed pants I usually wear to bed. My hand moves under the seam of dark pink lace until my fingers reach where they had been just minutes ago. Breath hitching, I meet his gaze. My cheeks flush to match my underwear as I realize that while I’ve been focusing on my hand, he’s been staring at my face. Watching my throat as it bobs, swallowing gulps of nighttime air.
He shifts, readjusting against the window pane and pulling my attention from his hardened face to his hardened... body. One side of my lip curls in satisfaction, knowing that my rising to this kind of challenge will be his undoing, and make him do the same. The surging wave of power in making his cool exterior break and unravel into something he can’t control triggers a jolt of pleasure to run down my body and land between my thighs.
I swallow, mouth dry. “Is this what you think you saw, Friend ?” My voice comes out deeper than I’d intended, thicker as I remind him of our truce. Bancroft doesn’t respond, just lets out a breathy laugh and smirks back.
His eyes blaze as my shaky hand returns to the countertop; it takes everything in me to stop my knees from buckling. My foggy brain reasons that we should stop now before we do something we can’t take back, as though touching myself in front of a colleague is just some non-event. My eyes dart between him and the arched doorway to the living room. I could simply go back to bed, and we could pretend this never happened. He dared me, and I accepted. Game over. But my bare feet are stuck to the black tiled floor like soft hands wrapped around my ankles.
“Let me show you what I’ve been wanting to do,” he says, eyes softening.
A statement but also an unspoken question: Do you want me to?
He’s waiting for my response, but words have left me as my mind runs riot. My legs are somehow jelly and rock solid at the same time. All I can do is nod. He leisurely finishes off his glass of water, taking his time to savor the last drop, then pads at an excruciatingly slow pace toward me. I realize he’s giving me time. Time to think, time to stop him, to come to my senses and call whatever this is off. To throw up a white flag, with no hard feelings.
In reality, any semblance of sense left the building as soon as I invited him to stay the night. He comes toe-to-toe with me, placing his tumbler on the counter by my side with a soft clink. His hand slides from the cool glass, traveling under my T-shirt to my warm waist. He squeezes his fingers lightly, branding my skin and burning through all the boundaries we set. My hands grip viselike on the counter, holding on for dear life. As though letting go of the edge would mean letting go of everything. Acknowledging the ticking time bomb of attraction lodged between us since the very first day we met. His body presses against mine, the bare skin of his chiseled torso seeping heat through my T-shirt until my skin prickles. His scent fills my nostrils, smoky-sweet and inviting. I close my eyes and lower my chin. This is torture. But I’ve already made the first move. If he wants this, it’s his turn.
He glides his fingers in aching strokes across my side as he brings his mouth to my ear: “In the yoga class this is all I could think about.”
His warm breath and vibrating chest send a message to my knees to just give up now. I sink a couple of inches, but he steadies me with a gentle hand.
“Is that why you declined to comment on the evaluation form?” I whisper, my breath caught somewhere deep in my chest.
He chokes out a laugh. “What was I meant to say? ‘I was barely paying attention to the class because I was concentrating so much on not getting hard’?”
Rough hands trace my sides, dragging down my waist and my hips until they slide toward the outside of my thighs, fingers pressing in lightly and then, slowly, more tightly around my skin. His eyes are laced with roaring desire, but I can see that he’s holding back. Every movement, every touch is softer than he wants it to be. Restrained when it wants to be fierce.
“And how’s that concentration now?” I ask, whispering it breathlessly into his ear like a statement I’ll deny if he ever repeats.
He lets out a low hum, smoothing his hands around my thighs until they’re underneath me and lifting me up onto the cold counter. I let out an involuntarily moaning gasp, releasing my hands from the surface and grabbing on to his broad, toned shoulders for balance. He settles between my legs so I can feel the press of his erection against me.
His shoulders shift under my palms as he reaches out and lightly strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Grace, I have never been able to concentrate on anything around you.”
Before I can reply, his lips delicately brush against mine, soft and faint compared to the hardness sitting between my thighs. I curl my fingers into his skin, parting my lips for him. He groans at the invitation, and slips his tongue against mine, grinding himself against me and increasing the intensity. Electric desire prickles through every nerve as I match his demanding rhythm. My hands slide up his neck and into his hair, our mouths clash and his sweet taste makes my insides reach their boiling point. His lips drag kisses over my jaw and down until his teeth meet my neck. I whimper, gripping and clenching his hair in my fists like pulling tufts of grass from the earth. The jagged feel of his teeth and tongue and lips and breath make me so lightheaded I’d fall off the counter if his body wasn’t pinning me against it. He slips his hand into my hair, matching my light tugs and sending me into a complete spiral of staggering lust.
Finally coming up for air, his chest heaves as our foreheads meet. His brow knits as though he wasn’t expecting it to feel this good. Eyes blazing, he flicks between my heavy-lidded eyes and my plumped pink lips. I lean my mouth forward, ready to accept his on mine all night, but instead of meeting me halfway, he bends down onto one knee, keeping my gaze as he pushes my legs apart with his overstretched hands.
“Wait.” As soon as the word leaves my mouth I feel his steel grip on me loosen. He stays nestled between my legs but pulls back up and moves his hands to the counter. I feel the focused burn where his fingers pushed into my skin. His gaze meets mine, waiting politely as I’d asked.
“I’m not... I haven’t...” I swallow dryly, feeling embarrassed for the first time since he started touching me. “I haven’t shaved... in a few days.”
More like twelve days but who’s counting ?
I know it’s nothing I should actually be ashamed of, but William wouldn’t touch me unless I was completely clean-shaven. There were a couple of times where he stopped so that I could go and use an emergency wax strip before we continued. And I certainly wasn’t expecting my night to end this way.
He lets out a breathless laugh, a wave of relief flowing over his face as his forehead leans forward to meet mine.
He drags my bottom lip between his teeth and then says, voice dropping an octave lower than I’m used to, “I know whatever I find is going to be perfect. Plus, I’m a fan of the retro look,” he admits onto my lips with a curling smirk and a shrug, forcing another nervous breath out of me to mingle with his. My blood pulses around his fingers. I lift my chin to the ceiling as he lowers himself again and pulls my underwear to the side, fearing that the image of his mouth between my thighs is going to make me explode on sight.
“Fuck, Grace. Have you been this wet for me all night?” he growls, sounding almost annoyed at the time we’ve wasted in this suite. “We’d better do something about that.”
His mouth hovers near me, one final question before we march hand in hand over the line. My palm moves from gripping his shoulder into his hair, pulling lightly on the soft strands, circling them around my fingers. He chuckles through his nose, accepting my silent answer.
I gasp as he pulls me into him, dragging me forward, gravity helping him put delicious pressure against my aching center. His biceps harden as his arms wrap under and around my thighs, caging the lower half of my body in place as he slowly, gently, devastatingly licks his way inside me. Every swipe of his tongue, his lips, his teeth pulls me further away from my inhibitions. I grind against him and he matches the rhythm, taking notes on what pulls gasping breaths from my throat and giving me more of it.
A wave of throbbing heat shoots up my body. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out, as if I’m in denial of the overwhelming sensation firing around my core. Every nerve ending is about to burst into flames as I combust on the cold counter. My legs shake as I arch my back, crying obscenities into the dark.
He comes back up and kisses me hard, drawing breath from my mouth as though I’m his own personal oxygen mask. Before the fog of orgasm fully clears, he grips my thighs again and lifts me until I lock on to his hips. My limbs wrap around him as he carries me through the suite to the bedroom. I catch his bottom lip between my teeth, kissing the smirk right off his face. His throbbing cock rubs against my underwear, sending a jolt of heat up my legs with every step.
As he lays me on the bed among the crumpled sheets, he kisses my forehead, my cheek, my jaw, my neck and it’s so tender I briefly forget who we are and everything that’s happened between us. A shy smile splits my lips. He notices and traces my lips with his thumb, smiling a full smile back before returning to map my body with his mouth, gliding my T-shirt up over my chest and greedily taking my nipple into his mouth.
After a few seconds like this, he lifts his head as if coming out of a trance.
“We need a condom,” he says breathily.
“Do you have one?” I ask.
“Why would I bring a condom to a business meeting?” he asks my rib cage.
My heavy head lifts up off the bed to look at him.
“Don’t you keep one in your wallet or something?” I say desperately, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest.
“No, wallets can start degrading the latex after like three hours.” He rubs his face with the hand that was just all over me.
“Oh, so now you follow the rules?!” I laugh, half-amused, half-exasperated.
He lifts his weight off me, one hand next to my head pressed into the bedding, and hangs his head as if he’s just lost his winning lottery ticket, his messy hair flopping onto his face and his mouth pressing against my shoulder.
For a few moments, we stay paused, neither wanting to untangle our legs from each other but both knowing what will happen if we don’t. I feel the overwhelming urge to brush his wavy hair back onto the top of his head when I remember the sex bag in the bathroom.
“Oh my God!”
He looks down at our meshed bodies in a panic. My hands on his bare chest, I push him off me and sprint to the bathroom.
“A-are you OK?” he shouts from the bedroom, but I can barely hear him over the sound of me rustling through the two bathroom robe pockets until—
“Aha!” I stick my head around the door and hold out a Heimach Hotel–branded vegan condom as though I’m showing him my most prized possession. “Thank you, Christoph.”
I have to stop myself from sprinting back over to him, instead attempting a tantalizing pace, pulling my rumpled T-shirt up over my head and throwing it to the other side of the room as I stride back to him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed and reaches for the condom. I have to stop myself from ogling his taut sun-kissed frame. He sighs, turning the plastic square in his fingers between his thighs.
A line forms between his brows and he lets out a breath that settles on my exposed stomach. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
My heart sinks at his hesitation. The realization of just how much I want this dawns on me like a punch to the gut. Like flipping a coin but not knowing which side you truly want until it lands. I brush the loose hair from his face and ask in the most seductive voice I can muster, “Aren’t we already doing this?”
He takes my hips in his hands, lightly tugging me closer until I am standing in between his legs.
“No,” he replies with a faint smile, the small glimmers of light in the room bouncing off his cheekbones. My stomach turns molten as he kisses the skin above my underwear and looks up at me under hooded eyes. “We haven’t even started.”