Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Farley
Iwas in bed with my notebook, making lists.
This was not unusual. I made lists constantly—grocery lists, to-do lists, lists of manuscripts I needed to review, lists of authors I wanted to acquire.
Lists were how I organized my thoughts, how I imposed order on a chaotic world, how I maintained the illusion of control over my increasingly uncontrollable life.
The current list was titled Things To Do When I Get Back To New York. It was depressingly practical.
1. Find new apartment
2. Update resume
3. Schedule appointment with therapist Dr. Reiner recommended
4. Find new personal assistant to replace fuckface (Roger)
5. Figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life
Number five was perhaps too ambitious for a list, but I’d written it anyway.
I stared at the page, pen hovering, and then—against my better judgment—flipped back one page.
To the other list.
The one I’d titled, in a moment of wine-fueled weakness two nights ago, The Naughty List.
It was not, to be clear, a list of people who deserved coal in their stockings. It was something far more incriminating. A catalog of things I wanted to do to Samuel Bennett, written in my own handwriting, in ink that couldn’t be erased.
If anyone ever found this notebook, I would have to fake my death and move to another country.
I read through the list again, feeling my face heat even though I was completely alone.
1. Kiss him until neither of us can breathe
2. Find out what sounds he makes when I bite his neck.
3. Watch him undress
I was pleased to have crossed off the first two items.
The list continued from there. Items four through twelve were.
.. explicit. Detailed. The kinds of things I’d never written down before, never even fully admitted to myself.
But something about Samuel made me want to be explicit.
Made me want to catalog every filthy thought that crossed my mind when he walked past me in those ridiculous yoga pants.
I could have him. That was the maddening thing. After today—after the kiss at Shifflett’s, and the near-miss on the couch—I knew with absolute certainty that Samuel wanted me as badly as I wanted him. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.
Literally.
But there was something delicious about the waiting. The anticipation. Every loaded glance, every “accidental” touch, every night we climbed into bed together and did nothing about the tension thrumming between us—it was torture. Exquisite, unbearable, addictive torture.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand it.
The bathroom door opened and I quickly flipped my notebook back to the New York list. Casual. Innocent. Just a man making practical plans for his future. Nothing to see here.
Samuel appeared in the doorway with Purrsephone in his arms.
“Found her in the bathtub,” he said. “I think she’s plotting something.”
“She’s always plotting something.”
He crossed to the bed and deposited the cat on the mattress, where she immediately began making herself comfortable at the foot of the bed.
Then Samuel straightened up, stretched—arms over his head, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of stomach that made my mouth go dry—and reached for the hem of his sweater.
I waited for him to grab his pajamas and head to the bathroom, like he had every other night.
He didn’t.
Instead, he pulled the sweater over his head in one fluid motion and dropped it on the floor.
I forgot how to breathe.
Samuel Bennett shirtless was... there weren’t words.
Or rather, there were too many words, and none of them were adequate.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Defined chest with just the right amount of dark hair.
Abs that suggested regular exercise without being aggressively gym-rat.
A trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans that my eyes followed of their own accord.
He caught me looking and his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts knowing and challenging.
“Problem?” he asked.
“No,” I managed. “No problem.”
His hands went to his belt.
I gripped my pen so hard I’m surprised it didn’t snap.
The belt came undone. Then the button. Down went the zipper. And then Samuel was pushing his jeans down his hips, stepping out of them, standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but black boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He was half-hard already. I could see it. He wasn’t trying to hide it.
“You’re staring,” he said, reaching for the pajama pants he’d left folded on the dresser.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?” He pulled on the pajama pants with agonizing slowness, letting them ride low on his hips. He didn’t bother with a shirt. “I’m just getting ready for bed.”
“You’ve been changing in the bathroom all week.”
“Maybe I felt like a change of scenery.” He climbed onto the bed, crawled toward me with a predatory grace that made my heart stutter. “What are you working on?”
I slammed the notebook shut. “Nothing.”
“That’s a very aggressive nothing.” He was close now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Anything interesting?”
“Just lists. Boring lists. Very boring.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm. The fire’s too high.”
“The fire’s in the other room.”
“Residual heat.”
Samuel plucked the notebook from my hands—I let him, because resisting would only make it more suspicious—and set it on the nightstand without opening it. Then he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.
Soft at first. Testing. But when I opened for him, when my hands came up to grip his bare shoulders, he deepened it immediately. His tongue slid against mine, hot and demanding, and I pulled him closer, wanting to feel all that warm skin against me.
He shifted until he was practically in my lap, his weight pressing me into the pillows. My hands explored his back—smooth skin, hard muscle, the dip of his spine—while his mouth moved to my jaw, my neck, that spot behind my ear that made me gasp.
“Is this okay?” he murmured against my skin.
“Yes, God, yes.”
His hand slid under my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and I arched into the touch. He was everywhere—his mouth, his hands, his weight—and I wanted more, wanted everything, wanted to cross off every single item on that list in one night—
Something furry inserted itself between our bodies.
We both froze.
Purrsephone had apparently decided that the foot of the bed was no longer acceptable and had migrated directly into the four inches of space between our chests.
She was purring loudly, kneading the blanket with her paws, completely oblivious—or perhaps completely aware—of what she’d just interrupted.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Samuel said.
I dropped my head back against the pillow and laughed. It wasn’t funny—it was the opposite of funny. It was tragic—but what else could I do?
“She has the worst timing,” I said.
“The worst.” Samuel glared at the cat, who blinked up at him with her mismatched eyes, the picture of innocence. “Move.”
She didn’t move. Purrsephone stretched out longer, taking up more space.
Samuel tried to nudge her gently aside. She responded by rolling onto her back and presenting her belly, which in cat language meant touch me and lose a finger.
“She’s not moving,” Samuel said flatly.
“She never moves once she’s settled.”
He looked at me, then at the cat, then back at me. The frustration on his face was so acute it was almost comical.
“I’m being cockblocked by a cat,” he bitched. “This is my life now.”
“She’s very effective.”
“She’s a menace.” But he was smiling now, reluctantly, as he settled onto his side of the bed. “Rain check?”
“Rain check,” I agreed, though every cell in my body was protesting.
Samuel reached over Purrsephone to take my hand, threading our fingers together. It was somehow more intimate than the kissing had been—this quiet moment, this simple touch, this acknowledgment that whatever was happening between us wasn’t going anywhere.
I turned off the lamp with my free hand and lay there in the darkness, listening to Samuel’s breathing slow, feeling the warmth of his hand in mine and the weight of the cat between us.
Item three, I thought. Crossed off.
It was a small victory. But I’d take it.
I woke to darkness and heat.
Specifically, I woke to Samuel wrapped around me like a vine, his chest pressed against my back, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm and steady against my neck.
And something else. Something hard, pressing insistently against my lower back.
My body responded instantly, blood rushing south with an enthusiasm that made me dizzy.
I lay perfectly still, trying to assess the situation without waking him.
The room was cold—much colder than it should have been—and when I reached down to pull up the blankets, my hand found nothing but bare mattress.
The blankets were gone.
I craned my neck to look toward the foot of the bed and found Purrsephone curled up on a throne of stolen bedding, her mismatched eyes glinting in the faint light from the window.
She’d apparently spent the night systematically dragging every blanket to the end of the bed and claiming them for herself.
Damn that cat.
Behind me, Samuel stirred. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me closer, and his hips shifted against my back in a way that was definitely, absolutely intentional.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
“So are you.”
“Mmm.” His lips found the back of my neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. “Some parts of me are very awake.”
“I noticed.”
He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against my spine. “Sorry. Morning wood. Can’t help it.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Close enough.” Another kiss, this one with a hint of teeth. “Why is it so cold?”
“Look at the end of the bed.”
Samuel lifted his head, peered into the darkness, and let out a groan. “She stole all the blankets.”
“She made a nest.”