27. Brooke
Chapter twenty-seven
Brooke
I run my fingers over my lips as the scalding hot water from the shower runs down my body. That kiss. It’s still playing on repeat like it has for the past two hours. I thought about how he cradled my face in his hands as my mom ranted about my lack of presence at the party. I relived the way his lips felt pressed against mine as I took a sip from a new glass of wine. I thought about how he tasted of bourbon and smelled of sandalwood as Beau attempted to burn me down with a stare from across the purple lit pseudo-casino while I was talking to my mom’s friends. But nothing lights my body on fire the way Marcus does.
It all makes sense now. He’s why the room always feels hotter when he’s near, and why I break into a sweat when it’s cold enough to need a jacket. His presence holds power over my body, and I want him to take control of it more than he already has. There was a dominance in that kiss like he was forcing his way in–not in a breaking and entering way but as if he was trying to rescue me.
That’s exactly what he was doing, though. Rescuing me from Beau, from my mom, from these situations and people I don't want. That was evident in the way that he disappeared only to handle my ex for me. I was so mad because I thought that maybe that kiss meant something to him–more than just a responsibility–but then he ran off the first chance he got.
When he found me again, something was different. I swear he was jealous when I was bantering with the bartender about the ridiculous quirks of rich people. Then he clung to me in a way he hadn’t before. And was adamant about us leaving. So maybe it is more than just doing his job. Or maybe I’m imagining things the way I want them to be. Maybe he wanted to leave simply so he no longer had to deal with the drama.
I lather my face wash in my hands before scrubbing it over my face and rinsing away the remnants of tonight’s glitter along with Marcus’ kiss. Should I ask him about it? Should I try to kiss him again?
Stepping from the shower into the steam filled bathroom, I reach for the white hotel towel from the hook on the wall and wrap it around my body. Oh shit, I forgot to grab my pajamas–well Marcus’ T-shirt. My black sparkly dress lays folded where I left it on the bathroom counter. I could put it back on to go get . . . what is that?
Folded neatly next to my dress is deep purple silk fabric. Twisting my towel securely above my chest, I reach for it, holding it in front of me. The camisole unfolds as I hold it from the spaghetti straps. I lay it on top of my dress, replacing it with the pajama shorts. They’re the same shade of plum but the bottom hem is lined with a thin layer of lace.
They’re soft and beautiful and . . . I didn’t even hear Marcus come in here. He got these for me?
Oh .
Maybe he doesn’t want me wearing his clothes anymore. That would make sense. I forgot my pajamas, and he was kind enough to buy me some.
I swipe my hand across the fogged up mirror then run my fingers under my eyes to clear away the last of my residual makeup. Dropping my towel, I reach for the shorts, the silky fabric soft as it glides up my freshly shaved legs. I pull the top over my hair, still dry and in a pretty bun from earlier. I’m shocked it’s stayed mostly in place since I took out the pins.
Facing the mirror, I run my hand over it again, clearing away the new layer of fog. It’s the perfect size. I’d say it maybe errs on the side of too revealing, but I have been sleeping in nothing but Marcus’ shirt, and there’s no way that falls longer than these.
Panicking, I swipe my phone from the bathroom counter, turning off the music I didn’t even register I had playing during my shower.
Brooke: What a mess.
Maci: What’s going on?!
Brooke: Beau is being a dick, as per usual.
Lexy: Troy is great at punching douchebags. Happy to lend you his services.
I send them a picture of my new pajamas in the mirror that’s fogged back over a bit.
Avery: Is that what you’ve been wearing to bed with Marcus?!
Maci: I hope so! You’re a total babe!
Brooke: He just bought them for me.
Lexy: A gift?! STOP. How fucking cute. Please keep him.
Brooke: He also kissed me.
Avery: Excuse me?? Why are you telling us about pajamas and exes?
Brooke: It was a fake kiss. In front of Beau .
Avery: Was it good?
Brooke: I can’t stop thinking about it.
Maci: IT’S HAPPENING!! Just think of all the double dates we can go on!!!
Brooke: I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself. Plus, I probably pissed him off yesterday.
Maci: How?
Brooke: Well…he kind of, sort of, maybe fingered me.
Lexy: How exactly do you kind of, sort of do that?
Brooke: Okay, fine. He did.
Avery: I feel like we are missing some crucial information.
Brooke: I’ll fill you in on the details when we get back. But long story short, I couldn’t finish. Has that ever happened to you guys?
Lexy: Oh yeah. It was as rare as a leap year for me before I met Troy. Now it’s not a problem since he knows me so well.
Maci: I feel like it was easier for me when I was in college. Like almost every time. Now, I swear it’s harder when I’m in different parts of my cycle. Being a girl sucks sometimes.
Avery: I talked to my doctor about it. After Canaan was born, it never happened. But my doctor said that libido and orgasms are strongly linked to stress.
Maci: Definitely not something to be ashamed of.
Brooke: It’s not that. Just frustrated. I think I’m falling for him, and I’m not sure if I should yet.
Lexy: Where are you right now?
Brooke: Hiding in the bathroom in our room.
Lexy: I vote you go out there and kiss him without an audience and find out.
Avery: I second that.
Maci: Me three!
Brooke: What if he doesn’t want it and it’s awkward ?
Lexy: Or what if he’s out there having the exact same dilemma as you?
Leaving my phone on the counter, I take a breath and creak open the door before I lose my nerve.
“You decent?” I’m not sure if he’s planning to take a shower or if he’s already in his athletic shorts and T-shirt in bed. When he doesn’t respond, I exit the bathroom to the room, dimly lit by the soft yellow glow of the nightstand lamp, and find him sitting at the desk, leaning back in the chair while reading something on his phone.
He glances up and his finger freezes on the screen. He’s still wearing his suit, minus the jacket, and his tie is loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. Holy hell he’s sexy.
I fidget with the hem of my new pajama top with one hand, crossing the other arm across my chest and linking it on my tricep. “Thank you.”
He tosses his phone on the desk like nothing could be as important as this moment. But surely that’s not true. I’m sure he was just doing something mindless. Scrolling. Playing a game. Though, I’ve never seen him play a game before. Or on social media. “You’re welcome.” He stands. “Do you like them?”
“I liked your shirt more.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He steps closer. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”
“Both, I guess. And neither. I love this.” I glance down at myself. “But I love the way your shirt smells.”
“It’s sandalwood.” His voice is low, controlled, sure.
I look up and take a quick inhale to steady my shaky breath. “It’s you.”
His arms fold across his chest, his hand coming to his face to brush his thumb across his lip. Both of our arms serve as added barriers between us. Is that intentional? On my part or his? Out of fear? Or uncertainty? I want to cross this line, but I’m still doubtful about if I should , if that’s what he wants too.
“I can’t stop thinking about last night.”
Last night? What about tonight? We are not on the same page. My body deflates at the realization, my arms falling from over my chest to twist and link my fingers together in front of me.
His finger locks under my face, his thumb pressing into my chin as he tilts my gaze. “Tonight too,” he adds, like he can read my mind, and takes a step closer. His body screams certainty, but his ocean-blue eyes swirl with hesitation.
“What about last night?”
His hand slides along my jaw until his fingers are locked into my hair. “My fingers inside you.”
“Oh. That.” I run my tongue over my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.
“And how you didn’t come for me.”
I attempt to look away, heat flushing my cheeks, but he holds me firmly in place. It’s not forceful, and I like it despite the guilt racking through me. “I’m sor–”
I’m cut off with a slight shake of his head. “I want to know something.” His deep voice rumbles through me, sending a shot of panic through my veins.
“What?” I whisper.
“Do you orgasm on your own?”
“Wh–what?” I don’t know what I expected him to ask, but it wasn’t that.
“Do you?”
“Sometimes . . .”
“How?”
“What do you mean, how? ”
“Will you show me?”
My face flames hotter as I shake my head, averting my gaze.
“Then will you let me figure it out?” My eyes shoot straight back to him.
“What?”
“Last night. I promised you the best orgasm of your life. I’d like to deliver.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“If you don’t want to show me, then will you let me try?”
“You don’t have to. I know it’s a pain.”
“There will be no pain involved. Unless that’s how you like it.” He winks and a small smile breaks through my nerves. My brain is fuzzy like it’s retained the effects of the two glasses of wine I drank nearly three hours ago now. Why is he doing this? Should I ask? Should I just see what happens and deal with the ramifications after?
Marcus' hand falls from my hair, his fingers whispering down my neck, along the purple silk strap–all while keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Can I touch you?”
I nod, and his hand slips further. It brushes along the top edge of my shirt, trailing between my breasts, surely feeling the vibration of my heart nearly beating out of my chest. If he does, he shows no sign of it, continuing on his path, the weight of his fingers pressing the silk against my skin. When he reaches my waist, his fingers breeze across the thin elastic waistband before slipping under my shirt. His palm is heavy and warm, flat against my skin as it works its way up my body.
Marcus’ eyes are still locked on mine.
He pulls me closer with his other hand gripped on my hip as he squeezes my breast, rough and controlled. A gasp escapes me, heat rushing through me, knowing what might come next as I flashback to last night and his fingers inside me. His lips are close enough that his breath warms me as I breathe him in.
I prepare for him to kiss me even though nothing could have prepared me for the way kissing him unlocked a new part of me earlier–a piece that wants intimacy with someone after not having it for so long.
But he doesn’t kiss me.
“Get on the bed,” he says against my lips, his tone a hushed demand.
I do as he says, breaking eye contact to crawl to the top of the bed, but I can feel his eyes still on me, tracking my movement. Turning to face him, I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them to protect me from the adrenaline coursing through my body.
Marcus stands at the end of the bed, the top button of his dress shirt undone, his tie still loose at his neck. His black belt rests perfectly at his hips where it’s looped through his slacks, and I want to yank it off. The mattress dips on the edge as his knee sinks into it. Then more when his shin slides forward and his other knee presses into the fluffy white comforter. The maid must have made the bed while we were gone.
His tongue runs over his lip, and I track the movement, wishing he’d say something while also praying he’ll kiss me instead. Kneeling in front of me, my head tips up to keep my gaze on his face as he towers over me. Nothing about this scares me–except that I like it. I like him having the upper hand like this. Maybe because I don’t think he’ll abuse it? Not in the way the last man I was with did, anyway. Still, I’m not with Marcus. The line between real and fake is so blurry, and there’s a chance any of the real could all be imagined. Or we could simply have different definitions of real. Real as in actions backed by emotion versus ones laced with lust.
He reaches out, brushing a thumb across my cheek, and chills rush over my skin like a watercolor seeping from the touch of the paintbrush against paper. “What is it?”
“This is weird,” I whisper, both vulnerable and safe.
“Why’s that?” His hand falls to his thigh, and he shifts ever-so-slightly away from me, his eyes steady on my face.
“You’re my boss,” I say with a shaky exhale.
“Is that what I am?”
My lips part to answer him, but nothing comes out. Is he my boss? I mean, yes, he is. And when all this started that title was at the top of the list of things he is to me. But now? He’s my fake boyfriend. He’s my friend. He’s . . . the man I’m developing feelings for. That scares the shit out of me.
“What’s going through your mind, love?”
“Why are you doing this?”
He hesitates like he’s debating the right answer.
“I don’t want the right answer. I want the truth.”
“Because I want to.” His thumb reaches back out to brush across my jaw. “Because you deserve to feel good.”
Does that added statement make it better or worse? Does he feel like he needs to do this? I wonder if it’s some sort of challenge to him. He’s so successful, I doubt he’s used to losing.
“Brooke?” His hand covers both of mine, stopping their fidgeting as they rest on my bent knees.
“Yeah?”
“You have to get out of your head.”
“I’m not the best at that.”
“I beg to differ. I’ve seen you focus. Undistracted.”
“I meditate a lot.” I chuckle .
“Guided or music?”
“Music.”
He reaches for my phone on my nightstand. “Turn it on.”
I hesitate but take it from him, waiting for my face to unlock the screen. “How long should I set the timer for?” I tap on the mediation app on the top left of my home screen picture of the waterfall from the hike we went on a few weeks ago.
“Is there a continuous play setting?”
“Yeah.”
“It takes as long as it takes. There’s no time limit.”
I scroll through the time options on my favorite sound and push play. A soft melody of piano and ocean waves flows from the bottom speaker as Marcus gently pulls it from my hand and rests it back on the nightstand. “Do you trust me?”
I nod.
He loosens his black tie around his neck, tugging it free from the knot. By the time it rests loosely in his hands in front of him, I realize what he’s about to do.
I shake my head. No.
He appraises me, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit. I take him in as we both sit there in silence. The sleeves of his white button-up are rolled and tight on his forearms in the sexiest way. The top button is undone, the rest of them begging to be ripped apart. His suit pants are tight over his muscular thighs with the way he’s kneeling in front of me on the bed.
The allure is there.
I want it. And him.
But it feels like giving up control in this way is like jumping out of an airplane without checking to make sure my parachute works first .
“Tell me why.” He says, but for some reason, I feel like he already knows.
“Control,” I admit.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t let his eyes wander–keeps them locked on my face.
“The last time I put it in someone else’s hands they abused the power.”
He sets the tie on the comforter next to us without breaking our gaze. “There’s a difference between someone not letting you be in control so they have power over you and someone being in control so they can take care of you.”
I search for manipulation in his eyes, dark and stormy blue. I don’t find anything but sincerity.
“Let me take care of you,” he commands. It’s not aggressive, though. It’s a weighted blanket wrapped around my heart.
“Okay.” The word comes out as a whisper, but it’s enough consent for him. In the next instant, the material is in front of my face. His breath is on my ear as he ties the silk around my head, careful not to pinch my hair. “It’s just to keep you from getting distracted, anyway.”
“Distracted from what?” I whisper.
“From something in the room. From watching me and whatever worries that brings.” He pulls the knot tighter, securing it.
My hands move to the fabric covering my eyes on reflex. I know there’s still light in the room, but even though my eyes are open, everything is dark.
“Don’t think about me. Focus on feeling. On letting go.”
He’s kidding, right? My heart thumps so loud in my chest that I swear my entire body is vibrating with my pulse. Whatever he’s about to do to me, I’m not sure I can detach it from him . Actually, I’m positive I can’t.
“Lay back.” The words trail off as he pulls away from me, taking a warmth I miss immediately. I do as he says, slowly tipping back until my head rests against the pillow, my knees still bent. The anticipation of not knowing where Marcus is in relation to me and what happens next sends a wave of tingles across my skin and a rush of anxiety through my blood. I’m terrified. I’m excited. I don’t feel like myself. Like I’m in someone else’s body.
The urge to peek from under the tie almost wins out when his hands land on my ankles. I don’t flinch, as if my body anticipated his touch. I'm used to it after this week, I suppose. I flash through all the moments our skin has connected, watching them play out like a movie rolling on the back of this tie. A new set of chills immediately take over as he tugs, pulling my legs straight. Tension stiffens my muscles against my will. He either doesn’t notice or ignores it, running his palms up my legs, the pads of his fingers pressing into my skin. Holy turned on. How did we even get here? This is more intimate than anything I’ve experienced with any man, and literally nothing sexual has happened. Despite my throbbing need for someone else to pleasure me for once, I know I’m still tense. This feeling, it’s too foreign, too scary, too . . . He’s my boss. He’s my fake boyfriend. Once we leave here, none of it will be real anymore. Right? Could he really want this to go home with us?
His hands ascend, reaching my thighs and continuing on their path until they freeze at the lace hem of my sleep shorts. His thumbs brush under the fabric, feathering along the apex of my thigh before they freeze .
“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, and I assume it’s because I skipped underwear when I got ready for bed. The reaction temporarily helps my confidence fight through, but the thought that this isn’t real–that this is just a mission for him to prove he can make me come–cages it back up, my body locking with it.
His thumb brushes slowly over my center, and I can tell I’m wet with how it doesn’t stutter across my skin. How can I be so turned on and so tense at the same time? Then he’s not touching me. Without being able to see, it’s easier to feel everything–like his weight shifting slightly on the mattress. Panic rushes through me, a heart rate so fast it nearly steals my breath.
And then the bed dips below me on either side of my face, his hands pressing into the bed. The weight of his body hovers over me. I can tell despite there being no connection between us. Then his warm breath is against my ear, sending a new flood of heat between my legs. “You have to relax.” His voice is deep and low, his facial hair scratching my cheek ever so slightly.
“I can’t,” I claim with a shyness in my voice.
He doesn’t respond. He also doesn’t move. The stillness draws my focus to the crashing waves and the piano playing off to the side. I take a breath. Hold it for four. Release it slowly. It feels like forever, but there’s no indication from Marcus that it’s taking too long. On the next breath, I whisper, “Okay.”
“Do it again,” he demands.
I respond by breathing in again, deeper. This time my chest barely touches another body, and I realize how close Marcus is to me. I hold it as long as I can, wanting to be close to him .
Finally, I exhale, and then he’s gone. He’s moving back down my body, his fingers latching onto the elastic of my sleep shorts and tugging them down my legs. I note every move of his body as the mattress sinks and rises around me, and he crawls down the bed with my shorts. When he pulls them from my ankles I’m convinced he’s not on the bed anymore, but his hands quickly find their way back to my calves. He presses them apart, slowly, moving his hands higher . . . higher.
By the time they reach my thighs, he hits the mattress between my legs. His elbows dig into the bed as he presses me wider, his thumbs brushing over my opening as a low groan rumbles through him. I instinctively clench my legs together. Why the fuck am I so nervous? I berate myself, beg myself to get out of my head. What if this makes things awkward? We still have to be here together. What if he gets frustrated I can’t finish? What if . . .
His palm flattens against my stomach and stays there. There’s no movement from him besides his warm breath against my wetness. I can tell I’m turned on. I know I want this. What the hell is my problem? “Breathe, Brooke.”
Am I not? His hand isn’t rising or falling along with my stomach. Oh. Maybe I was holding my breath. I inhale, relaxing at the weight of his hand on me, but not restricting my movement. I take another deep breath, releasing it slowly. Again and again. His breath is steady between my thighs and his hands unmoving, one on my stomach and the other firmly gripping my thigh.
“Good girl,” he says like he’s celebrating me taking a fucking breath, the number one thing I should be doing reflexively to stay alive. It seems so silly, and yet, his words lift a weight from me, allowing me to relax into the mattress .
I take another deep breath as his palm smooths from my stomach to my thigh, mirroring his other hand as he presses his fingers into my skin. Then his tongue is on me, flat and warm, running the length of me.
I don’t squirm or flinch. It’s like my body anticipated it, letting out a sigh of pleasure. He licks me again, this time his tongue dipping barely inside me. Holy shit that feels good.
His grip on my thigh loosens. Immediately worry rushes through me, but his hand slides to my stomach, and I know he’s just reminding me to breathe.
I don’t count the passing seconds, but I focus on air, on taking deep breaths and imagining it flowing through my body, my muscles, my veins–every part of me. His tongue presses against me again and every nerve ending sparks. Damn. Maybe there is something to this breathing thing.
I take another breath, directing the life force straight to where Marcus’ mouth is hot on my skin as he sucks on my clit. My exhale releases as a moan, my voice cracking and unrecognizable. I send my next breath to where his fingers dig into my inner thighs and my sensitivity heightens as he licks the length of me again. And again.
I try to take deep breaths but they come shorter and faster as his tongue consumes me. “Fuck,” I mumble under another sharp exhale, losing my breath as he drives his tongue inside me, flicking it, over and over.
My hands move from the bed like they want to reach for his hair, dig in, and keep him right where he’s at. But I force them to stay where they are, in tight fists full of tension and holding back from everything I want from Marcus.
His palm slides to my stomach, warm on my skin, bringing an awareness of my lack of breath again. I breathe in deep and the rise and fall of his hand satisfies him enough to move his hand back where I want it.
His tongue drags over me, his mouth back to sucking on my clit at the same moment he drives two fingers inside me.
My back arches on instinct, and Marcus’ other hand flies back to my stomach, keeping me in place. I notice I’m holding my breath. Try to relax on the mattress. Direct my breath to the sensation building inside me as his fingers move in and out of me, his sucking steady. The feeling sneaking up isn’t too familiar, but I know it. I want it. My fists grip the comforter, my fingers balling around the fabric as the pressure builds.
Then his fingers pull out just barely more than they have been, and I’m knocked back. The sensation fades ever so slightly before building again as he resumes his consistent motion. He pulls his fingers from me, pressing them into my thigh as he replaces them with fucking me with his tongue. Again, my orgasm slips barely out of reach. It’s like I’m running toward the edge of a cliff and instead of free falling over I slam into an invisible wall, and I have to start over.
I sigh in defeat. I want this, and I don’t understand why I can’t have it.
Marcus freezes, a cool air hitting where I’m wet as his tongue abandons its place. And again, his touch leaves me. It’s only gone a moment before his weight is over me again–this time enough that his body touches mine. The soft fabric of his shirt brushes my skin where my tank has shifted up a bit.
And then his lips are on mine.
The kiss is soft. And lingering. But he doesn’t make a move to deepen it. It’s like he’s simply trying to ground me. He trails to my ear, his lips softly brushing against my skin until he’s close enough to whisper. “I want to do this.” The confession makes me freeze. Makes me wish I could see. Makes me want to take this blindfold off and confirm he means sex and not me .
He drops his hips against my core, and I feel him through his slacks, hard against me. “I want this,” he repeats, his voice deep and commanding. “I want you. Not just sex. And not for pretend.”
It’s like he can read my mind and my heart. All of a sudden I believe him. Believe this is real. And pray like hell that it's not some sex haze that’s clouding meaning. “I want this for real too.”
His grin against my ear is brief before his weight shifts away from me. His thumb brushes across my cheek, below where his tie covers my eyes. I should be startled, not seeing his touch coming. Instead, I just feel everything. I feel alive. Focused on nothing but him. His mouth presses into mine mid-breath, and without thinking twice I let my hands do what they want sliding around his neck and pulling him closer. We deepen the kiss simultaneously, his tongue tangling with mine between heated breaths from both of us. His hand trails down my body as he’s propped up on his other arm, pressing into me without giving me too much weight. He slips his fingers under my silk shirt, the sensation of him hot compared to the cool of the fabric, only made hotter by him pinching my nipple between his fingers, rough and demanding as he twists and elicits a moan muffled by our kiss.
My fingers thread through his tied back hair, feeling the elastic loosen as I do. He frees my breast from his grasp, sliding his palm against my skin, between us. His fingers toy with my entrance, the pad of one creating small circles and instant wetness .
He breaks our kiss, only to press his lips softly against mine once more. Then he descends again. This time, I relax, as he kisses his way down my throat, across my collarbone, between my breasts, skipping over the fabric of my shirt to my stomach. He kisses me soft, broken by nips at my skin that shoot pleasure closer and closer to my core.
My orgasm builds again even though no part of him is inside me.
Then he is.
Two of his fingers shove inside me.
His tongue laps at me right above where his fingers slide in and out.
The darkness holds all my focus on him. Every place his fingers hit as they drag inside me before pushing back in. The increasing sensitivity of his tongue, hot and steady sucking my clit, then licking near my opening. Suck. Lick. In and out.
Holy shit.
The palm of his other hand flattens against my stomach, holding me down, making me realize I was squirming and reminding me to breathe. I take a deep breath and it hits.
It hits me everywhere .
The ball of tension at my core explodes, flinging me off the cliff I’ve been on the edge of, and I soar. The breath I suck in gives life to every cell in my body, and I’m floating despite Marcus holding me down. The pressure holds me in place, but I’m still everywhere. His fingers work inside me, sending new shots of pleasure that echo through my body with each thrust. His tongue warm against my wet skin, flooding me with a new sensation. Like when you hand surf a wind wave out your car window in chilly air. The rush hits where it makes contact but sends a chill through the rest of your body, and you feel like you're weightless like you’re in nothing, yet you feel everything.
His palm smooths over my stomach, and I take another deep breath as my orgasm fades. Marcus’ tongue pulls from me, but his fingers show no sign of slowing down. On the next thrust, he bites into my inner thigh, his teeth sinking with the perfect pressure into my soft skin and pushing me off another cliff.
I’m conscious of the way I’m holding my breath, but I can’t breathe as a second wave of my orgasm floats through me. Nothing has ever felt like this . My grip on his hair loosens as my mind returns to the bed, to my body, as his fingers slow. My arms cross over my face, my eyes still covered by his tie, as I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath.
He releases my thigh from his teeth and replaces it with a kiss. His lips are soft against my skin, contrasting the scratch of his facial hair against my thigh, every place we touch overwhelming me. Too sensitive for him to stay where he’s at, I twist my hips slightly to encourage him away. His chuckle is barely audible as he moves away. With my arms still folded over my face, the mattress sinks beside me, as if Marcus is laying down next to me. I shift, one hand tucking under my head and the other curled into my chest, and I turn toward him, his tie still blocking my view.
His fingers brush against my forehead as he tugs on the material, pulling it off my head and dropping it behind me. There’s still darkness, my eyes closed even though they didn’t need to be with the tie. I hesitate, afraid to open them, of what I’ll see when I do–of what I’ll feel .
Marcus’ thumb brushes across my cheek in encouragement. I let my eyes drift open. And there he is, only a few inches from my face, his flushed, his blue eyes dark in the room only lit by the small lamp in the corner behind us. They’re locked on my face. “Hi,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.
“Hello.” He holds back a grin and instead licks his lip, letting his hand fall to my waist. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “More than.” I think. Because this is just the beginning, right? Can I ask him that? Confirm that what he said was real, and not just words in the moment? “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.” His thumb rubs over my bare hip, sending a fresh wave of arousal through me.
“Are you always that . . . I don’t know. Gentle?” That is not what I planned on asking him, but okay. I go with it. “It kind of felt like . . .”
He fills my pause with his deep voice. “Like what?”
“Like you wanted to be rougher with me.”
“I’m not typically that gentle.”
“Oh. Why were you then?”
“Because it’s what you needed.”
“But if it wasn’t?”
“If it isn’t what you need the next time, I’ll show you.”
“Next time?” I hold my breath, searching his eyes for sincerity.
“I meant what I said. I’m done with this fake shit.” He moves his hand from my hip, back to my face, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “If you are.”
“Even when we get home?”
“Which home?”
“Yours.” My heart races. “I mean, I can find my own place to live. I meant Oregon.”
He presses his lips to mine to quiet me then pulls back. “No matter where we are, I want this to be real. This is real. ”
I breathe a sigh. “For me too.”
He grips the back of my head, pulling me closer and kissing my forehead. “It’s late. Are you ready for bed?”
I nod, even though for as tired as I am, I’ve never felt more awake. “Wait. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“It’s your turn.” I sit up, happy to repay the favor–excited even.
He reaches for my hand, stopping me. “Another day. There’s no rush.”
“Are you sure?” My worried eyes search him. More than I’d have to search my mind for a time when Beau made my orgasm a priority, it would be even harder for me to think of an instance where his wasn’t a necessity.
“I’m sure.” He flicks the light switch next to the bed, and the lamp turns off. The sliver of light from behind the curtains gives me just enough to watch him unbuckle his belt and kick his pants off. It registers for the first time that at some point while I was blindfolded he took off his shirt. He shimmies the comforter and top sheet from under us and lies on the mattress, in only his briefs. “Come here.” He holds his arm out, encouraging me toward him. I reach for the covers, pulling them over me as I get comfortable with my head perfectly between his shoulder and chest, and curl into him, my arm wrapping around his waist. I love this. He squeezes my shoulder, holding me close like he wants me here. I just hope when we wake in the morning he feels the same.
Cuddled into his warmth, I close my eyes, allowing myself to truly relax for the second time tonight as I replay the day’s events. When we left the hotel, all I wanted was for the event and this night to be over. But now, I don’t want it to end. Still, the comfort in my closeness to Marcus pulls me toward sleep, a haze consuming me.
“Brooke?” he whispers my name but it sounds far away, and I’m fading quickly, the long day catching up to me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe . . .