Chapter Seventeen Eleanor
I could survive for weeks solely on the way Adam is looking at me right now. His gaze licks over my bare skin like a flame, leaving goose bumps in its wake. The intensity has me feeling singular, like he’s never wanted anyone this way.
His fingertips tease across my stomach, and my skin is so oversensitized right now I can’t control the way I flail—a response Adam seems to enjoy immensely.
I swat his hand away and he relents, folding one arm behind his head and appearing wholly satisfied, despite the fact that he’s very obviously aroused.
It takes a minute for my body to stop feeling like it’s floating, but as soon as I’ve recovered, I roll over to straddle Adam. Immediately, his hands find my hips to hold me in place.
I bite my lip as my hands roam over his ribs and abs, following the line of his happy trail.
Adam is still wearing shorts, and he shouldn’t be.
I make quick work of undoing his fly. One of his hands lifts to my neck and pulls me in, only to hesitate with a couple of inches between us, as if he’s unsure I’ll want to kiss him after what we just did.
I hover right out of reach, one hand braced on the mattress next to his head while the other slips lower to touch him through his boxer briefs.
He’s hard against my palm, and heat starts building between my legs again in anticipation of feeling him inside of me.
Adam moans, eyes falling shut and head pressing back into the pillow. I smile and continue to stroke him gently as I close the remaining distance to kiss him. Adam cups my jaw and tilts my face to deepen the kiss.
I’m still throbbing between my legs, so ready for more. I think about him asking whether I have any lube in my purse and laugh against his lips, but it’s followed by a mood-killing realization.
“Shit.” I pull back. “I don’t have any condoms.”
“I’ve got one in my wallet.” Adam lifts his hips to reach his back pocket, and the friction has me stifling a moan.
“Remind me later to make fun of you for keeping it in your wallet like a seventeen-year-old,” I say, a bit breathless.
He pulls the foil packet out and sets it on the mattress next to him, but instead of quickly shucking the rest of his clothes like I expect him to, he slides a callused palm under the hem of my T-shirt again.
As much as I appreciate his thoroughness, I’m all set on the foreplay. I want more. I grind against him, and I’d be embarrassed about the needy sound I make if not for the way his fingers flex against me in response.
“C’mon.” I tug ineffectually at his shorts. “Off.”
Adam nods. He rucks my shirt up and overhead, then flips me onto my back and finally sheds the rest of his own clothes. I hand him the condom and he smirks at my eagerness as he tears the foil open. I watch him roll the condom on, then hook my hand around his neck and tug him back to me.
His skin is warm, his body all-encompassing. My legs slide farther apart to accommodate him, knees hitched up toward his hips. He’s notched perfectly against me, about to push in, and I freeze.
“Wait,” I say, and immediately Adam puts a few inches of space between us. “You haven’t been carrying that thing around in your wallet since you were seventeen, right?”
Adam’s head drops and he lets out this ball-busted laugh. When he lifts his gaze again, his eyes glitter with amusement. “It’s new. You gonna ask me if I’m a virgin next?”
“… Well, now I sort of feel like I should.”
He spanks the back of my thigh in retaliation, drawing a sharp gasp out of me. Slowly, he lowers his weight back onto me. His cock is a hard, hot line against the crease of my hip. “No, Eleanor,” he says, lips brushing against mine, “I didn’t save myself for marriage.”
Bold move, mentioning our marriage at this particular juncture. But my comeback is forgotten when he snakes a hand under my back and hitches my body higher up the bed, right where he wants me. My stomach swoops at the display of strength, and my knees tip in to squeeze his hips.
“Any other questions?” His brow arches, and with one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, he drags the tip over my clit.
I shake my head and fist the sheets.
“No?” He smirks, smug as I’ve ever seen him. “Nothing you want to ask for?”
A frustrated groan climbs up my throat. My hands splay across his back, fruitlessly trying to pull him closer. “Please.”
“Please what?” He kisses my collarbone, the swell of my breast. His tongue flicks over a nipple and I whimper softly. He kisses his way back up to my mouth and says: “Ask for what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”
Adam’s assertiveness is irritating as shit when he’s trying to sign the same artist as me, but here? It’s having a markedly different effect. I groan, frustrated and turned on in equal measure. “I swear to god if you don’t start fucking me right now—”
His answering grin is beautiful. He slides all the way in with one slow, fluid roll of his hips. My mouth falls open with a low moan, which Adam smothers with a kiss.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, tipping his forehead against mine. “You’re perfect.”
I nod, mindless, and hook my heels around him. He cants his hips back and thrusts in again, slow but not gentle.
And then his hand slides between us, fingers deftly finding that bundle of nerves again, and it really is perfect.
It’s too perfect, too intense, senses heightened to the point it almost aches.
He bottoms out and stays there as he continues to draw light circles around my center.
My limbs grow tense as the sensations coil hotter.
I tilt my hips, wanting to draw him deeper.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Wanna see you come for me again.”
It’s become glaringly obvious that Adam is the type of man who gets off on seeing his partner get off. I’m already growing hopelessly addicted. Already know that when I go back to LA I’ll lie awake in my bed, craving the weight of his body on top of mine, feeling empty without him filling me up.
My eyes close and I focus on the pleasure, building and building but still out of reach.
“Look at me,” he says in a low growl.
I force my eyes back open, willing to do whatever he asks as long as he doesn’t stop, never stops. I’m pinned beneath the hunger and intensity of his stare as I start to unravel.
“I’m so close,” I manage. “I’m—”
Firmer pressure from his fingers, another fluid roll of his hips, and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore as one of the most intense climaxes of my life crests over me. I cry out, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.
“Eleanor,” he grinds out. “Fuck—”
The rest becomes white noise, drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. I feel his rhythm falter, his hips stutter as he finishes. His hand shifts to grip my hip, hard.
Our bodies rock together, both of us trembling as the aftershocks course through us, until gradually we both grow still.
I lick my lips and finally let go of Adam to run a hand through my own hair, pushing it off my feverish brow. He pulls out carefully and rolls onto his back beside me.
That was a far cry from the hate fuck Tyler was talking about. And somehow even better than I’d let myself imagine it could be.
“Holy shit,” he says, almost to himself. We lie there panting at the ceiling for a few moments. Adam is the first to move.
He pushes himself out of bed and pads to the bathroom, where he takes care of the condom and quickly washes up at the sink. I know I should get up, too—to pee, if nothing else—but my limbs are lead and the bed is a cloud and moving is simply not feasible right now.
Adam walks into the room again and pulls on his boxer briefs, and I swallow hard as he crawls back onto the bed. Sweat is cooling on my skin, drawing me out of my post-orgasm trance. I shiver, and Adam grabs the duvet and tugs it over us both.
We lie on our sides, facing each other, heads a few inches apart on our pillow.
I bite the inside of my cheek, but I know he can tell I’m smiling.
He crooks a grin at me and rolls onto his back, arm out in an invitation.
I don’t hesitate to snuggle into the nook of his shoulder.
His arm curves around my back and he lets out a satisfied hum, eyes drifting closed.
My nose nuzzles the base of his throat. He smells like sunscreen and sweat and something woodsy and masculine that may be his cologne, or may simply be Adam.
I run fingertips over the stubble on his neck and jaw, then across his cheekbone, avoiding the bruised area around his eye. His skin is baby-soft.
“Do you moisturize?” I ask, almost accusingly.
“ ’Course,” Adam murmurs, his eyes still shut.
I consider for a moment. His complexion is really nice. “What brand do you use?”
He opens his eyes and tilts his chin down to look at me. “For a.m. or p.m.?”
“… You have more than one?”
“Well, yeah. Morning one has SPF in it. And for night I actually have a couple, one for when I use retinol—what?”
A slow smile has spread across my face. “No, nothing. You use retinol?”
“Yes.” He’s getting defensive. It’s precious. “Do you not?”
“No, I do,” I tell him. “I just don’t know a lot of guys with a whole skin-care routine.”
He smirks and relaxes back onto his pillow. “Five steps. I’ll send you links if you want.”
I bite down on a smile. “Sure.”
The temptation is strong to stay right here, with Adam’s heartbeat under my ear and his thumb tracing a soothing pattern over my hip. But if I do that, it’s entirely possible I’ll fall asleep. Which would be bad. Because I really don’t want a UTI, and also, we have a concert to get to.
“It’s almost seven,” I say, a bit wistfully. “Doors open soon.”
Adam nods. Neither of us gets up.
“Dempsey won’t go on until around nine,” he hedges.
“… Probably enough time to order room service.”
“Oh, fuck yes,” he says, “that is such a good idea.”
I grin and force myself to sit up. I grab the menu off the Lucite desk across the room and drop it in Adam’s lap. “Order me a waffle?”
“You got it.”
I move toward the en suite, and as I’m closing the bathroom door, I catch Adam unabashedly checking me out.
He tosses me a wink, and I feel my entire body flush before I close the door.
I turn on the faucet for modesty’s sake and take care of business, then slip on the hotel robe hanging near the shower before washing my hands and face.
Adam is sitting with his back against the headboard when I come out, still wearing only his boxer briefs. I bite my lip and allow myself another lingering look at his chest and abs.
Adam said he doesn’t want to go back to LA and pretend this never happened. Which is a relief, because I don’t think I could forget if I tried. I want this too much. I want it to be real.
I’ve been stripped bare for Adam in every conceivable way. Yet despite everything I’ve revealed to Adam today, I don’t think he truly gets how precarious my situation is—that if I don’t sign Dempsey, I will lose my job.
Yesterday, I wouldn’t have even considered telling him. Being that vulnerable in front of Adam Shaw of all people would have seemed like the worst possible decision. Now I’m not so sure.
Spending all day with Adam has changed my mind about a number of things. Namely, that he’s the sort of person who would use information like that against me.
For better or worse, I trust Adam.
“Hey, I want you to know… whatever happens with Dempsey, there’s no hard feelings.”
If I hadn’t spent so much of the day studying Adam, learning his every nuanced expression, I might not have caught the subtle way his face tightens at my words.
But I do catch it, and that’s when I know—if I told Adam how badly I need this, what it will cost me if I don’t sign this band, he would bow out.
The problem is, I want to sign Dempsey because I’m the best choice at this stage of their career, not because I guilted my competition into backing off. I want the possibility of having something real with Adam, which can’t happen if a choice like that is hanging over our heads.
More than anything, I need to succeed in my career without feeling indebted to another man.
Adam snags the end of my belt and tugs me closer. I let him pull me down onto the bed for another slow, achingly sweet kiss.
He combs his fingers through my hair and offers a tender smile, like he wants to believe it just as badly as I do. “No hard feelings.”