Chapter 6 #3
He keeps me there. Right there, in the unbearable place between too much and not enough, until pleasure starts building again, hotter and deeper than before.
I clutch him.
His forehead presses to mine. “Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes. His face is tight with control, eyes dark and fixed on mine. Sweat gleams at his temple, his mouth parted, breath rough, and hair falling loose around us.
He looks wrecked.
Finally.
The sight pushes me over.
I come hard, shaking beneath him, profanities leaving my mouth. He follows a few strokes later, his body going rigid over mine, a low groan tearing out of him as he buries his face against my neck.
For a while, neither of us moves.
I lie beneath him, boneless and stunned, one hand still pressed between his shoulder blades as I feel his heart pound against mine.
The room slowly returns.
The lamp and the window and the extension cord.
He shifts his weight carefully, and I make a small protest before I can stop myself.
He stills.
I can feel him smile against my neck.
“Don’t get smug,” I mutter.
“I’m not.”
“You sound smug.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed smugly.”
“That’s a new one.”
“I’m creative.”
“I noticed.”
He lifts his head and the softness in his face makes my chest feel strange.
He kisses my shoulder once and moves off me, disposing the condom in the trash. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember how to operate my limbs.
He returns with a damp cloth from the bathroom.
I push up on my elbows. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He sits beside me and offers it.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it.
My body feels loose and heavy, but my mind starts coming back online, which is inconvenient.
I just slept with a stranger.
I do not know his name.
You are one week out from being cheated on.
Oliver is going to murder you in the morning.
You are going to feel weird tomorrow. Your vagina may never recover.
He may have ruined you for anyone else.
Maybe.
Probably.
I press the cloth to my face and groan.
The man looks over. “Pain?”
“No. Brain.”
“Are you okay?”
I think about lying.
I am very good at white lies. Little decorative lies. It comes with owning a business that deals with the public because, quite frankly, the public is stupid. White lies are necessary.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know.”
His expression does not change, but his attention sharpens.
“I don’t regret it,” I add quickly.
“Okay.”
“I just don’t know what I am right now.”
“That makes sense.”
I laugh. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“No advice?”
“No.”
He stands and retrieves his shirt from the floor.
“Leaving?” I ask before I can stop myself.
The question sounds needier than I want it to.
He looks around before his eyes settle back on me. “Do you want me to?”
“No.” The answer is immediate.
“Then no.”
Relief moves through me. Annoying relief.
I watch him pull his briefs back on but not his shirt. He comes back to the mattress and lies beside me carefully, like a man trying not to take up too much space.
I roll onto my side to face him. I resist the urge to ask him about all of his tattoos.
Instead, I say, “Are you always this controlled?”
His eyes move to mine. “No.”
My stomach dips. “No?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not always.”
“Good to know.”
His hands move to my hair, brushing the loose bow. “This is coming out,” he says softly.
“It fought bravely.”
He pulls the ribbon free and sets it on the floor next to the mattress before sliding his fingers into my hair and kissing me.
Slower this time. Not quick to go anywhere.
Eventually, it leads somewhere.
The second time is slower, but not softer. More deliberate. Less grief. More curiosity. His hands learn me like he’s desperate to remember. I learn what makes his control slip. Where to touch. How to make his breath catch. How his jaw clenches when I moan and when I pull his hair.
When we finally sleep, it’s tangled and accidental.
My face against his shoulder, his heavy arm around my waist.
For the first time in a week, I don’t dream about Grant’s office.
I wake before dawn to the pale blue wash of morning through the window. For a few seconds, I stay still.
The stranger is beside me, asleep on his back, one arm bent over his head, his hair loose over the pillow. In sleep, the severity has left his face. He still looks hard-edged and unfamiliar, but much less guarded.
My chest flutters.
No.
Absolutely not.
This is a one-night stand. A good one. An excellent one, even.
A one-night stand so excellent it should probably be reported to someone.
But still one night.
I slide carefully out from under his arm.
He wakes immediately.
“Morning,” I whisper.
His voice is rough. “Morning.”
The sound does something I do not have time to examine.
“I have to go to work soon,” I say.
He looks at the window. “What time?”
“Five twenty.”
“You always start that early?”
“I know. It’s glamorous.”
He sits up, hair falling around his shoulders.
He gets up, and I flush. The casual way he moves naked through my unfinished apartment should be illegal.
I look away because I am a woman of dignity.
Then I look back because dignity has never paid my bills.
He gets dressed quickly, and when he reaches for his shirt, I feel disappointed watching the tattoos disappear, knowing I’ll likely never see them again.
He steps closer, bends, and kisses me.
Once.
Brief.
His gaze drops to my mouth one more time before he turns toward the stairs.
I follow him down after pulling on my t-shirt and shorts, because letting a near-stranger navigate this place feels bad.
He pulls open the door, eyeing the lock.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“You need a better lock.”
I laugh. “Goodbye to you too.”
He looks back at me. For one second, the controlled mask slips.
“Goodbye,” he says simply.
He opens the door and slips out. I lock it behind him, then lean against the door and stare at the ceiling.
My body aches.
My hair is a disaster, and my apartment smells like sex with a stranger.
I have no regrets.
I force myself into motion.
Shower, brush my teeth, do my makeup, tidy the apartment as much as I can, and get dressed.
When I head back downstairs to start prep, I nearly knock something over as I step outside.
Next to the door is a to-go cup of hot coffee and a piece of paper.
I pick it up.
The handwriting is neat.
You need a better lock, it says.
Underneath: Enjoy your day, stranger.
He went to one of the local fast-food coffee shops that opens early, and got me a coffee.
This is a practical man buying practical coffee after practical sex.
Very good sex.
Excellent sex.
Honestly, probably life-ruining sex.
And I’ll probably never see him again.
I pick it up and take a sip.
Black. Too bitter.
I make a face and head into the bakery, immediately going to the vanilla syrup.
My phone buzzes.
MARLEY
Breakfast at your place before opening? I have gossip and need caffeine.
I stare at the message. Then the note.
Then at the back door.
Then back at the message.
A laugh bubbles out of me. Bright and panicked.
I just slept with a stranger and my best friend is going to know the second she walks through that door.