54. This Woman’s Work #3
unsure if he’s allowed to have it.
Then he groans,
taking my hands into his.
“Shit... the second I saw you, I knew I was fucked.” He shakes his head, another curse tripping over his lips. “Jesus, you know I can’t resist you when you get all scary-romantic.”
The corner of my mouth lifts.
“So that’s a yes?”
His grin slants, surrendering. “Nobody’s ever done shit like this for me before. The hell am I supposed to say—no?”
Seconds later, we’re leaving the bar,
fingers tangled together.
The driver opens the back door, and after Andrew shakes his hand, we slide in.
He sees the garment bag,
the shoes,
the gift boxes wrapped in red ribbon.
It overwhelms him. “Allison…”
“Shh…” My dress spills across his lap as I settle there. “Please,” my gaze falls into his as I say it, “let me do this for you.”
The sleek Phantom slips into traffic
as the partition slides up.
The city falls mute around us,
and I start at his throat,
undoing the top button,
then the next, one by one.
He sinks back into the seat,
palms inching up my thighs,
head falling against the headrest,
a man completely undone.
And as I undress him,
he’s paralyzed by my fragile touch,
his dark gaze heavy and loaded
and tracking my every move.
A song drifts through the cabin,
voice climbing wounded,
piano floating on an ache.
The starlight roof overhead
casts tiny diamonds on our skin,
dancing along my fingers,
drifting over his jaw.
They follow my hands
as they slide down his buttons,
and when I bare his chest,
he holds his breath,
a man so painfully human.
I glance up,
never seeing him so nervous.
“Breathe, Andrew,” I murmur, pushing the shirt off his broad shoulders.
His chest caves with a long exhale.
I know I shouldn’t,
but I can’t stop tracing his details,
down the length of his neck,
across his collarbone,
shaken by the heartbeat-close intimacy
of my skin touching his.
His heat in his eyes falls heavy as I do it,
but I avoid it and pull away,
reaching for his new shirt.
I slide it on him,
dressing him,
wrapping him in wool so expensive
I hope it turns to armor.
‘Cause if I dress him in my world
maybe the cruelty of it won’t touch him.
Maybe Raymond won’t be able to touch him.
I bring the small box between us.
He watches as I unspool the ribbon and lift the top. Inside are cufflinks, black onyx set in gold.
The face is a miniature record with etched grooves that catch the starlight roof of the cabin, making the gold look like spinning vinyl. At the center is a sunburst for Sonny—a way to mark what’s mine—engraved with his initials so he has no choice but to accept them.
Everything he hides
fractures in his eyes.
“It’s too much—” he starts to say,
then pauses,
breaking on a breath.
“It’s all too much.”
The usual Jersey-tough act strips away,
leaving a haunting mix of terror,
like this is a debt he can’t repay,
and he doesn’t know how to carry it.
Hearing him say that,
seeing him like this,
it makes me sad.
I don’t know why, but it makes me sad.
I take his hand, the one that’s been snapping bottle caps and throwing rags, and thread a gold link through the cuff.
“Hey, look at me.”
And he does.
“For you, it’s not enough.”
I press a kiss to the pulse point at his wrist before snapping the gold shut.
A shaky, lopsided grin flickers on his lips, an attempt at his old charm, but that dies before it can reach the fog in his eyes.
I lean sideways and swipe up the cosmetic bag. His wet stare never leaves me as I spritz and comb back his hair.
Then he blinks away, glancing out the window as if he needs a second to collect himself. A nervous laugh slips out of him, and he goes to push his hand through his hair, glancing back at me, not sure whether to break the contract and kiss me, fuck me, or simply fall to his knees.
I smack his hand away.
“Uh-uh. You’ll mess it up.”
Another laugh crashes in his throat when I slide down between his thighs, my knees landing on the lambswool floor mats.
There, in the cramped space,
I reach for the laces of his boots,
untie them,
feel the warmth of his foot in my hand.
I undo his belt next with a clink,
slip it off,
popping the button,
easing down the zipper.
Outside, the city lights blur the night.
But inside this car, Andrew’s sliding out of bar-stained pants and into ones tailored for a prince.
He watches me from above as I slide his foot into the brand-new leather shoe,
a Cinderella story told in reverse.
And when I’m done, I finally look up,
resting my chin on his thigh.
He slides his hand through my hair,
brushes his knuckle around the edge of my face, drags his thumb across the pout of my lip.
His mouth parts to say something—mind trapped in a dark cathedral of thought—but all that lands is silence, the sound of someone holding in everything.
Yet as I stare back at him,
seeing him,
hearing his inhale cut between us,
and how mine chases after it,
like I forgot how to breathe
until he reminded me,
it still fills me
with that everything he couldn’t say,
as though we’re all we’ve ever known.
That’s when it hits me that I’m finally,
fatally
compromised.