Chapter 10
TEN
We had sex.
I’m lying in Josh’s bed, staring at the ceiling. One of his arms is slung around my waist, and his soft snores brush against my ear.
It wasn’t bad.
No, I’ve definitely had worse. He was sweet. Gentle. Told me I was beautiful and cuddled me afterward. It was nice.
Nice.
That’s a perfectly good word. People like nice.
People build entire relationships on nice.
And our third date was genuinely enjoyable.
We went to an Italian restaurant, drank wine back at his place, talked for hours, and eventually ended up in bed.
At no point during the evening did I think, Fuck this guy, he sucks ass.
That has to count for something.
Right?
I didn’t come, but that’s all right. We can work on that.
I can teach him. Give him some pointers.
Show him what I like. That’s how normal couples do it, right?
They communicate. They learn about each other.
They don’t just magically know every weak spot on someone’s body the first time they touch them.
Scenes from Mr. Bennett’s office flash before my eyes.
That man could make me fall apart with a single look.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the thought away. Comparing them isn’t fair. Mr. Bennett has to make me come, or else I die. It makes sense that he’d be good at it. He has very clear motivation. Very high stakes. A literal life-or-death performance.
The last session had taken, what, two minutes? Afterward, he’d leaned in and whispered, “Good job.”
Heat creeps up my neck just thinking about it.
Damn it.
I’m lying next to the very nice man I’m dating after having perfectly acceptable sex, and I’m getting turned on by the memory of my boss praising me like a golden retriever.
Josh shifts beside me. His arm tightens around my waist, and I think he’s still asleep until he presses a soft kiss to my shoulder.
“You awake?” he mumbles.
“No,” I say.
He huffs a laugh against my skin. “Liar.”
I smile, because it’s sweet. He is sweet. This is sweet. I need to focus on that.
He props himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up in the back. He suddenly looks nervous.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “It was nice.”
His face falls a little.
Shit.
“Nice in a good way,” I add quickly. “Not nice as in boring. Nice as in—you know, nice.”
Truly a poet.
Josh looks down at the sheets, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you…?”
He doesn’t finish the question, but he doesn’t have to.
For half a second, I consider lying. It would be so easy. One tiny lie to protect his ego and end this conversation. But then I think about what I just told myself. Normal couples communicate. Normal couples work on things.
“Not quite,” I say carefully. “But that’s okay.”
His cheeks turn pink. “Oh.”
“It really is okay.”
“Right.” He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah, no, totally. I just—I usually don’t have that problem.”
The words hang between us.
Then he gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. That sounded awful.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I can, um—” He clears his throat. “I can learn. I mean, if you want. You can tell me what you like.”
“I will.”
He smiles, relieved, and pulls me closer.
I let him.
His skin is warm against mine, and his hand settles carefully on my waist.
This can be good, I tell myself. It can grow. Not everything has to be instant fireworks and ruined underwear. Sometimes attraction builds.
Josh’s breathing evens out again, and I stay there in his arms, staring into the dark.
Right?
I receive the email while sitting across from Mr. Bennett, preparing for an upcoming business trip.
Atlas Development has invited me in for an interview.
For a moment, I just stare at the screen.
Holy shit.
A pulse of excitement shoots through me, but I quickly school my features. Now is not the time to start grinning like an idiot. Not when I’m sitting across from my current boss.
Current, because I might have a new one soon.
“Did you book the hotel yet?” Mr. Bennett asks without looking up from his computer.
“Yeah.” I force my attention back to work. “The Marriott.”
He glances at me. “Did you ask for rooms next to each other?”
I hesitate. This feels like a trick question.
“No,” I say carefully. “Did you want me to?”
He leans back in his chair and scratches his jaw. He needs to shave, I note. Then I tilt my head a little. The scruff does suit him, though.
Bad Carly. Stop.
He sighs. “I think maybe you should. It’ll be easier for me to get to your room, or vice versa. More discreet.”
“Why would—”
He gives me a look.
“Oh,” I say. “You mean because of the thing?”
Amusement flickers in his eyes. “Yes, Miss Michaels. Because of the thing.”
We continue working.
Before every major trip, we always spend a few hours planning logistics together over a cup of coffee or two. Sometimes we even get a sweet treat. It’s actually quite nice, and I realize, to my utter horror, that I’m going to miss this.
If Atlas offers me the job, that is.
Mr. Bennett glances at the clock. “Could you go get us some doughnuts or something?”
It’s like he can read my mind.
Wait.
Can he read my mind? What if mind-reading is a symptom of the whole biological match thing? I scream in my head, suddenly and loudly.
He doesn’t react.
Mr. Bennett sucks cocks in hell.
Nothing.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
I ignore the question, because saying “Sorry, I was testing if you could read my mind” doesn’t exactly scream mentally stable. Instead, I go back to his earlier request. “Chocolate or strawberry?”
He considers it. “Strawberry.”
I go and get us doughnuts from the café down the street, and we eat them at his desk. After a few bites, Mr. Bennett somehow manages to get strawberry filling on his shirt.
“Fuck,” he says, grabbing a napkin.
He starts attacking the stain. It does not budge.
“Want me to get your spare shirt?”
He looks down at the increasingly pink spot and sighs. “Yeah.”
I stand and walk over to the credenza along the wall. One of the cabinets holds a small collection of emergency supplies: extra ties, spare shirts, a lint roller. I pull out a folded white shirt and turn around.
Then immediately stop.
Mr. Bennett has taken off his shirt.
“Sorry!” I squeak, whipping back around.
Holy hell, what does that man eat?
Usually, he changes in the bathroom. This time, apparently, he’s decided to do it right next to his desk, because he hates me and wants me to suffer.
“It’s all right,” he says. There’s a teasing note in his voice. “I feel like we’re a bit past modesty.”
I take a breath and carefully turn back around.
Big mistake.
I have never seen a more perfectly sculpted chest. He’s defined, but not obnoxiously so. Just the right amount. The kind of chest that makes a person start reconsidering every moral, professional, and HR-related boundary she has ever had.
I can feel my body reacting to his. I want to put my hands on him. Feel his skin beneath my fingertips.
I drag my gaze away before I embarrass myself.
“Here you go,” I say, handing him the shirt.
He slips it on and starts buttoning it. I find myself watching his fingers as they guide each button into place with the absentminded efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.
Then he unfastens his belt to tuck the shirt in.
I immediately become fascinated by a spot on the wall behind him.
Once he’s finished, he glances up at me. “Thanks.”
And then he smiles. An actual smile.
A siren goes off somewhere in my head. Red lights flash. Alarms blare. A man on horseback rides through town, ringing a bell and shouting warnings to the villagers.
Dimples.
He has dimples.