Chapter 12
TWELVE
Mr. Bennett’s apartment is nothing like what I expected.
It’s huge and luxurious, of course, but it’s also warm. Homey, almost. It catches me off guard.
The living room is a mix of dark wood, soft fabrics, and warm light. Plants spill out of oversized pots. Books fill entire shelves. A blanket has been thrown over one end of the couch, as if someone had been using it earlier and forgotten to fold it.
The place feels lived in.
It’s not the soulless, hotel-lobby-esque vibe I expected.
Mr. Bennett helps me inside, an arm around my waist. He steers me toward a low couch covered in dark green corduroy-like fabric.
“No,” I say immediately. “I don’t want to ruin your couch. It looks expensive.”
“You’re not going to—”
He stops.
I know exactly what he’s thinking about. Me, dripping wet, on his desk. The towel and little box of wipes he now keeps in one of the drawers.
“You okay with the bedroom?” he asks.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, trying to sound unbothered even though I am freaking out on the inside. I’m going to see Mr. Bennett’s bedroom.
Where he sleeps.
Every night.
Naked.
Okay, I don’t know that. But apparently, that’s the image my mind has decided to offer up at this critical moment.
His bedroom is decorated in the same colors and style as the rest of the apartment. A massive bed takes up most of the room, framed in walnut and dressed in crisp white sheets. It looks absurdly comfortable. I bet the pillows cost at least two hundred dollars each. Probably more.
“That’s the most billionaire-looking bed I’ve ever seen,” I say.
He scoffs. “I’m not a billionaire.”
“Millionaire, then?”
He ignores that. “It’s just a regular bed, Carly.”
I sit on the mattress, and he helps me swing my legs up. I lean back, sinking into it with a groan. This thing is an actual cloud.
“That’s the thing, though,” I say, burrowing deeper into the mattress. “It looks like a regular bed, but it’s not. Super-mega-rich people prefer quiet luxury. This bed is the definition of that.” I close my eyes. “I bet it costs my yearly salary.”
The bed dips next to me.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “It’s a Vividus. It’s more like four years.”
I crack one eye. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me. I open the other eye too, suddenly aware of how stupid I probably look.
“How are you feeling?”
I wince. “Not great. But lying down helps a little. Takes away some of the dizziness.” I start pushing my jeans down. “We should probably get started before I die.”
He helps me pull them off. “Don’t say that. You’re not going to die.”
“But it came so fast this time,” I say, reaching for my underwear too.
“And I was there within a few minutes, wasn’t I?”
He takes over, hooking his fingers into the sides of my underwear and sliding them down my legs. “I’m not going to let you die.”
I look up at him.
He seems different here. Not softer, exactly. Mr. Bennett probably doesn’t do soft. But the bedside lamp throws warm light across his face, and without the office around him, he looks less untouchable.
More human.
My gaze drifts past him, toward the nightstand.
There’s a book there, facedown and half-read, with a pair of black reading glasses resting on top of it.
Next to that sits a framed photograph of a building I don’t recognize.
Red brick. Big windows. A small crowd gathered outside with balloons tied to the railing.
I nod toward it. “Is that one of yours?”
He follows my gaze. “One of our first housing projects. Eighteen families moved in that day.”
Oh.
I look at the photograph again. Really look this time.
At the people on the steps. A little girl in a yellow coat holding someone’s hand.
An older woman with both palms pressed to her mouth, like she’s trying not to cry.
A man crouched beside a toddler, smiling so widely you can’t help but mirror it.
On the lower edge of the frame, a small plaque catches the light. I can’t read all of it from where I’m lying, but I can make out the project name and a date. Underneath, in smaller letters, someone has engraved: funded in part by the Langford Tower development.
Langford Tower.
Everyone knows that name. Forty-six floors of glass, private terraces, and impossible prices. The kind of building that gets featured in glossy magazines next to words like “visionary” and “exclusive.”
My eyes move back to the photograph.
“Is that why you do the big ugly ones?”
“They’re not all ugly.”
“You know what I mean.”
He looks at the photograph for a moment. “The smaller projects don’t fund themselves.”
That’s all he says.
But I can see it now. The line between the glass towers and the red brick building.
Between the impossible budgets, the luxury contracts, the meetings where one wrong number probably makes three people cry in a bathroom, and those eighteen families standing on the steps with balloons tied to the railing.
Maybe that’s why he is the way he is. Or part of it, at least.
The thought stirs something in me, and I realize the man sitting beside me isn’t Mr. Bennett anymore. Not really.
Mr. Bennett is the man I built in my head over three years of passive-aggressive emails, impossible deadlines, and closed office doors. A man who only cares about money and shareholder value. Someone I can be annoyed with. Someone I can resent. Someone I can keep at a safe distance.
But this is Andrew.
Andrew, with a photograph of eighteen families by his bed. Andrew, who came when I needed him. Andrew, whose hand is resting carefully on my leg.
Oh no.
Not good.
I clear my throat and lean back against the pillows.
“So,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Want to get me off now?”
Andrew huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s probably a good idea.”
Then he starts moving the hand resting on my shin, tracing slowly along the inside of my leg. Up, up, up. My skin prickles beneath his touch.
When he reaches me, he starts stroking with careful, practiced pressure. I close my eyes as his other hand slips beneath my T-shirt and finds my breast. A pleased sigh escapes me.
I wonder what Josh is doing right now. Is he moping around his apartment, or is he out kicking trash cans?
I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the latter, or at least some version of it.
He seemed angry. And okay, I understand this is upsetting for him, but I don’t think he has the right to be angry with me.
I didn’t choose this. Neither did Andrew.
It’s not cheating.
And also, Josh and I aren’t even officially boyfriend and girlfriend yet. So it wouldn’t be cheating either way.
“Carly?”
I open my eyes.
Andrew is looking at me with a slight frown. He still has one hand on my breast and two fingers inside me.
“You okay?” he asks. “You’re not as… responsive as you usually are.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I’m just really in my head.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Can you believe Josh had the gall to ask me to be exclusive while we were waiting for you to come pick me up? Like, hello? I’m dying. Can we prioritize that?”
Andrew carefully removes his hands.
“So what did you say?”
“Basically that. I asked if we could hold off on the conversation until later.” I sigh.
“But isn’t that messed up? That he seemed more worried about that than my health?
I keep thinking about it. The fact that he’s probably at his apartment right now, fuming because you’re the one who can help me.
And tomorrow, when he sees me fever-free and alive, some part of him will hate that you succeeded. ”
Andrew’s expression stills.
“Not because he wants me to die or anything,” I add quickly. “But because he can’t do it.”
“He can’t get you off?”
“Nope.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Want me to give him some pointers?”
I reach over and give him a light shove. He grins.
“Okay,” I say, lying back down. “Let’s get rid of this fever.”
His hands find me again, but my head keeps spinning.
I cannot believe I just dumped all of that on him. I’m getting way too comfortable.
If I continue down this road, I’ll start seeing things that aren’t there.
I’ll overshare. I’ll get weird. Then one day I’ll arrive at the office and find him waiting with a restraining order and a lawyer.
Or no, scratch that. A restraining order and a cop holding a pair of handcuffs, ready to escort me out of the building.
Or maybe Andrew is the one holding the handcuffs.
Now that’s an idea.
“Carly.”
“Hm?”
His hand stills on my knee. “This isn’t going very well, is it?”
I open my mouth to protest, but the lie dies on my tongue.
I am nowhere near an orgasm.
“I have an idea,” he says. “But it might be too much. If it is, just say so, and we’ll forget I mentioned it.”
I nod.
“What if I went down on you?”
My mind short-circuits. All I hear is one long, flat beep.
Be cool about this. Do not act too eager.
“Yeah,” I say, in what I hope is a casual voice. “We could try that.”
He studies me for a moment. “Are you sure?”
I make a noise of agreement.
Andrew puts his hands on my thighs and pushes them apart. Then he climbs onto the bed and settles between my legs.
Holy fucking shit.
My heart races as he leans in, maintaining eye contact with me the entire way down. I feel his breath against me before he speaks. “Be good and relax for me now, Carly.”
Then he lowers his mouth to me.
Every nerve ending in my body lights up.
He never breaks eye contact, and the unwavering attention sends heat racing over my skin. Andrew Bennett between my thighs, looking up at me like that, is the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life.
He laps at me, slow and deliberate, and I moan.
I pull my T-shirt up and slip a hand beneath my bra, finding my nipple. Every thought I had before falls away. The only things that exist are this bed, this room, and Andrew’s mouth moving over me like he has all the time in the world.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low against my skin. “You’re doing so well.”
I whimper.
Actually whimper.
He gives a quiet, devastating little laugh, then goes back to circling his tongue over my clit. A second later, one of his hands leaves my thigh. His finger traces my entrance in slow, torturous circles before finally sinking in.
I grip his hair and arch off the bed.
The pressure builds fast after that. “I’m so close,” I gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Andrew, I’m—”
The release hits before I can finish.
For a few seconds, I lose track of everything. My body tenses, then shudders, and Andrew doesn’t stop. He keeps one hand firm against me, holding me there as I ride it out.
When I finally look down at him, spent and panting, he’s smiling up at me. Dimples and all.
“Want me to send Josh a tutorial?”
I throw a pillow at him.