Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Something solid and warm surrounds me.
Soft fabric slides under my fingers as I lazily move my hand up and down.
This is nice.
Really nice.
As my mind slowly wakes up, an alarm bell starts ringing somewhere in the back of my head. Quiet at first, then louder. More aggressive. Like a tiny emergency siren operated by the last functioning brain cell I have left.
“Carly,” a voice says from right above my head.
A voice belonging to someone very familiar.
Andrew.
Also known as Andrew Bennett.
My boss.
Who I am currently cuddling.
Scenes from last night flash through my mind in short, horrifying bursts. I told him to sleep here. Practically begged him. Pulled him closer and clung to him like a koala. And now I’m stroking his chest with my leg slung over his thigh.
FUCK.
I don’t want to face this.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I’m going to pretend to be asleep, and then, when the time is right, I’ll roll away in my “sleep” and hope—no, pray—that he leaves the room without waking me. Then I’m going to leave New York, go back to my apartment, pack my shit, and move to bumfuck Indiana.
I’ll bring Mom with me.
“I know you’re awake.”
You don’t know shit!
“You stopped snoring about two minutes ago.”
My eyes shoot open as blind, hot rage consumes me. I sit up so fast I almost make myself dizzy, then give him the foulest, most acidic stare I can muster.
“I don’t fucking snore.”
A low, sleepy chuckle escapes him.
And that is unfortunate. Because the dimples are on display, his jaw is slightly scruffy from not shaving, and his eyes are half-lidded in a way that makes him look warm and rumpled and devastatingly male. It hits me like a cannonball. Hard, uncomfortable, and still hot from the blast.
He’s beautiful.
So incredibly beautiful.
Not just hot. I knew he was hot. Everyone and their grandma knows he’s hot. God, women on the internet probably have entire group chats dedicated to that man’s bone structure.
But this is different.
This is Andrew rumpled from sleep. Andrew with his shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. Andrew who looks less like the terrifying CEO of BenCo and more like a man who let me pull him into bed because I asked him to stay.
And somewhere between that thought and the way he’s looking up at me, soft and amused and still half-asleep, something inside me gives an extremely concerning little lurch.
Oh no.
“We still have about an hour before we need to leave,” he says, pulling me out of my increasingly worrying train of thought. “Should we…?”
My brain stalls.
Right. The treatment.
The whole reason he came here last night. The whole reason he ended up in my bed. But for some strange reason—maybe masochism—I gesture between us and say, “Are we not going to talk about this?”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see why we have to,” he says with a shrug and squeezes my hip.
Oh my god.
I didn’t notice the hand there.
“Lie down,” he says.
I do as he says, and suddenly he’s above me. Still in his dress shirt from last night, wrinkled now, the top buttons undone, his hair mussed from sleep. For one brief second, I desperately wish he wasn’t wearing the shirt at all.
That second is apparently enough for him to see the disappointment on my face.
“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, already shifting like he’s about to make space between us.
I don’t want space. I want the opposite of space. I want him closer. So close we fuse into one person. An Andrew-Carly hybrid. An Andrly, if you’re nasty.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”
Mostly you.
He studies me for a second. Then his expression changes, just slightly. “I can give you something else to think about.”
A hand settles on my breast, right over the thin tank top I’m wearing. My nipple tightens immediately. I’m not wearing a bra, and he must feel it, because his thumb starts circling the little peak through the fabric.
A shaky breath leaves me.
“It’s very easy to get you going, Carly,” he murmurs.
The words make heat rush through me so fast it’s almost embarrassing. He pulls the tank top down, exposing my breasts, and for a second he just looks at me. I lie there beneath him, flustered and flushed, while his gaze moves over my bare skin.
“Quite the sight.”
I bite my lip.
His eyes catch the movement and linger there.
And that’s when I feel it. Something hard and heavy against my thigh. I go still. I’ve seen the outline before. But I’ve never felt it like this. Warm. Real.
He wants me.
Me.
Or, well. Maybe. It could also just be his body reacting to the situation. I don’t know.
God, I don’t know anything anymore.
He leans down and takes my nipple into his mouth, and that pretty much kills whatever higher brain function I had left. His tongue works over me as his hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of my pajama pants, slipping beneath the fabric.
My body arches into him. His fingers find me, and my whole body gives one helpless little jerk. Andrew knows exactly what to do. Where to press. When to slow down. How to make me squirm.
I gasp. I moan. I buckle.
I come hard, one hand twisting in the sheets, his name breaking out of me.
Afterward, my head is foggy with that warm, floating bliss that makes everything feel soft around the edges. “I want—” I begin.
Against my better judgment, I lay my hand against the hardness pressing into my thigh.
I squeeze.
He groans, low and rough, sliding his fingers out of me and grabbing my hip. His eyes lock on mine, darker now, more awake than they were a minute ago.
“Carly,” he says, the warning unmistakable. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I nod, already reaching for his zipper.
I have never, ever wanted to do anything more than I want to do this right now. “Let me make you feel good too,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
“Fuck,” he says.
Then he nods and lies back beside me. I undo his pants slowly. I know it’s torturous for him, but I don’t care. This might be the only time I ever get to have him like this. Up close. Unguarded. Mine for one strange, impossible moment.
I want to savor every second of it.
When I pull his boxers down, my mouth opens on its own.
Of course his cock is the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. Why wouldn’t it be?
I reach down into my pajama pants, catching some of my own wetness on my fingers, then wrap my hand around him.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
His skin is smooth and hot under my palm as I start stroking him. Slow at first, watching his face, learning what makes his jaw tense and his breath catch. When I reach the tip, I squeeze a little, and a lovely, throaty sound escapes him.
Satisfaction curls hot and smug in my stomach. He’s made me come harder than anyone has ever made me come before. I want to do the same to him. I want him to remember this when he’s old and gray. I want him jerking off to this memory for the rest of his life.
I smile, flip my hair over one shoulder, and lean in.
He hisses as my lips close around him. While still stroking the base, I swirl my tongue, tasting him, feeling the way his whole body tightens beneath my hands. His fingers thread into my hair, not pushing, just holding on, and I do it again. I take him deeper, and a rough breath tears out of him.
Good.
I want every controlled, polished part of him wrecked by me.
I feel myself getting wet again and reach one hand down to touch myself as my mouth continues to work him. My breasts are still exposed, and he releases my hair with one hand to touch me there, rubbing and squeezing my nipple while my head moves over him.
It’s filthy.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s also probably the best morning of my life.
“Carly,” he says, his breathing uneven now. “Fuck. I’m close.”
I know he’s warning me. Giving me the chance to stop, to pull away, to avoid dealing with the outcome. But I don’t want to stop.
Instead, I tighten my hand around him and keep going, pushing him closer while I work myself toward the edge again.
His fingers tighten in my hair.
His hips jerk.
He comes with a deep, broken groan, and I take what he gives me, my own release rolling through me almost immediately after. For a few seconds, I can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t do anything except breathe through the heat still pulsing under my skin.
When I finally let him go, the room is silent except for our breathing.
I look up.
His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising and falling, his eyes fixed on me like he’s not entirely sure what just happened to him. He looks wrecked. Absolutely wrecked, in the best possible way.
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Was it life-altering?”
He lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head ever so slightly.
“Yeah, Carly.” The words scarpe out. “It fucking was.”