by Lauren Layne
“Definitely not,” I say softly as he pulls me in for a kiss, and I smile when I feel his smile.
The kiss starts out light and playful, but with each brush of our lips, we linger a little longer, our breath growing a little faster.
“Sabrina,” he says. “This enjoying-each-other’s-company thing you speak of . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Care to enjoy each other’s company . . .” His mouth moves down my neck. “You care to enjoy each other in the bedroom?”
I manage a nod, and when Matt stands and scoops me into his arms, I have the breathtaking realization that despite my words, I’ve been wrong about not having avoided the “messy, painful stuff.”
I’m horribly, awfully aware that . . . I’m already in the middle of it.
I’m already all the way, painfully in love with a man who will never love me back.
27
MATT
Friday Night, October 6
I thought I knew every type of sex. Fast sex. Playful sex. Angry sex. Dirty sex. Public sex. Vanilla sex . . .
The moment I set Sabrina on the bed, I know tonight is different. I know that whatever’s about to happen between us will go beyond anything I’ve known before.
Because tonight matters. She matters.
And I intend to show her.
Sabrina’s hands reach for me the moment I lower over her, but I gently take both her hands in mine, pressing them down to the mattress as my mouth moves over hers.
She huffs in protest but kisses me back, her lips and tongue greedy, her hips tilting toward mine in invitation.
Lifting her hands above her head, I pin her wrists with my left hand and use my right to skim down her side, flattening my palm to her hip. Slow down. Let me savor you.
I feel the moment she capitulates, her breath coming out on a sigh against my lips. She tastes a little like wine and whiskey, but mostly she tastes like her. That elusive, captivating element that is simply Sabrina.
No woman has ever gotten to me like this one does. No one’s ever wiggled beneath my guard to make me long for things that aren’t even real.
Usually I push aside these realizations, determined to keep her at a distance, however I can.
Tonight—just for tonight—I let her in.
I let her in the way she let me in, telling me every heartbreaking detail of her early life. I want to tell her that it’s made her strong. That every hardship she’s endured has made her remarkable.
But I don’t have the words, and I’m not sure she’d be ready to hear them even if I did.
Instead, I show her. I show her with kisses, first on her sassy mouth, then along the sensitive column of her throat.
I tell her with my hand drifting over her side, her hip, her thighs, until we’re both panting for more. More touching, more contact, more everything.
I slip a hand beneath her sweater to where her skin is hot and just the slightest bit damp. I unhook her bra, then slide my hand upward, palming her breast, heavy and perfect in my hand.
She groans, twisting her wrists to be released. I relent, only because I need her naked and writhing beneath me.
I peel her sweater over her head, both my hands cupping her breasts before the garment even hits the floor.
She says my name on a sigh, almost like a prayer instead of the usual curse. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the importance of the moment, then realizing I don’t want to.
I open them, looking into her face as I use my fingers to tease her nipples, holding her gaze as I lower my mouth to her.
I know this woman’s body better than I’ve known anyone else’s, and I know that for all her strong feistiness, her breasts are sensitive. I keep my touch light and teasing, my kisses soft and fleeting.
When I finally wrap my mouth around a nipple, sucking with gentle pressure, she arches into me, her hands holding my head close.
I’ve never been so damn hard, and my need to drive into her is strong.
Instead, I ease my hand beneath the elastic of her yoga pants, stroking her lightly over the soft fabric of her underwear until wetness greets my fingers.
We both moan the moment my fingers slip beneath the fabric, touching her for real. She’s wet and more than ready for me, but again I restrain myself from ripping off the rest of our clothes and burying myself deep. I want to be careful with her, want to prolong the moment.
I stroke two fingers over her, pressing and circling, teasing, until her panting breaths are punctuated with pleas. I ease a finger inside her, my thumb circling.
The moment before she comes, she stiffens slightly, and I move up, capturing her mouth and every cry as she tenses around my fingers, bucking beneath my hand.
I know then that I’m totally lost to this woman, because bringing her release feels damn near better than anything I’ve experienced in the past.
The moment doesn’t last long as a peak sexual experience, though. The minutes that follow far surpass it.
She pushes me to my back, her hands drifting over me, getting rid of my clothes, kicking off the rest of hers until we’re both naked and shaking with need.
My hands find her hips, urging her forward, over me, but she wiggles away, bending and wrapping her lips around me. I fall back on the pillow with a groan, my hand reaching out, skimming over her back, over her perfect ass, then up again, fingers tangling in her hair.
I let her work her magic as long as I can stand it, which I’m embarrassed to say isn’t very long.
My hips arch, and I pull her back with a gasp. I need her, but not like this. I need . . . “Inside,” I manage.
Sabrina doesn’t hesitate. She digs around in my wallet for a condom and rolls it on. She moves over me, pausing for a heartbeat, then lowering, sinking onto me. Clenching around me.
We freeze as our eyes lock, acknowledging the moment. The importance of it.
Then my hands find her hips, and we begin to move. She sets the rhythm, sultry and languid, and I cooperate. Up until a point.
I lift, moving deeper, urging her on. More.
She complies, her hips circling faster. Her head dips back, her hair wild down her back, her breasts on display in all their perfection.
I’m gone. She destroys me. With my last ounce of self-control, I press my thumb to her center, ensuring that she falls with me when I go over the edge.
We don’t just fall. We fly.
Until we crash.
She collapses forward, and I pull her to me, rolling us to our sides, our bodies still joined, our beating hearts pressed together in a thundering rhythm.
When I catch my breath, I press a kiss to her forehead, and her hand slides over my waist, drifting over my back in an idle caress.
After a few more moments of silence, I feel her smile against my chest. “I’m not doing very well with my no-hookup rule, huh?”
I smile and smooth back her hair, pulling away slightly so I can see her face. “You didn’t hear me complaining. Besides, I figure we’re smart enough to get away with it.”
“Get away with what?” she asks, tracing a nail down the center of my chest.
“Sex without the other stuff.” Love.
“Ah,” she says lightly, and I know she heard my silent addition.
We say nothing more as we drift into a sated sleep, and it’s not until I wake much later that I realize she didn’t confirm my sex-without-love assessment.
For the life of me, I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
28
SABRINA
Sunday Night, October 8
“For the tenth time, you don’t have to escort me up here.”
“You know, that’d be a lot more convincing if you had a purse dog and were a light packer,” Matt says as he detangles Juno’s leash from my roller bag again. “As I see it, you have a huge dog who can’t walk five steps without getting tangled up in a suitcase packed for a European relocation instead of a weekend getaway.”
“You can just say yo
u’re mad that I made you go to that farmer’s market today,” I say, sniffing the enormous bouquet I have cradled in one arm while being careful not to drop the large white pumpkin in the other.
“I’m not mad. But I still maintain that you over packed. And that pumpkins are supposed to be orange.”
“White pumpkins are very in right now,” I say, setting said white pumpkin on the floor at my feet so I can pull out my keys.
Matt unclips Juno’s leash from her collar, so she’s the first one into the apartment. Matt and I follow, and though I’ll never admit it out loud . . . it is a lot of stuff.
I’m not usually one for farmer’s markets. Give me delivery or couture any day. But today, when Matt and I took Juno on a walk, we stumbled across one, and somehow I let myself get sucked into the charm of it.
I’ve been sucked into the charm of the entire weekend.
And much as I know it was probably a mistake, I can’t bring myself to regret a single moment. Not the long lingering meals, the champagne-fueled brunches, the sex, none of it.
Spilling my guts on Friday night had been scary, but it had also done something wonderful for the rest of the weekend.
See: farmers market.
Also . . .
I give Matt a coy glance, waiting to see if he’ll bring it up first.
He catches my eye and grins as he refills Juno’s water dish. “I’m not asking for it.”
“But you know you want to.”
“Oh, I want to,” he agrees, setting the dish in front of my panting dog. “But I want to win more.”
I purse my lips. I like winning, too. But I also like my cell phone. The worst part is, it was my own idea.
On Friday night as we waited for the steaks to finish grilling, I noticed both Matt and I checking our iPhones, I suspect more out of habit than anything else. I issued a challenge: Who could go the longest without it? We turned them off then and there and traded, so neither would be tempted to sneak a look while the other was in a different room.
It was weird, but also surprisingly freeing.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve simply let myself be present in a moment, any moment. There’s something entirely too vulnerable about being alone with your thoughts, with no Facebook distraction, no incoming email, no matter how inconsequential.
There’s something even more vulnerable about being alone with your thoughts . . . and your worst enemy.
Except he’s not.
And if I’m honest, he hasn’t been for a long time.
Hell, to be completely honest, I don’t know that he was ever my worst enemy, so much as my biggest threat. The person who I sensed, even from the very beginning, could destroy me.
What I didn’t see until recently was how the person with the power to destroy you can also be the one to lift you up. The one who can make you live like you’ve never lived before. The one who shines light into dark, infiltrates color into blandness.
The person who can take someone who’s perfectly content and make her . . . happy.
The person who can make me happy.
Which, I’m sad to say, I didn’t even know was possible. I’ve gotten so damn used to thinking anything better than hungry and angry was the good life.
Ian’s always made me feel safe, in a big-brother kind of way. I thought that was as good as it gets. These past couple of weeks with Matt have changed that. Hell, these past four years with him have changed it. The way he makes me feel has always made me want to run.
But not anymore. Now I want to . . . stay.
I just wish I knew what comes next. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never fallen for someone, much less someone who’s every bit as relationship averse as I am.
Matt, oblivious to my thoughts, pulls my cell phone out of his back pocket and gives it an enticing waggle. “Hmm?”
I bite my lip. I really do want that cell phone. I take his phone out of my bag and hold it up. “Call it a draw?”
“Done,” he says in relief.
We swap phones, and I pour us each a sparkling water as I wait for my iPhone to start back up again after being powered off.
“So, here’s a question,” Matt says, accepting the glass I hold out. “You make a decent living, and I’ve seen firsthand you’re damn good at your job. But what does your work look like on an average day?”
“Depends on whether or not I’m on an active project. When I sign a contract, that person’s my priority. But assuming they don’t need me 24-7, I generally keep my ear to the ground, stay in touch with my contacts. Coffee dates, lunch dates, whatever. As I approach the end of a project, I’ll start figuring out what’s next.”
“How do you bring in new business?” he asks curiously.
I give a sly smile. “I don’t. It finds me. Truth be told, I have more requests than I can possibly take on. I get to pick and choose what I work on.”
He smiles. “Lucky for me I caught you at a slow time, then.”
I take another sip of my drink and look away, not quite ready to tell him that there’s no such thing as a slow time for me. That when he’d asked for my help, I had nearly a dozen other opportunities, some that would have gladly paid triple what he’s paying for my assistance.
Instead, I’d taken on Matt’s job. Not because the money was the best, not even because his case was the most interesting. But because it was Matt.
And he’d needed me.
Do I regret it? No.
I just wish I could do it over again, this time not falling in love with the man. But maybe that’s not possible. Maybe I’ve been headed down this path with him since that very first night.
It doesn’t matter, I suppose. How I got here isn’t important. What does matter is that the feeling isn’t going away anytime soon, and I need to decide what the heck I plan to do about it.
It’s rare that I don’t feel completely in control, and I don’t like it. At all.
“So what is next?” Matt asks, leaning on my counter. I see that his phone’s already rebooted, but his attention’s still on me. As though what I have to say is important.
“Well, the gala’s more than a week away, so officially, I’m still on your payroll,” I say.
“And after the gala?”
“I’ve got my pick.” I twist the glass on the counter. “I’ve got an invitation to spend a couple weeks playing companion to a ridiculously wealthy eighty-year-old in Florence whose son thinks she’s got a bad habit of getting engaged to fortune hunters. There’s a lotto winner from Jersey who wants me to wrangle an invitation for his daughter to meet a prince. Any prince. A midtown lawyer wants me to play flavor of the week to make an ex-girlfriend jealous.”
“No,” Matt says. “Not that last one.”
I smile at the note of jealousy in his voice. “Does it make a difference if the lawyer’s a woman?”
He opens his mouth but hesitates. Then shakes his head. “I still vote no. Though I realize I don’t have any claim on your time past the gala.”
You could. All you’d have to do is ask.
But I don’t have the guts to tell him, and he doesn’t have the guts to ask.
Or worse, maybe he doesn’t even want to.
I bite my lip, wondering if I should remind him of Jarod Lanham’s interest in my services. I decide against it. If Jarod does decide to hire me, and if I decide to take him on as a client, he deserves the same privacy I give all my clients.
Matt picks up his cell phone, and I do the same. There are a couple dozen new emails. That’s expected.
There are also several voice mails and text messages. That’s not expected. My email address is on my business card—plenty of people have it. My phone number? Only a select few in my inner circle have it. Ian. Kate and Lara.
All three of them have texted me. Multiple times.
Ian: Call me.
Lara: Thank God you’re not the freak-out type. Right? You’re not freaking, are you? Let me know.
Neither of theirs tells me what
’s going on. Kate’s is more helpful.
Kate: OMG. What? Read this. Then explain.
A link to a gossip site accompanies her text, and, when I click on it, the headline tells me everything I need to know.
WALL STREET’S MOST NOTORIOUS PLAYBOY PUTS A RING ON IT . . .
The accompanying picture is Matt and me at dinner last night, sharing a bottle of wine and looking, well . . . intimate. Though how the hell someone looked at this and figured engaged is beyond me.
A quick skim of the article, and I have my answer. It’s nothing but a case of good old-fashioned bullshit. A “source close to the couple” claimed that I’d been dress shopping. False.
That we’d been considering Saint John’s as the site of the ceremony. False.
That we’d already booked tickets to New Zealand for our honeymoon. False.
That Matt had been seen in Tiffany & Co., looking at engagement rings. Super false.
I let out a little laugh at the audaciousness of it all. It never ceases to amaze me how much of this stuff is made up. Granted, this time, it works in our favor, but it’s still worthy of an eye roll.
I look up at Matt and can tell from his scowl, he’s gotten similar messages.
I lean forward with a teasing smile. “So. What kind of ring did you get me? I’m sort of partial to the traditional Tiffany cut, but as long as it’s big and shiny . . .”
I break off when he lifts his head and meets my eyes. He doesn’t look amused or even exasperated.
He looks . . .
Well, shoot. I can’t tell.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching across the counter to touch his hand. “It’s just a crap tabloid thing. People will forget about it.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
I smile a little wider, determined to erase the sudden awkwardness that’s descended. And more important, to eradicate the longing in my heart. The desire for it to be real. “Looks like we did our job a little too well, right? I mean, I knew I was good, but even I didn’t know—”
“What if we did it?” he interrupts.
I frown in confusion. “Did what?”
“Got married.”
My mouth drops open, even as my stomach flips. “That’s taking the charade a bit far, don’t you think?”