by Aria Ford
It’s probably the best idea I have ever heard. I roll over to set my alarm, and she spoons up behind me, her cheek against my back. I feel myself relax completely. She’s holding me, one arm behind my neck, one slung over my chest. She molds her body to mine, her chest against my back, her thighs behind mine, her bare feet somewhere around my calves. It’s practically heaven. I didn’t know I wanted anything like this, but here I am. Griffin Doyle, self-made millionaire, international playboy, ruthless businessman—being the little spoon in bed with a waitress. I can’t help but smile.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Caleigh
I lay awake most of the night. Sleep drags me under once in a while, but I shake myself free. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to sleep through my one night with Griffin. He lets me hold him, when I know he’d refuse if I asked. I love syncing up my breathing with his as he sleeps. I love when he turns over and pulls me into his arms, still mostly asleep but reaching for me. I love how whole I feel when I’m with him, and how being with him feels full and right and safe.
Once when I drift off, I wake to Griffin leaning over me, peeling the sheet back from my breasts and taking a nipple into his hot, wet mouth. I tighten instantly, a wave of arousal hitting me. The slow way he touches me, his palm sliding down my stomach and between my legs, cupping me with his hand—it’s romantic and sexy at the same time.
The room is completely dark. This bed—which is the hugest bed I’ve ever seen, by the way—is covered in black satin sheets and a velvety purple comforter. Both feel amazing against my skin, sinful even. I slide along the bed wherever he moves me. I feel desirable and pretty, like my skin is luminous against the dark fabric in the dark room. When he settles me in his lap, my legs on either side of him, I’m not sure what to do. I want to wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck, just feel him inside me and be as close to him as I can. So that’s what I do. I don’t wait for guidance. I just hug him and drop my head onto his shoulder and hide. I feel his hands on my back soothing me, his voice against my hair.
“Is something wrong?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to talk. I’m overcome by what can only be emotion. Feelings for Griffin, who is only with me for one night. I love being in his arms and relaxing against him. I don’t really want to be on top though, where he can watch me. I whisper to him that wish—but I can’t say out loud what I wish.
“I wish—” I break off, afraid to say more. I wish you could love me.
I won’t ask for more than I can have. I’m already getting this one perfect night, this affair I can live off for years—all the romance, all the intensity, all the passion a woman could want. It would be greedy to think I could ever have more than this.
It starts to rain. I can hear it lashing the windows. I kiss him then, his face in my palms.
“Do you want me on top?” he says against my lips.
It seems gallant of him to me, this offer. I nod gratefully. I want to be joined to him, but I’m not bold enough yet for this. I want him to be in charge, to set the rhythm and the pace, to take care of me. It’s a luxury to give up control, to trust him and just let go.
Softly, he lays me on the bed, sweeps my hair out from under my shoulders so it’s fanned out on the sheets around me. He kisses my forehead, my eyes, my cheekbones. I feel like he sees all of me, like I’m being worshiped, cherished.
Griffin is so beautiful. I can see him, just the outline of him and his eyes in the moonlight, but he’s gorgeous. Even his shadow is probably gorgeous. I twist my fingers in his dark hair and concentrate on the whole experience. The brush of his stomach against mine, the flex of his shoulders beneath my hands as I hold on, the way he keeps kissing me—my lips, my cheek, my forehead, my neck. He’s with me, really present in the moment, not thinking of someone else or some other night in the past. This is us, right now, and it’s intense. He’s rocking deep within me, not moving in and out anymore. Like he can’t bear to pull out of my body. I feel it too—the buildup, the taut stretch of our bodies struggling to become one, merging into a single being.
I arch off the bed to press against him harder. His hands find mine, stretching my arms above my head and lacing our fingers together. Griffin leans his forehead against mine, his breath on my lips. I kiss him softly.
“I love you,” I whisper into his mouth as I come apart, pleasure rippling through me in waves.
He has the grace to pretend he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe men lose their sense of hearing and vision right before they come—who knows? He is nice and doesn’t mention what I said. He just presses me into his side, his hand playing with my hair. This time I fall asleep first.
His alarm wakes me. I don’t know where I am. I look around. His gorgeousness is instantly recognizable. I’m with Griffin. I see his beautiful back, bare and muscular. I kiss him between his shoulders, wrap my arms around him and kiss his hair. I feel such a flood of affection for Griffin that I’m afraid if he looks at me he’ll see it at once. I’m smiling. I can’t stop smiling. I haven’t been this happy in a very long time if I ever was.
“Good morning,” I say to him.
“Morning, beautiful,” he says sleepily, kissing my cheek.
“It’s cool. You don’t know my name so you don’t have to worry that you forgot it,” I tease.
“I told you, I don’t let women spend the night. It’s not like I’m in the habit of forgetting anyone’s name the morning after.”
“You seem weirdly proud of that,” I say.
“I am. I’m up front about the no strings arrangement. Sex isn’t a commitment. It’s just an extracurricular activity.”
“Not where I went to school,” I laugh, “And I hope not where your little sister goes to school.”
“Crap, I was supposed to call Gina.” He rolls over and looks at his phone, “I have like eight texts from her.”
“Message her. Tell her you were held hostage by a waitress last night but you’re free now.”
“I don’t want to be free,” he says, rolling onto his side and kissing me lazily.
I think I could spend the day like this easily. It’s Sunday so technically I don’t have to hurry home. Not that he wants me to stay.
He messages his sister, or that’s what I think he’s doing. I get up to go get dressed. It’s not like Mr. Extracurricular Sex wants me to hang around. He catches my wrist and pulls me back down onto the bed.
“What’s your hurry?” he says.
“I thought I’d better get home. Feed the fish,” I say.
“Do you have fish?”
“No. But if I did they’d be starving,” I say.
“Are you starving? We should get breakfast.”
“That’s okay. You’ve been really great. I’d offer to cook you breakfast, but I basically only toast Pop-Tarts.”
“I don’t need you to cook for me. I need you to come back to bed.”
“You need me?” I say, enjoying the sound of the words, even though he doesn’t mean them the way I’d like him to.
“Yes,” he says.
Griffin is propped up on one elbow and looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. It hits me that I slept with him. That a guy who looks like that took me to bed. It doesn’t even seem possible. He’s as handsome as he was the moment I first saw him. I feel myself go stupid and stare. Of course I’m getting back in the bed. Easiest decision ever. I mean, he asked me to. I’d probably bark like a dog if he asked me to. I’d bark with enthusiasm. I giggle at the thought and, just like that, I snort. I clap a hand over my mouth. He gives me a half smile.
“I remember you did that last night too.”
“Yes. I did,” I say flatly, “I’d hoped you were too much of a gentleman to notice.”
“I probably should have been, but a proper gentleman wouldn’t have done most of the things to you that I did last night,” he says.
“Good point. I’ll take you instead of a gentleman.”
“And I’ll ta
ke you, snorting and all.”
“I can’t help it. It’s how I laugh.”
He reaches for me with one hand, and I take his hand. He pulls me onto the bed and wraps me in the velvet comforter with him. He pulls it up over our heads like a tent, and I laugh like a kid. I only snort once, and that’s because it tickles when he kisses his way down my stomach. I push the comforter off us eventually so I can breathe, and I wriggle away. He captures me and pulls me back. We wrestle around playfully and kiss and laugh. He pins me, my wrists on either side of my head, and holds me down. He gives me a gentle, searching kiss that makes my whole body respond to him. I toss my head back and forth as he kisses my neck, pleasure building in me, my wrists trapped. I feel so needy for him. When he kicks my legs apart, I open for him, more than ready, wet and eager to feel him slide in. The second he enters me, I start to whimper. He eases into me, stretching me. I’m looking in his eyes. The way he’s looking at me is so serious, so intimate that it’s somehow more personal than having him inside of me. I need to look away, but I can’t. It seems like he can see everything about me, everything I’m thinking. I need this, but it scares me. It goes on forever, this soul gazing and the slow burn thrusts.
I feel it building, the hum of pleasure getting higher and higher until Griffin hauls me up into his lap in one motion. I’m seated on him, our bodies still joined, but now we’re wrapped around each other. He wraps his arms around me, pressing my nipples against his chest, one arm hooked around my hips and moving me a little, guiding me so that I rub up against him. The pressure starts, and I’m panting and making small squeals every time I grind into him. There’s an explosion in me, my head flying back, my arms swinging out as it rips through my body. I cry out, and it sounds like I’m trying to sing. He moves me faster against him until his climax breaks free, and he shouts hoarsely as he comes. We collapse onto the bed, his chest cushioning my fall. I shiver from the aftershock of my orgasm, grateful to be in his arms when I’m feeling so vulnerable.
“That was amazing,” I say, practically purring against his chest hair.
Griffin strokes my hair and his other hand roams along my back. He doesn’t say anything. I like to assume he’s speechless from ecstasy. I sink into him after a while and drift, not quite awake.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he says, “don’t leave.”
I pretend to be asleep. I don’t want him to know I’ve heard, or that I want to stay with him for as long as he’ll let me. Even though I know he’s a broken heart waiting to happen. Just looking at him it was obvious, and that was before he ever touched me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Griffin
What was I thinking, asking her to stay over?
I don’t spend the night with women. I take them to a hotel, have some fun and then leave. I don’t want strings attached, and I don’t want to deal with awkward morning-after stuff. For example, I don’t know if anyone I’ve ever slept with is a coffee drinker. Because I don’t stick around that long. And I don’t bring anyone to my penthouse. It’s my retreat, the only space where I don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations of who I’m supposed to be. Why would I let her breach those battlements?
Sure, she’s pretty. I like blondes. I saved her, and I feel sort of responsible for marching her out there to bear witness against Simpson in the club. I don’t like bad shit going down in my clubs, and I don’t like my employees—even contracted catering ones—being abused. I’m no saint, but I’m a better man than that, so I feel bad for her. She’s had a rough couple of years and no way should she be stuck getting groped by assholes like Simpson when she’s just trying to make rent.
I guess I feel protective of her. Maybe that’s it.
Although it still doesn’t explain why I brought her to my place and wanted her to stay over. That’s not like me at all. I didn’t even have a whole glass of wine at dinner before all hell broke loose. So I wasn’t drunk.
I was cold sober when I followed this girl out to the alley. It makes no sense. I had closed the deal for the club. I had what I came for—so I had every reason to call it a night. Instead, I lost my mind.
Insanity is the only explanation. At least, it’s the only one I’m willing to admit. Because when I raise up on my elbow and see her lying there beside me, it feels good, so right like I knew she belonged there next to me in bed, like she should have always been there, and I’ve finally set things right. I have the most bizarre sense that the reason I never brought anyone else home with me is because she’s the only one who should be here in my bed. As if I was subconsciously trying not to profane her place in my life by bringing some other woman here even before I knew Kate. Which is not even her name. I am obsessing over a sleeping stranger in my bed, thinking for all the world that I hope she never leaves. That I hope she returns to this room, this bed, again and again.
She stirs, wrinkles her brow as she sleeps. I brush her tumbled hair back from her face, smooth the creases of her worried forehead. I want to make her dreams better. I want to make everything better for her. I have such a profound sense of that—of some powerful urge to fix everything, to make her safe and whole and happy.
Her eyelashes flutter, and I jerk my hand away. Oh crap, I woke her up! I think. I make a shushing sound, hoping it will lull her back to sleep. I do not want her waking up to think I’m some creeper who stares at girls while they sleep. It’s just her—I can’t get enough of looking at her. She takes a big breath. I’m afraid for a second that she is going to scream or something. She lets it out, yawns, rolls over on her other side and goes back to sleep. I relax. It’s fine. She didn’t catch me staring at her.
It’s early. I work with my trainer six days a week, but today I’m a little sore. My back, my right shoulder. I can’t help but grin. She gave me quite a workout. I wince and look back at her. If I’m a little sore, she’s probably going to be really uncomfortable. I go take a quick shower. I wrap a towel around my waist and head back into the bedroom.
She’s awake so I smile at her. It’s a dorky grin, the kind I would’ve given a pretty girl when I was about fifteen. I’m aware that I’m smiling at her like a complete idiot.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Hi,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.
Something about her blushing after everything we’ve done together hits me like a blow to the chest. I’m reeling from some rush of warm fuzziness toward her. It’s appalling really. One cute damsel in distress and I’m about to turn into a cliché.
“I’ll just take off,” she says, looking around for her clothes.
“Please,” I say, sweeping my arm grandly toward the en suite bathroom, “have a bath. There’s no rush.”
She seems to be looking around for something to cover herself up with. I find the black robe and pass it to her. Gratefully, she puts it on, wrapping it tightly around herself. It doesn’t matter. I can still see every curve of her body from memory. She whisks into the bathroom and shuts the door. I’d really like to be in there with her. I hear the taps turn on in the big Jacuzzi tub.
I put on a pair of jeans then knock on the door, “Mind if I come in?”
“Uh, sure,” she says a little shakily.
When I open the door, she’s sitting on the edge of the tub, still wearing the black silk robe. The front of it gaps as she leans over to test the water temperature. One long leg is completely visible to the midthigh. I can’t think. I know I meant to say something sophisticated to put her at ease, something to make her comfortable with this.
“Hey,” I say.
I can’t help cringing. I used to have a terrible crush on my piano teacher, Cybil. I’m convinced the reason I never amounted to much as a concert pianist was the excessive amount of time I spent fantasizing about her when I should have been practicing. I feel the exact same way right now. Like the woman in the robe perched on the edge of my Jacuzzi tub may be my undoing. I can’t focus.
“Did you need something? Were you going to brush your teeth?” she
says.
“Is that a hint?” I ask, heading for the sink to get my toothbrush.
I don’t want to brush my teeth in front of her, but there’s nothing for it now. I get out the toothpaste, and I stare at her in the mirror as I brush. I’m an idiot, is what I’m thinking.
“Do you have plans for today?” I ask her.
“I have to go to the Laundromat,” she says, “I do that on Sundays. And I do some cleaning. God, that sounds fascinating, right?”
“You have a plan. Nothing wrong with that,” I say, unsure where to go from here. Do I offer to spend the day with her? Do I even want to? Or am I just hoping to get her to come back here tonight and sleep with me again?
She smiles a little self-consciously, turns off the water, and I’m hooked. I definitely want to spend the day with her.
“Would you like to, I don’t know, go to a museum? With me, I mean.”
“What?” She looks at me funny.
“Or—whatever people do on Sundays. When they’re not at the office or the gym, which is what I do on Sundays generally.”
“I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know what people do. I just do chores and maybe watch TV. I wouldn’t know how to date anyone, much less someone like you. Somebody who goes to, like, Italy for dinner.”