by Jo Leigh
BREE STOPPED BREATHING as Charlie’s mouth inched up her thigh. The sexy pose wasn’t like her, but then, she wasn’t the same Bree tonight. Thank goodness her hands gripped the slats or she’d have floated straight up to the ceiling. She wanted to hurry him, his hot breath teasing her so near the creases where thigh met thong but not quite there.
He’d caught her left ankle in his hand, holding her leg aloft as his other hand smoothed up the front of her right thigh. She watched him, her excitement mounting, but the angle of her head was tricky to maintain with the firm pillow smooshed awkwardly under the top of her back. As much as she wanted to let her head loll back, her eyes close, let out the cry trapped in her throat, she couldn’t do anything but stare at him, naked, crouched low on the bed between her knees. So she kept watching, urging him to move up, let that hot breath of his sneak under the silk, let his tongue follow.
Every inhale expanded her chest so her breasts, too small for her long erect nipples, came into her line of sight. When he looked up, he smiled at the same broken view, but from below. Okay, so maybe her breasts weren’t too small. From how he groaned, never letting his tongue lift from her flesh, he seemed to like them. A lot.
Despite the groan, the stubborn man refused to move. “Charlie,” she whined as she lifted her hips. What did he need, an engraved invitation?
His low chuckle dialed up her frustration.
“Patience,” he whispered, his mouth moving closer to where she needed it. But instead of his tongue, he slipped his nose in that crease, nudging the thong over. He inhaled as if she were a bouquet of roses, and oh, God, he lowered her ankle as his teeth gripped silk. The tug was forceful, but not enough to snap the G-string panties, only to push things to the side, to let her feel a brush of cool air on her naked flesh.
When she let go of the slats, her hands ached. She was sure they were dented from the pressure, but she didn’t care. It was necessary to touch him. She was shorter than any one of her friends, but the distance between the top of the bed and Charlie’s body seemed to stretch on for miles. Yet she reached him with no strain, touched his dark, soft hair, her fingers tracing his temples.
He moaned, inches away from a different crease. Then that artful tongue of his started exploring and Bree’s body arched with the shock of it.
The battle with the awkward pillow was lost in an instant. Her head lolled back, her eyes shut as he licked and sucked and flicked until she had one leg pressing down on his shoulder and a grip on his hair that had to hurt like a mother.
He didn’t let up, not when she whimpered, not even when she turned his name into a pitiful plea.
She came with a jolt, another full-body arch and a cry that started low and ended so high only bats could hear it.
Charlie held her through the tremors, kissing his way up to her belly button, to her chest. Soft kisses, hard kisses, some wet and filthy, then chaste and sweet. His teeth scraped her skin, making her gasp, but the licks afterward soothed her into a sigh. When he reached her breasts, he settled in for a while. Bree quivered beneath him, every nibble and suck on her sensitive nipples sparking aftershocks.
She ran her hands across his shoulders as she whispered his name over and over, tugging him up, closer. But the obstinate bastard had other plans. He abandoned her nipple with a long swipe of his tongue and met her gaze, his eyes darker than ever. His lips were wet with her moisture, his smile three steps past sinful.
“You need to reach over there,” he said, nodding at his bedside table. “Open that drawer.”
“I do, huh?”
His smile widened and she felt his hand sneaking down her tummy. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, and she could have sworn his voice had lowered a full octave.
“Charlie, what are you doing?”
“I’m not finished being in you,” he said. “So I’ll just amuse myself until you think you might like more than fingers.”
“Maybe I’ve got a thing for fingers.”
“That’s okay,” he said. But he was pushing himself up to kneeling until she could see him. See his very hard, very ready cock.
The hand that wasn’t petting her pussy, toying at the very edge of her lips, encircled his erection. It was a handful and he looked like he knew how to use it.
She swallowed and clenched her muscles as he squeezed up his length until just his glans peeked out, a drop of precome beading obscenely.
Bree hated to look away, but it couldn’t be helped. She found the condom quickly, opened it with shaky fingers. He did the honors of putting on the rubber—making a damn show of it—and then he laid himself over her, leaning on his elbow so she wouldn’t be squished.
The kiss was salt and sex, his tongue giving her a preview of what was to come. Spreading her open, he rubbed up and down between her labia getting his bearings by feel. All the while, he watched her with dark, hooded eyes.
When he thrust, the cry she’d been holding in caromed off the walls, stole all her air.
Everything from then on was white heat and being filled. Raw and hard, every slap of flesh was followed by a desperate gasp from him, from her.
She came again. Squeezing him, pulling him closer, tighter. Then he froze, his face a mask of intense pleasure.
When he came back from the edge, he kissed her. More than the date, more than the tea, more than anything, the kiss turned everything sideways. Long, slow and deep, it wasn’t a thank-you or showing off or like any other après-sex kiss she’d ever had. It was as real as the night sky, and it made her as dizzy as if she’d downed a magnum of champagne.
After, as she gathered in her stolen breath, he fell into a graceless heap beside her.
She still had her heels on.
When he forced himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, she closed her eyes, still dazed and confused. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bree,” she said softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Whoa.”
IT WAS SIX-FORTY. CHARLIE had looked at his alarm clock at six thirty-eight, then at Bree, still sleeping, still with him. All he’d been able to see was part of her bare shoulder and the back of her head. Now he was staring at the ceiling and having a panic attack.
He’d never had one before, but the way his heart was hammering in his chest had to be a sign. As a test, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of her. Fuck. What the hell had he done?
The last time he’d felt like this, not quite like this but the closest thing he could remember that had a similar vibe, was at fifteen. His first time. It was at Amy Johnson’s house, in her twin canopy bed with her parents two doors down the hall. He’d been crazy about Amy, madly in whatever passes for love at fifteen. The sex had been horrible but he’d gotten off. He couldn’t imagine how bad it had been for Amy. He’d felt like the stud king of the world, and even when he fell flat on his face escaping out her bedroom window, he’d considered the night a raging success.
He’d made sure his parents found one of the condoms from the box of Trojans. Their apoplectic fit at the inappropriateness of sex with a girl from that kind of family—she went to public school and her father was a dentist at a clinic—had been the most satisfying development in his life until age sixteen and a half, when he’d discovered the joys of older women and realized how much he had to learn.
Those lessons had been a downright pleasure.
But no one and nothing since Amy had recaptured the out-of-his-mind exhilaration of that maiden voyage. Until last night.
No matter what they’d done, Bree was definitely an innocent. Ah. Okay. Bree reminded him of Amy. Nothing to panic about. His breathing should return to normal soon. Last night had been a rerun of a great night. That’s all. His reaction had nothing to do with the nice woman in his bed. He would give her coffee and cab fare, and that would be the end of it.
The sooner the better. She had to get to work, and so did he.
He stilled as she turned over and they touched. His hand, her thigh. It was warm, the place where they came together, and all the progress he’
d made in the breathing department went to hell.
Why was he getting hard again? Shit.
He pictured her in that pose, her hands gripping the headboard, her nipples hard as little rocks and those heels. Jesus. She’d smelled like honey and tasted like the ocean, and he hadn’t been that hard in years. He bit back a moan as he pictured her face when she’d come. And there was the problem in a nutshell. Or should he say in his nuts.
Forcing his mind to focus, he refused to acknowledge anything below the waist. If he’d been thinking with anything but his dick he would’ve sent her home last night. As soon as she’d asked for tea. Tea? Seriously? Then he’d made everything worse by getting down the goddamn silver. What was that about?
Screw his hard-on. This was ridiculous. He had work. Last night had been a favor for Rebecca, a nice surprise for him. No denying Bree was fantastic in bed, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a great lay, he needed A-listers, women who would draw readers to the blogs, gossip fodder. He needed Mia Cavendish and her counterparts, the more photogenic and controversial, the better. He wanted to trend on Twitter, make the headlines on the New York Post’s Page Six. He needed ad revenue and infamy.
Bree could get him exactly none of that.
GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, she was in so much trouble.
How was it possible that the best thing about her night as Cinderella had been a one-night stand with the King of Manhattan?
Not the limo, not Charlie’s fame, not the stars or the dresses or meeting her design heroes. No. The best thing, the thing that would cripple her if she didn’t get a grip right this minute was making…sex with Charlie.
She was no blushing virgin and she knew what happened between the sheets. She’d had bad sex and she’d had amazing sex and what had happened with Charlie wasn’t even on the same scale.
Falling for Charlie was not acceptable.
She really needed to get out of bed because if he moved the hand against her thigh even a little bit, she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.
Where was her dress? By the window. Somehow, the room wasn’t filled with light, which it should have been because the last time she’d looked, there’d been nothing but glass between them and Central Park. Yet, it wasn’t dark, either. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was some kind of pale gold thing happening behind her lids, so…
The lamp that had been on while they’d been…
She inhaled quietly, regrouping. It didn’t matter what Charlie was doing. She was in control of her actions and her thoughts. She’d throw back the covers, get out of bed, pull up her dress, slip on her heels and go to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have to look at him at all.
Crap. The back of his fingers brushed against her thigh. Just that quickly, her resolve vanished and her body tensed. Things were happening against her will. Nipples hardened. Kegel muscles contracted. Not to mention the thunder of her heart.
It was one time, Kingston. One night. You had champagne. It was like being in a fairy tale. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. It’s over. Stop being a moron and get out.
After a silent count to three, she did it. Tossed covers, pulled up dress, screw the zipper, picked up shoes, darted to the bathroom, slammed the door, breathed.
Cursed herself from here to Sunday because while she was in the nice, safe bathroom, her purse with all her stuff was in the living room.
She sighed and leaned on the door, barely restraining herself from banging her head against the wood until she passed out. Her makeup was already a disaster so crying wasn’t out of the question.
What were the odds he had a spare toothbrush in this humongous room? The shower alone was bigger than what she laughingly called a bedroom.
She could wash her face with whatever soap he had, and rinse her mouth with something that would at least hide the morning breath for a while. All she had to do was be somewhat presentable for a cab ride home, then she could start forgetting about Charlie as she hustled to get ready for work.
Coffee. Coffee would help everything. No, aspirin and coffee. That’s what she needed, and her world would fit neatly back into place.
A knock on the bathroom door made her jump so hard her dress nearly slipped all the way down to the floor. “Um, busy,” she said, yanking it up again.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and God, his voice rippled through her like a slow fire. “I thought you might want your pocketbook.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yes.” She turned, holding up her dress with one arm as she opened the door an inch. It wasn’t quite enough. Another inch, then another, and finally her purse was inside. She snatched it as if it were connected to a mousetrap. “Thanks. Be out in a minute. Don’t mind me.”
Silence followed. Bree didn’t know if he was there or not, but she didn’t move. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Okay,” he said, making her jump again. “I’ll go make coffee.”
“Great. Thanks. Sounds great.” She winced at her stupid mouth, and reconsidered the whole banging her head against the door thing.
Finally, she turned around, resigned that there wasn’t enough aspirin and coffee in the world.
“WHAT’S THIS?” BREE ASKED.
Charlie looked down at the hundred-dollar bill he was holding out to Bree. “Cab fare.”
“A hundred? You think I live in Connecticut?”
“Wasn’t sure. Look, I’m sorry I can’t take you myself, but the blog…”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ve got it,” she said as she held up her to-go cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re not going to be late for work?”
“Nope. Not if I get a move on.”
She hadn’t looked at him. Not once. At least, he didn’t think so. He’d been avoiding looking at her, so there was no certainty, but it felt like she hadn’t.
If nothing else had told him the night had been a colossal mistake, this morning’s awkwardness would have. It was epic. Both of them stumbling, mumbling, embarrassed and basically acting like idiots. The problem was he couldn’t tell why she was behaving like he had the plague. He’d thought the night had been great, and the sex had been fantastic. Too good.
Maybe that was just him, though.
Naw. It had been spectacular, and he knew what he was talking about. She was being weird for another reason. He’d like to blame the excessive cab fare move, but the weird dance had started when she’d first gotten out of bed.
She was making her way to the front door, although she didn’t simply turn around and walk. She took a few steps back, checked behind her, then moved another couple of steps, and it made him want to kiss her.
Shit.
She had to go. Now.
He surged ahead of her to the door and opened it. “I’m sorry I can’t see you—” He stopped before he repeated the whole sentence.
“Of course. And I have…” She was right in front of him now, looking up at him with those green eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “It was the best night ever. I’ll never forget you. It. The party. Doing…stuff.”
Her cheeks had turned a really dark shade of pink, and yep, so did the tips of her ears. The urge to move a few inches, lower his lips to hers once more was stronger than he was prepared to admit.
“I had a great time, too,” he said, his voice cracking on the end. “We should…” He stopped himself by biting his tongue. It hurt quite a bit. But he’d almost said they should do it again.
“Well, I’ll be off. Down the elevator. To get a taxi.” She stepped through the doorway sideways. Almost hiding behind her coffee, only spilling a little.
“Right. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He went to shut the door as she called for the elevator. Then stopped. It would be rude to shut the door. On the other hand, she looked desperate.
He split it down the middle. Left the door ajar, but walked away. To the kitchen. He didn’t breathe until he heard the ding.
; Holy crap.
7
BREE SAT IN HER CUBICLE, shuffling papers from one stack to the next. She’d been at the office for two hours and she hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. Most of the morning had been spent rehashing last night, analyzing to death every single thing Charlie had done or said. Sneaking peeks at the picture she’d taken, of his trading card.
In the harsh fluorescent lights of BBDA, the events featuring Charlie seemed more like a dream than something that could have happened to her. But there was an ache in her body that wasn’t a result of working out at the gym. She’d tensed her arms so hard gripping the headboard that her muscles had burned as she’d showered this morning, and there was that thumbprint bruise on her hip. Plus her memories, of course.
She had no business thinking about him. The night. Him. Really now. It was over. Done. A recollection that should bring her pleasure instead of this sense of loss. How could she have lost something she’d never had? Never could have?
God, the whole morning sucked. Her thoughts had been wild enough before she’d seen that he hadn’t posted his blog yet. He should have. His routine was like Old Faithful, like atomic time. Instead, three other people had posted—one fashionista, one celeb tracker and one foodie.
So in addition to obsessing over the fact that sex had been no more than a part of the overall standard package rather than a romantically wonderful moment between the two of them, now she was pretty convinced that she had somehow jinxed Charlie. And she had a headache.
Surprisingly, Rebecca hadn’t called yet, which was fine because Bree hadn’t figured out how much she wanted to tell her and she wanted to be careful about that conversation, not dead on her feet. In fact, she seriously thought about sneaking in a nap today in place of lunch. She needed sleep more than food.
Her cell dinged and when she saw the name flash, she nearly choked. She clicked on the icon.
How are you feeling? CW
Bree stared at his initials, completely stunned. Why was he texting her? Good manners? Had she accidentally taken something from his apartment? She hit Reply then forced herself to think, not text, not yet.