He's Back

by Aria Ford

  “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 take 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 uncomforta
ble. 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.”

  “I don’t go to Italy for dinner unless I’m already in Italy,” I say to reassure her. There’s no reason to tell her I’ve flown to Milan for the evening before, or that I’ve borrowed a yacht to take a woman out to look at the stars. I try another angle, “Is there something you’d like to do?”

  “I don’t really think about that. It seems silly to you probably. I don’t go around thinking of all the stuff I’m not doing. When I was in college, I used to go out with my friends, have margaritas at someplace that didn’t card students, go act like idiots at some house party…I wouldn’t want to do that now. I was a different person. I had everything and didn’t even know it.”

  She’s drooping now, her hand still on the tap. I go to her and touch her arm. She leans in to me, her head on my chest. I put an arm around her and hold her. I feel her arms go around my waist. She tips her face up to look at me. Her dark eyes are incredibly sad. I couldn’t see her eyes last night when she talked about losing her family, and maybe in the dark it was easier for her to tell me things. Now she’s letting me see how she feels and what she’s lost. I bend down and kiss her lips softly. I want to be a man of decency and not grope her, despite the fact that I’m not wearing a shirt, she’s not wearing much of anything, and there’s a Jacuzzi of hot water right there.

  “You’re sweet,” she says.

  I take a step back, “I’m a great many things, but sweetness is not something I’ve been accused of,” I say.

  “My sweet boy,” my mother used to call me. I rub my forehead. I haven’t been sweet in a long time. I’ve been ruthless. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been extremely successful. I haven’t been much damn good, though. Now, I wish I were better. I wish I were something more. For this girl who won’t tell me her name.

  “You are, though. A lot of guys would have taken advantage of a girl in my situation last night.”

  “Are you forgetting the part where I fucked you in an alley?” I question.

  I hate those words the second they leave my mouth. I see them register on her face like I’ve hit her. I take another step back. It’s too intense right now. Regret is sharp in my gut. I want to go to her and say I’m sorry, but I don’t want her to think I’m that guy, the sweet guy who rescues her. Because I’m bound to disappoint her.

  “It wasn’t like that,” she says. Her voice sounds strangled.

  I want the hell out of this bathroom, so I leave. I go sit on my bed and check my email. I hear the slosh of water in the tub as she gets in. I won’t let myself imagine her that way, naked and wet in the bath. She doesn’t turn on the jets in the tub. I want to show her how to work the control panel so she can use the bubble feature, but I know she doesn’t want me back in there after the way I acted. If I was acting like a stupid fifteen-year-old when I walked in there, I was a bratty six-year-old by the time I was done.

  She takes a short bath and comes out in the robe and hunts for her clothes. I don’t make a move to help her. She won’t look at me, and it’s no wonder. When she’s dressed, or sort of dressed in her pants and the ripped shirt, which she’s holding shut, I get up and go to her. I’m about to say something. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I know I can’t leave things the way they are.

  “It wasn’t like that,” she says, lifting her chin.

  I stare at her. I can’t believe she’s standing up to me, that she’s so sure after how I acted. She’s magnificent. I want to kiss her for calling me out on my bullshit.

  “It wasn’t anything ugly like you made it sound. I was there. I asked you. I think I said please,” she says. Her chin is jutting out defiantly. It’s pretty damn adorable.

  “Do you expect me to believe that isn’t the dirtiest thing you’ve ever done?” I raise an eyebrow at her.

  “You mean sex in a public place? Yeah, I guess it is. But just because I don’t have some wild past doesn’t make what we did cheap and meaningless,” she says stubbornly.

  I have no idea why I’m trying to win this argument when I agree with her. It feels like my whole life is at stake. I don’t want her putting me on a pedestal, believing that I’m Prince Charming. It’s so hard to resist her right now. Speaking of hard, of course I am. How could I not be? She’s practically defending my honor to me, brave and stubborn and holding my robe over her arm. I’m reasonably certain that I will never be able to wear that robe again. I consider having it framed in a shadowbox and hung on the wall as a monument. Then that idea makes me grin. She takes the grin as an insult like I’m laughing at her. Shit.

  “You think this is funny?” she says.

  “No. I don’t find it
amusing. In fact, I thought of something else entirely, something absurd, and—”

  “Oh, am I boring you?” she says sarcastically. I’ve really hurt her feelings, I think.

  “No, you’re not. You just need to calm down. You can wear one of my shirts.”

  I go to my closet and return with a blue button-down. I offer it to her. She looks at me like I’m trying to hand her a dead albatross.

  “The buttons work on this one. Take it,” I say gruffly.

  She takes it, turns her back to me and drops her black shirt, puts on my blue one. I can see the shrug of her thin shoulders as she pulls on my shirt. I want to put my hands on her back, to feel the movement of muscle and bone as she gets dressed. I want to run my fingers underneath her bra strap, to see the flicker of arousal kindle in her eyes. She has the shirt mostly buttoned when she turns around. The sleeves are so long that the open cuffs cover her hands completely. I go to her and start turning up a sleeve. She looks offended. I finish cuffing the right sleeve and then do the left one. I like rolling her cuffs back for her. I like seeing her in my shirt. I like it way too much.

  I lean down and kiss her forehead and whisper, “I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t.”

  Her arms go around my waist, and I pull her to my chest and hold her. It’s a relief to have her in my arms. My eyes drop shut tightly. I hadn’t realized that the itchy, tight feeling in my chest was from being at odds with her. I didn’t know until it loosened, until her cheek on my chest soothed it away.