by Pam Godwin
I hold it to my nose, breathing in his scent, before dressing, cleaning my teeth, and running a brush through my hair. He didn’t bring me a pair of panties, but the shirt hangs to my knees and frankly, I’m too wiped out to care.
He’s already in bed when I emerge from the bathroom. The soft glow of the table lamp illuminates the gold in his hair and the alertness in his eyes as he watches me approach.
“I’m worried about you.” He opens his arms, offering exactly what I need.
I crawl into his embrace and snuggle in with a breathy sigh. “Just…tired.”
“I’m cutting back your hours at Bissara.” He reaches toward the nightstand and shuts off the light.
“No, you’re not.” I yawn. “Tell me about your day.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.” He caresses my hair. “Close your eyes.”
“’kay.” I rest my head on the strong beat of his heart, and in the span of a few breaths, all my aches slip softly asleep in his arms.
And I sleep through most of the next day.
I wake sporadically to use the restroom, pick at the food Trace brings me, and ogle his carved physique in his workout shorts. I’m not ill or feverish or congested. Just achy and bone-tired. But as the sun arcs over the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, I grow restless with the need to get up and dress for work.
I throw back the covers and slide my feet to the floor.
“I already contacted the restaurant staff.” Trace’s deep voice rumbles from the doorway behind me. “You’re not going in.”
“Trace.” I groan and fall back on the bed. “I feel fine.”
His stubborn footsteps sound his approach, and he leans over me, placing a palm on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Are you nauseous? Any pain?”
“No. I’m just run-down.”
At some point, he changed from workout shorts to a suit, and now that crisp black jacket is sliding to the floor. He removes his shoes next, then his shirt and pants, and slips into bed with me, wearing only his boxers.
Leaning toward the side table, he taps something into the digital remote for the smart home system. A second later, the seductive electronic beats of Pillowtalk by Zayn tiptoe through the bedroom.
“If you feel fine…” He rolls on top of me and settles between my legs, his gaze dipping to my mouth. “You won’t mind if I have my way with you.”
My pulse hiccups, and a thrill tickles up my spine. With a hand on his nape, I touch the pad of my thumb to the seam of his parted lips, holding it there.
“I don’t know why my body refused to get up today.” I drift into his eyes. “But my soul didn’t want to leave your bed without a kiss.”
His cock jerks against my inner thigh, swelling and lengthening. His expression remains soft, his eyes unblinking and hooded as we lean closer, little by little, breaths mingling and fraying in mutual desire.
Our noses touch, and I slide my thumb to the corner of his mouth, caressing my fingers across his cheek. His hand meanders up my thigh and rests on my waist beneath the shirt as the other tangles in my hair.
When our mouths finally meet, we exhale as one and surrender to the powerful pull, reaching and holding and sinking into each other.
He encircles his arms tightly around me, and his tongue chases mine, catching and releasing. Then he angles deeper, licking and sucking with abandonment, as if trying to drive away my doubts and taste the desire I keep tucked beneath my awareness.
His weight grows heavier, his muscles tightening and pressing against me. I glory in the heave of his hunger and give beneath him. My skin heats and prickles, responding to the sliding friction of our bodies. My jaw slackens, submitting to the demands of his mouth. And my legs fall open, yielding to the savage drive of his need.
Every inch of him vibrates and coils with the urgency to thrust, to fuck, to chase his release. But he doesn’t remove his boxers, doesn’t shove a hand between my legs to test my wetness. Instead, he flips to his back, taking me with him.
Our mouths remain fastened as I straddle his hips and roam my hands along his sculpted biceps and shoulders. He palms my bare ass and kisses me with so much passion I feel the strength of his love beneath my bones, reminding me how much I have to lose.
I lean back, anchored by his sexy sleepy eyes, as the vocals in the background croon about fucking and fighting, paradise and war.
“We can skip the war and…” His lips crook into a rare smile.
“Make love?”
His erection pulses beneath me, hindered only by the thin material of his boxers and…my consent.
My thoughts flit to Cole sleeping alone in my bed, and a pang stabs my chest.
I want this—the frenzy, the burning heat, the passionate sex—with Trace, but I can’t bear the guilt that comes with it.
The song changes, and a soft feminine voice streams through the hidden speakers, singing the tremulous lyrics of I Hate U I Love U by Gnash. I sway to the gentle beat, loving that he chose my playlist.
“How do you feel?” He runs his palms up my thighs.
I’m too tired to dance for eight hours on a stage, but… “I feel like grooving, slow and easy, on your lap. I love this song.”
“Do it.” He groans, clutching my waist and flexing his hips beneath me. “Grind on me.”
The melody spirals through my core, gathering a sensual energy deep inside me that builds and spreads outward, lifting my ribcage and rolling my pelvis.
His fingers dig against my skin, and his breaths fall out of rhythm. I hold his gaze, communicating with my eyes how much I adore him, how I love when he watches me, and how I’m going to come, just like this, grinding on his hard-as-steel cock.
I keep my movements small and unhurried, letting the pulse of the song carry me over his shaking body. I hold my hair on top of my head, my arms framing my face as I let go and ride the tempo. Gravity does the rest, driving me against him and pushing my clit along his erection.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” The intensity of his eyes bores into mine, and his hands skim upward, beneath the shirt, cupping and kneading my breasts. “So soft and strong at the same time. A fantasy and a reality. You’re a hell of a woman.”
His gravelly words shove me to the edge, and I hover there, rocking and panting and reaching…
His arm snaps up, and he grips my throat, pulling my mouth to his. I choke against the collar of his hand, mouth gaping as he licks my lips, thrusts against my clit, and propels me into a writhing, trembling, gasping orgasm.
Pleasure crashes through me for endless, strangling breaths before he releases my throat and hugs me to his chest.
“Watching you come is such a fucking turn-on.” He kisses my neck, my cheek, then moves to devour my mouth.
I pull back, twitching with the remnant sparks of bliss. The sexy song serenades me as I slide down his chest, eyes locked on his and lips curling with naughty intent. I grip his waistband, taking the boxers with me as I move down his legs.
He lifts his hips, easing the removal of that last scrap of clothing. The fact that he hasn’t spoken or tried to stop me is a testament to how badly he wants this. The moment he’s naked, I don’t make him wait.
Kneeling between his legs, I lower my head and take him fully into my mouth. He hits the back of my throat, and a low, needy grown vibrates in his chest.
Then I suck him, relaxing my throat, working my fist on his shaft, and massaging his balls.
His hands fly to my hair, controlling the pace and depth as he whispers commands in his deep, eloquent voice. “Faster…tighten your fingers… Fuck. That’s it…roll your tongue…so fucking good… Goddamn, Danni. I’m almost there…”
I keep my gaze on his, lost in the pleasure glowing on his expression. His thighs shake beneath my hand, and the sinews in his neck stretch with the bow of his spine.
“Fuck!” He slams against the back of my throat and stiffens with a long guttural grunt.
The force of his climax fills my mouth,
and I swallow, licking his glans and sucking softly as he comes down from his groaning high.
“Incredible.” His chest heaves, and the fingers in my hair loosen.
I climb up his chest and spread kisses across his lips. “What’s incredible is how you can whisper Suck me harder and make it sound like a love song.”
He chuckles into my mouth, and the kiss that follows flows through my blood like a drug. I’m addicted to this man, an addiction that transcends lust and orgasms and physical attraction. Not only do I need his love, I need his patience and dominance, the kind only he can give me. It’s a soul-deep craving, one I will always come back for, again and again.
The kiss lasts forever and ends too soon. He sits up, pulling me with him as he straightens the oversized shirt around my shoulders.
“You’re staying here tonight.” He pulls on his boxers and reaches toward the nightstand to silence the music. “I already sent a message to Cole.”
This is so weird. I’m thrilled they’re communicating, but it feels as if they’re discussing my schedule like parents with joint-custody.
“I decide where I stay.”
I don’t know why I bother saying anything. One, he’s more stubborn than I am. And two, the little workout I just performed on his lap didn’t help the lethargic fog that’s taken up residence in my body. I don’t want to go anywhere tonight.
I decide to pick a different battle, one I’m far more interested in. “I want to see your texts.”
“Which texts?” He grabs the TV remote and reclines back against the pillows.
He knows which texts, and his phone is probably in the pocket of his pants on the floor. I eye the crumpled pile, wait a beat, and dive for it.
The moment I find it, I turn back toward him, expecting him to snatch it away. But he hasn’t moved, doesn’t even look at me as he scrolls through the channels on the TV.
I realize why when I try to access his messages. “What’s your password?”
“It’s top-secret.”
“Bullshit. Cough it up, Savoy.”
“No.” He thumbs the buttons on the remote, eyes fixed on the TV.
“No more lap dances for you, then.” I toss the phone on the bed and walk toward the door.
If he wants to hide shit from me, he can sleep by himself.
“Where are you going?” His tone is casual, unconcerned.
I flip him off over my shoulder and keep walking. Childish, I know, but I’m determined to win. The last time I gave him the middle finger, he sneaked up behind me and—
An arm hooks around my waist, and he lifts me off the floor. Before a yelp leaves my lips, he slams a stinging hand against my butt, shooting fiery pain across my skin. I cry out, shocked and squirming in his hold as he hauls me across the room and drops me on the bed.
“Brat.” He tosses the phone on my lap and rattles off a series of numbers.
I shoot him a glare, betrayed by my triumphant grin as I unlock the screen and open the text window.
He returns to his reclined position, eyes fixed on the TV. He isn’t fooling me. The ridiculous Ancient Aliens episode about Nazi UFOs that’s playing isn’t holding his attention.
I find his messages to Cole and scroll to the first one, timestamped around the time I took a shower last night.
Trace: She’s staying with me tonight.
Cole: Why isn’t she answering her phone?
Trace: She left it in the dressing room. She doesn’t feel well.
Cole: Let me talk to her.
Trace didn’t respond until two hours later, long after I passed out.
Trace: She’s asleep.
“You left the bed after I fell asleep last night?” I squint at him.
“Yes.” He folds an arm beneath his head and watches me out of the corner of his eye.
“Why did you get up?”
“To send that text.”
I guess I should be grateful, but it seems strange. “But why? I mean, I’m glad you did, but I question your motivation.”
“I didn’t want him showing up downstairs and raising hell.”
“Oh.” I blow out a breath.
Cole would totally do that. My stomach clenches as I return to the thread of messages. The next one came this morning.
Cole: I want to talk to her. Answer your fucking phone!
Trace: She’s still asleep.
The messages go back and forth like that all day. The more frustrated Cole became, the more exclamation points he used. I don’t blame him. Trace’s texts are as warm and forthcoming as his stony personality.
I slow my scrolling when I come to the one Trace sent before he walked in here.
Trace: She’s still in bed and not going to work. I’ll have her call you in the morning.
Cole: Let me talk to her, you motherfucker!
Cole: I’m calling. Pick up!!
Cole: Answer the fucking phone!!!
Cole: If you don’t answer the phone, I’m coming for you.
Trace: Security has been notified.
Cole: You know damn well your security can’t stop me. I’ll be inside that penthouse in two hours. You have my word.
My pulse races. “Is that true? Can he get past your security team? And the cameras?” My eyes widen. “And the access codes?”
“Probably.” Trace lifts a shoulder.
Cole’s threat came an hour and half ago. That means he’ll be here in thirty minutes.
“What the fuck?” I smack Trace’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? I would’ve talked to him.”
“I’ve been a little distracted.” His blue eyes burn into mine. “With your mouth on my cock.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re sitting here, pretending to watch Nazi UFOs. Because you have a plan.”
“My plan is to let it happen. I’m curious to see if he can break my security. I’m the one who trained him, so…”
He lets the rest of that thought linger in the space between us, like I’m supposed to nod my head and smile in understanding.
“If he breaks in to your penthouse…” I grind my teeth, irritated with these fucking games. “What comes next?”
“His unmanageable temper, followed by some bruised knuckles and blood.” He slides me a humorless smile. “His blood.”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen. I lurch off the bed and race toward the bathroom while quickly typing out a text. Trace chases me, but I manage to lock the door and finish the message before he starts banging on the other side.
“Open the damn door,” he says calmly. Too calm.
I press send on the text.
Trace: I know why Danni is so tired. We’re too overbearing and angry and it’s messing with her harmony. We just need to hug it out and make up. I want to hang out with you again. And get matching tattoos. What’s the symbol for BFF?
“Danni.” Trace’s voice muffles through the door, unnervingly composed. “Let me in.”
“Are you mad?” A smile dances through my question.
The handle wriggles, and something metal scrapes against it. Uh oh. He must have a key. As he works the lock, I send another text to Cole for the hell of it.
Trace: I really want to kiss you. Passionately. While Danni watches.
The door bursts open just as the phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming call. Cole’s ID flashes across the screen, and I bite back my grin.
“It’s for you.” I offer the phone to the scowling man in front of me.
“What did you text to him?”
“It’s top-secret.”
His scowl deepens, doing dirty things to my libido. He grabs the phone and paces into the bedroom. I trail behind him as he accepts the call.
“Whatever message you just received—” He tilts his head, listening. “What?” He turns and shoots me an appalled look.
I hide my amusement behind pinched lips and hold out a hand for the phone. He tosses it to me, like he can’t get rid of it fast enough.
The d
evice bounces off my fingers and clatters to the wood floor. I stare at it for a second, wondering why I didn’t catch it. My coordination is off.
Trace’s brows pull in, probably thinking the same thing.
“I must be coming down with something?” I bend to pick it up, swaying against a sudden wave of dizziness.
He catches my arm and snags the phone, handing it over. “Make it quick. I want you back in bed.”
I nod and lift it to my ear. “Hey.”
“He wants you back in bed?” Cole growls.
I guess my texts didn’t lighten the mood. “Were you really going to break into the king’s castle?”
“Danni.” He grunts. “I’ll take down God himself to get to you.”
“Somewhere, lightning just struck.”
“How are you feeling?” The hostility drains from his voice, leaving raspy concern. “I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’m just tired. Probably picked up a bug.”
Trace perches on the bed, his arresting eyes firing with threats, the kind that promise if I don’t hang up soon, he’ll bend me over his knee and pommel my ass.
I lower beside him, giving him an innocent look as I speak into the phone. “I have a question.”
“If it’s about my heart, don’t worry,” Cole says. “It’s still yours.”
My chest rises, filling with warmth. “Are you off work tomorrow?”
“Yes. I aligned my schedule with yours, so I’m off when you’re off. When are you coming home?”
I reach over and clutch Trace’s hand on his lap. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
As expected, Trace tenses, and I squeeze his fingers. I’ve spent twice as much time with him as I have with Cole, not that I’m keeping track.
“We’ll see how you’re feeling,” Cole says. “But if you’re up for it, I have something planned.”