“I’m glad you’re home,” I say. “Safely. Home safely,” I tack on at the end, although it doesn’t help much with the breathless quality of my voice or the fact that every nerve in my body is singing.
“Me, too.” Based on the gravelly tone, I’d like to think I’m not alone in this feeling.
“Okay. Well, I should really go now.”
“’Kay.” He nods a bunch of times.
“See you in the morning.” It’s only possible if I’m still awake when he gets up.
“Definitely.”
I leave the condo before I say or do anything stupid. Now more than ever it’s apparent that I need to find a new place. I have feelings for this man, and it’s not just about wanting to get naked with him. The feelings have become real over the past several weeks. For me at least.
If I keep socking away the money from my tips, I should have enough for first and last in the next month or so, maybe sooner. The longer I stay here, the more difficult it’s going to be to manage the sexual tension between us, if this welcome home is any indicator.
At this point, I’d really like to get out of his space before I get into his bed. Sleeping with him while I’m still dependent on him for a place to live creates an inequity I don’t want to deal with. I never want to be in a position where I feel like I’m being kept and that’s exactly what this will be for me.
Chapter 15: Accidental Snuggles
RUBY
By the time I get home from work it’s almost two in the morning. The condo is quiet. I assume Bancroft is asleep. As I head for bed I nearly bypass my own room and keep going to his. That would be a colossally embarrassing mistake.
For the first time since he left on his trip I sleep in the spare bedroom that’s supposed to be mine. It feels really strange.
Bancroft is walking around the apartment in a pair of boxers.
Aside from the boxers he’s naked. No shirt. No socks. Just boxers. And for some reason they’re all wet and clinging to him. I don’t know why he’s wet, but I offer to help him out of his soggy underwear, dripping on the floor, making a messy puddle around his feet. I reach for the waistband aware I seem to be going against my own plan not to sleep with him, and watch goose bumps rise along his skin. Just as I pull them over his hips I wake up.
So much sadness.
The dream fades away and all I’m left with is dry mouth and zinging clit. I reach for the glass on the nightstand, but it’s empty. It’s four in the morning. I’ve only been asleep for an hour. I don’t remember finishing it off before I fell asleep. I do, however, remember rolling my marble while shoving my face in my pillow to thoughts of Bancroft before I passed out. The extra exertion probably didn’t help with my thirst issues. I also have a headache, possibly from being underhydrated. Diva told me to drink more water last night, but it must not have been enough.
I throw off the covers and hoist myself out of bed. I grab the bottle of aspirin tucked into my nightstand and my glass and make the trek to the kitchen—the built-in water dispenser in the fridge provides the best, most amazing cold water ever. Which is what I need right now.
I lean my head against the fridge as I wait for the glass to fill, down two aspirin with the water, then fill the glass again before I head back to bed with my eyes half-closed.
I slide under the now cool sheets—which makes me shiver a little—and rest my cheek against the pillow. Closing my eyes, I try to bring back the dream I was having before thirst woke me. I go back to the beginning, where he must have been dressed, because I’m a big fan of taking him from a suit to his birthday suit in my head. I imagine the way Bancroft—Bane—looks in his button-down with his tie hanging loose. Or his snug-fitting undershirt.
As I mentally undress him in my mind I can suddenly smell him. I must be on the verge of dreaming again because it’s incredibly vivid. I snuggle deeper into the pillow, willing my mind to go where my body would like to. I hear a groan, low and deep and then the bed shifts and a heavy arm comes thudding down on my hip.
My eyes pop open. What the hell? This is definitely not a dream. At least I don’t think it is. The bed shifts. Nope. Not a dream. Who the hell is in bed with me? The sheets rustle and the mattress dips as the hand attached to the arm that’s resting on my hip starts moving up my body.
“Mmm. This feels nice,” comes the mumbled, male voice that belongs to the hand exploring me over the blanket.
Holy shit. Bane is in bed with me. What is Bane doing in bed with me?
I’m frozen, sort of. I mean, I’m not really sure what I should do, because as much as I’m enjoying being felt up—even through the covers—I’m still really confused as to why exactly this has happened. Or how.
Suddenly Bane’s very fit, very warm chest is pressed against my back. And wait. Oh my God. Oh my God. Is that . . . it can’t be. Oh yes. It is.
Bane is naked. How do I know this? Because I can feel him against my lower back where my sleep tank has ridden up, leaving several inches of skin exposed. And his erection—his very hard, ample erection—is pressed right up against me. My theory on big hands is definitely true.
He nuzzles into my hair, burrowing his way through it until his stubbly chin rubs against my neck. I don’t think he’s actually awake. So I stay still, waiting for him to . . . I don’t know . . . stop moving around? I just need him to settle and then I can figure out what I should do. Well, I know what I should do, but I’m enjoying this a little too much at the moment.
He doesn’t settle, though. Instead, he adjusts the comforter so the hand that was exploring over the top is now exploring underneath. His arm comes around my waist, and then his warm fingers slide under the hem of my tank and splay across my stomach, moving up. He gets stuck at the elastic-y built-in bra and drags the fabric up.
He cups one of my boobs through several layers of cotton and groans. I barely restrain my own when he rolls his hips.
I open my mouth to say something, like maybe; “Hey, Bane. Why are you in my bed, feeling me up?” Or; “If you wanted to get your freak on with me, there are better, less awkward ways than creeping into my bed in the middle of the night and surprising me.” Or even; “Mind if I check out how generous that stick is jabbing into my low back?”
But none of those things come out of my mouth. Instead all I do is whisper-moan Bancroft.
It doesn’t seem to have an impact on the breast palming. In fact, he’s gone from palming to kneading. He makes a second attempt to get under the elastic with a grunt.
I should stop this. My brain registers this thought and immediately wants to dismiss it as unnecessary.
I really should do something apart from lie here, because this shouldn’t be happening in the middle of the night without some kind of adult discussion in which we weigh the consequences of me living in his house, being his pet sitter, and getting a little screw in on the side. Especially since he’s mentioned he’s not interested in getting into a relationship while he’s doing all this traveling. But since I’ve been fantasizing about the exact scenario, I’m a little too willing to let it go on for a little while longer.
This time he makes it under the elastic, his wide, warm palm curving around my breast. And then I feel his hot breath on my neck, followed by his lips on my skin. Oh Jesus, is he going to, oh no . . . oh yes . . . he rolls my nipples between his thumb and finger, his groan vibrating against me as his lips part and his tongue sweeps across my skin.
Okay, at this point I have zero good excuses for not saying something to stop him since he’s still obviously not quite conscious. And instead of doing the one thing I should, I arch and press my butt against his erection. It nestles all snug along the cleft of my ass—my underwear are clearly barring the way, although they’re not full coverage, so I can feel a lot of skin on skin. With a final, rough nipple twist he abandons my breast and his palm moves heavily down my stomach.
My eyes go wide as I realize he has a destination in mind. I would like to say my next action is a result of my a
cknowledging that this has gone too far. However, it has more to do with the fact that I think I need to shave my nether regions. I grab his hand just as it passes my navel. “Whoa!” I rasp-yell.
That seems to startle him out of whatever semi-sleep-induced lust-haze he’s in. His hand retracts and he rolls over as I jump out of the bed.
And that’s when I realize I’m not in my bedroom. I’m in his.
“I just—I didn’t—I made—” I’m flailing around like an idiot as a very sleep-bleary Bancroft blinks at me with confusion. God he’s sexy when he’s just woken up. My eyes follow his hand, which is smoothing down his stomach. And that’s when I take note that the sheets have abandoned his glorious body. He’s so naked. And I can see every inch of him. Well, apart from his right thigh.
Bancroft shirtless is a vision. Bancroft naked is damn well fucking phenomenal.
“Oh God, that is huge!” I say when I finally reach the visual destination of Erectiontopia.
It’s not completely dark in here, thanks to the night owls of the city who are awake in the buildings across the street. I can see very clearly how ample his erection truly is. And I’m definitely gawking. In my defense, there’s quite a lot to gawk at. My mouth is actually watering, it looks that amazing.
Prior to this moment I’ve never really been all that impressed with a penis. If there were a penis rating system, Bancroft’s would be in a class all its own. Now part of this may be due to the amazing shadows cast over his naked body by the ambient lighting. It may in part be due to the entire package framing the penis I’m currently staring at.
I scan his naked body, wishing like hell for a photographic memory, because his body is a gift from the heavens. And that erection is magnificent.
On a scale of one to ten, with one being depressingly inadequate and ten being deity inspiring, his dick is so beautiful it would make angels weep and virgins offer themselves up for sacrifice. Okay, maybe not that last part. But it’s a gorgeous penis and I’m really, really turned on.
Now I want to get back under those sheets with him and pretend I didn’t just accidentally crawl into his bed and let him feel me up, for quite a lengthy amount of time.
“Ruby?” He pulls a sheet up to cover his junk. “What’re you—” He looks me over. His hand is resting on his erection. Cradling it. That could’ve been me if I’d been smart enough to keep up the ruse.
I try to cover myself, because my choice of sleep outfit doesn’t leave all that much to the imagination. Well, more than Bane’s obviously, but it’s still pretty skimpy.
“It was an accident! Sorry!” I spin around and sprint to the door, slamming it behind me. I run all the way down the hall to my bedroom, being much more careful about closing the door this time. And of course, I lock it. My embarrassment is so huge—bigger even than the cock I was just staring at—and there is no way I can face Bane right now.
Chapter 16: Hard to Control Hard-Ons
BANCROFT
I’m lying in my bed, staring at my closed door with my hard-on in my hand, wondering what the hell just happened.
Well, I know what just happened, but the question is why was Ruby in my bed and why isn’t she in it anymore? Both myself and my erection, who I feel is an independent, although very linear thinker, would like an answer to this question.
I consider getting up and going to see if she’s okay, but I’m still achingly hard, so I can’t go anywhere right now. Also, based on her rushed exit and her inability to speak in coherent sentences, she seems pretty damn embarrassed about the entire thing. I suppose I can wait until morning, which is only two hours away anyway, and we can deal with it then.
As I lie here, filtering through the foggy event that has just transpired, I consider how much of it was related to my dream and how much was real. Mostly all I recall is some boob grabbing and nipple tweaking, and some cock-to-ass rubbing. I would like to do more of all of those things with her while conscious.
After five more minutes of lying in my bed, thinking about Ruby, I give up on her magically reappearing at my door and rub one out. Alone. This time I have some real-ish fodder to help me reach the end. The only thing that would be better is if it was the lovely Ruby helping me out, instead of me doing it on my own.
Usually orgasms are a decent sedative, but it doesn’t work the way I’d like it to. I can’t seem to fall back asleep and ninety minutes later my alarm goes off. I pull on a pair of boxers and shorts before I leave my room—something I’m going to have to get used to doing with Ruby living here. At least until we get past this whole awkward reintroduction phase. When I woke up with my hand almost in her panties I figured we were about to resolve the issue, but then she bolted.
I put coffee on and riffle through the contents of the fridge. It needs to be stocked; pickings are fairly slim. I didn’t even think to check the contents before I went to the office yesterday afternoon.
How my arrival was received and my expectations are not at all in line with each other. In my head, Ruby greeted me at the door with high enthusiasm and little in the way of clothing. I got the little in the way of clothing part, but the enthusiasm was replaced with awkwardness. And I hadn’t taken into account that she’d have to work, and definitely not for the next four days.
Instead of sitting around in my condo feeling sorry for myself, I went to work. It helped keep my mind occupied. And it gave me a leg up on Lex, who didn’t show up until four hours after I did. By that time, I’d already gone through spreadsheets, marketing plans, and development costs with my father. He’d seemed impressed by my dedication to the team and the projects. Having just got off a plane a few hours earlier, he’d fully expected me to take the day. And I would’ve, if Ruby had been home.
I survey the contents of the fridge, deciding what I’d like to make for breakfast. I have the necessary ingredients for pancakes. I’ve gotten used to starting or ending my day with Ruby, and I’d like it to continue.
Once the coffee is made I knock on her door. I’m met with silence. I try again, the odd knot forming in my stomach gets tighter. “Ruby,” I call out when the second knock produces more silence.
I try the knob, but it’s locked. Shit. Did she think I was going to try and get back into bed with her last night? Was this preventative, or born out of embarrassment?
I’ve talked to her almost every single day since I left, apart from a handful of travel days. There’s been an extensive amount of sexual innuendo in those conversations. In a lot of ways, it’s felt like long-distance dating. I’ve had weeks to get to know Ruby, weeks to appreciate her sense of humor. Time to get to know her mannerisms. Time to discover what makes her tick, what her insecurities are, how strong she is, how much she loves my pets, how much I appreciate her choice of bedwear.
Unless I’ve been reading things wrong, my expectation was that when I came home, all of that two-dimensional flirting would turn into something three-dimensional. With nudity. That I was so close to that reality last night makes me impatient to get the moment back. Except I have a feeling that’s not going to happen right now.
I give it one last try. I have no idea what time she came home, and I fell asleep on the couch last night and didn’t wake up until after midnight. She hadn’t appeared to be home at that point, although I hadn’t checked her room. Her shoes, a pair of worn flats, sit close to the front door. I don’t remember if they were at the door when I relocated from the couch to my bedroom.
I give up on trying to wake Ruby. I take my time getting ready for work, hoping she’ll come out before I have to leave. She doesn’t.
My entire day is spent in meetings presenting the PowerPoint I created on the flight home while my brother slept. I didn’t consult Lex, determined to have my own findings. He’s currently stewing in the seat opposite me. Every time he tries to throw me a curveball question I have the right answer, or at least one my father approves of. There’s always been competition between us and my approach to this hasn’t done anything to make it better. B
ut I don’t like being micromanaged and that’s how the last five weeks have been with us working together.
My hope is that this trip overseas will be my last for a while and that I’ll have done enough to be able to ask to manage a few of the New York properties. We have ten, so it should be doable.
When the meeting is over my father pulls me aside.
I really should be able to ask for what I want. But I’ll have to put the feelers out first. My father always has a master plan, and I’m concerned it’s one that involves more travel for me.
I take a seat in one of the club chairs in his office and he sits across from me, rather than behind his desk. “Good work in London.”
This is high praise from my father. “Thanks. It was a good learning experience. I feel like I’m getting a good handle on the renovation aspect.”
“Once you’re settled in I think it would be a good idea for you to work with the design team on the new build concepts in Germany.”
This is preferable to working with Lex, but if I’m part of the design team, there’s a good chance my father is going to want me to be part of the groundbreaking team. That means another stint overseas, which is not what I want.
“Layla heads that up, doesn’t she? You don’t think it would be better for me to work with Griffin instead for a while?” He’s been taking care of some of the Chicago hotels. That’s much closer to home than Germany.
“Are you worried about your ability to focus around Layla?”
“Pardon?” I smooth my hand over my tie. Layla’s been part of the design team for quite a while. She’s incredibly career-driven and focused, so I can’t see why he thinks I won’t be able to manage working with her.
My father rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, Bancroft. You’ve spent the past seven years with an entourage of groupies running around after you. I’m just reminding you that this is the business world, and you’ll need to keep a level, focused head, even around the lookers like Layla.”
The Shacking Up Series Page 21