"Do you even live here,” he murmurs against my mouth, glancing quickly at my bare apartment while I unknot his tie, “or is this just some rental you use for sex?"
The tie loosened, I begin to unbutton his shirt. His chest is firm and hot beneath my hands. There’s so much of him to explore I can barely decide where to begin. “I've been too busy being a better lawyer than you to decorate.”
“It’s funny then,” he says, pulling my blouse overhead, unzipping my skirt, “that you haven’t made partner yet.”
I laugh against my will.
He pushes my skirt to the floor and moves back just enough to let me step out of it, his eyes traveling over me—now in nothing but lingerie and Louboutins. I start to kick the shoes off and he stops me.
“Not yet,” he says. “Those goddamn heels of yours have tortured me for two years straight.”
I think maybe I knew this.
His hands are on his belt, tugging it free. His cock strains against his zipper. “Where first?” he asks.
“You're awfully certain there's going to be a second time.”
“Gemma,” he says, “I plan to fuck you on every surface of this apartment eventually.”
He is smug and overconfident, and I should hate that…but I just don’t. I really don’t.
“Here.” His surprised exhale is audible as I slide to my knees.
I pull his pants and boxers down at the same time. His cock springs free, heavy and stiff, a single bead of moisture at the tip.
“God, yes,” he hisses as I take him in my mouth. His hand goes to my hair and he’s watching, watching, his eyes dark and drugged, struggling to stay open.
His jaw locks tight as I find my rhythm. He moves my head with his hand, his encouragement guttural, barely intelligible. So fucking good...the sight of your mouth around me...wanted this for so long.
I take him farther, all the way to the back of my throat.
“Oh, God,” he groans, his eyes squeezing tight. “Don’t. You’ll make me come.”
The power I have over him right now is thrilling. I do it again, desperate to see him lose that last bit of control, and find myself lifted off the floor entirely. He grabs his wallet and carries me to my room, laying me under him on the bed. I arch, seeking friction, but he slides down instead, spreading my thighs wide. His tongue runs along the fine lace of my thong, which he then snaps hard enough to sting. Before I can complain, his tongue is there again, and he’s pulling the thong aside, licking me, as if he’s starved for this.
I could finish in seconds, but after nearly a full week of torment, I want more.
“Come up here,” I beg, and his tongue swipes over me once more before he pushes my panties down my thighs and crawls above me.
He grabs a condom from the wallet he placed on the nightstand. I have an IUD and would probably let him go without, but say nothing as he rolls it on.
He grasps himself with one hand and slides inside me, watching my face as he does it.
I’d like to keep my eyes open but I can’t. It’s too much, too good. He already had me on the cusp of coming with his tongue, but now I can feel a different sort of orgasm building, one that has me clawing at him to get there. He moves my legs farther apart to watch as he pushes inside me. I’m spread wide for him, and in this new position, he’s so deep that I feel him everywhere. The only thing better than the spot he is hitting is the way he watches it happen, entranced and heavy-lidded.
My nails dig into his back. “Faster,” I demand, and he groans as he gives in, thrusting hard, his finger pressing to my clit, sweat dripping from his torso. The very second I shatter, he groans and lets go along with me.
“Jesus,” he whispers against my neck. “I’m so impressed with myself right now.”
I laugh, still trying to catch my breath. “Only you would claim to be impressed with yourself immediately after sex.”
He ties off the condom, then pulls me against him. “I barely survived that thing you did with the back of your throat. Let’s give credit where it’s due.”
I settle on his shoulder. It should be awkward, cuddling with Ben Tate, my enemy. Weirdly, it isn’t.
He runs his palm over my bare hip. “So tell me something. How long have you been in this apartment?”
I narrow my eyes. I can already tell where this is going. “Three years.”
“And in three years you haven’t had a single spare weekend to—I don’t know—hang a picture on the wall?”
“Oh, and because I’m female I’m supposed to care about things like that?”
“No, but you seem like the kind of person who’d have…I don’t know, a Pinterest page devoted to decor?”
“You clearly don’t know me very well.”
His mouth curves into a half smile, as if he knows me better than I think.
I wake before my alarm in the morning. Ben is sound asleep beside me, dead to the world. I let my gaze drift over his lovely profile—the strong nose, the long lashes, the full mouth, serene in sleep. I consider waking him up the way he woke me in the middle of the night—pushing my thighs apart, his stubble against my softest skin, his tongue hot and warm and unhurried, saying, “I couldn’t wait anymore”—but it’s easier, less awkward, if I don’t. I’ll shower, leave him a note, ask him to lock up.
I’m being considerate, but Ben doesn’t appear to think so when he walks into the bathroom a few minutes later.
“You weren’t planning to shower and sneak off to work, were you?” he asks as he slides the glass door open. His eyes travel over me. I hold the loofah in the center of my chest, as if it’s a shield. I have no idea how to play this now that he’s shot my plan to shit.
“I was just trying to let you rest,” I reply, which is a fucking lie and we both know it. I was avoiding him, plain and simple.
He decides not to argue with me as he steps into the shower. “You said my name in your sleep. I was going down on you, and you weren’t even awake yet and you said, ‘Ben’, all breathy.”
“I probably would have said ‘oh, Chris Hemsworth’ but it’s such a mouthful,” I reply, pouring body gel on the loofah.
“Is it so hard to admit you sort of like me?” He runs a hand over my hip, asking me to pay attention.
“Do you really need me to admit it when we just had sex repeatedly?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I sort of do.”
I can’t entirely meet his eye. I’ve been here before, with someone asking me to open up, to be vulnerable. It was hard then, but it’s harder now. Every time you gamble and lose, it gets a little scarier to try again.
He steps closer. Every bone in my body wants to make a joke right now, keep this light. But then maybe I’ll be the one wounding him, and I don’t want that either.
“On Mondays and Wednesdays, you go to the taco truck,” I tell him, staring at the floor as I speak, divulging what feels like a shameful secret. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you get a wrap from the gym.”
I can’t tell him about driving past his house, or all the time I’ve spent on Drew Bailey’s feed looking for photos of him. I feel exposed enough already. Too exposed. I swear to God if he makes fun of me for this it’s over and I’ll never speak to him again.