Bennett follows, though it’s unclear if he’s walking me out or attempting to stop me.
Turning to him, I laugh through my nose and offer a bittersweet half-smile, “You know, I was actually starting to fall for you. Butterflies, daydreams, all that good stuff that you probably know nothing about. I could see the good in you when you couldn’t even see it yourself, and I felt honored that you were letting me in because I get the impression you don’t do that too often. Like an idiot, I thought it meant something.”
I shrug.
“But it turns out it meant nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I continue. “Because you’re still as heartless and miserable as you were the night we—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence because suddenly my back is pressed against his door and his lips are claiming mine.
30
Bennett
She melts against me, a sweet surrender, and her mouth is fire-hot.
I cup her face in my hands, my fingertips tangling in her silky blonde hair as her cinnamon tongue dances with mine.
Everything she said tonight was right.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
Sometimes talking to her is like looking into a mirror that only shows you the deepest parts of yourself, the parts you don’t want to look at even though you know they’re there. It’s uncomfortable. Painful at times. But in thirty years, I’ve yet to meet a woman who can take one look at me and see all the pieces no one else can see.
We stumble backwards, making our way to my bedroom, clothing falling off in layers leaving a trail from the foyer.
Cashmere lips. Honeyed tongue. Crystalline soul.
I can fight it all I want, but Astaire is a delicacy.
If I let her walk out of here, I know I’d regret it for the rest of my life.
There would never be another her.
There could never be another this … whatever this is.
We haven’t a shred of clothing by the time we get to my room, and I all but toss her in the center of my bed, climbing over her and stealing tastes of every divot, curve, and indentation on her soft, sweet body starting at her mouth … working down her jaw … stopping at her collar … taking my time between her swollen breasts … dragging my tongue down the center of her caving belly until I settle between her thighs.
I lift her legs over my shoulders and drag my tongue along her wet seam.
She grabs a fistful of bed sheets, releasing the quietest moan.
For the past month, I’ve wanted nothing more than to break her, to shatter her sweetness, because it only reminded me of my own weaknesses. I hated her for being soft. And I wanted her to hate me back.
I circle her swollen clit before tasting her again, and her body shudders against the bed in response. Sliding two fingers inside her, I stroke her g-spot and continue to devour her velvet pussy.
“Are you … are you sure we should be …” she asks, breathless.
I know what she’s insinuating.
Stopping, I climb over her, pressing kisses into her middle. “We’ll go slow.”
Slow, romantic sex isn’t usually my thing—but neither are women like Astaire.
I slide my hands along her outer thighs before wrapping them around my waist and pulling her closer. Our gazes catch. I dip down and crush her mouth with a kiss, sharing her taste on my tongue.
“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this,” I whisper, my lips grazing hers. “Wanted you …”
Running her fingers through my hair, she bites her lower lip. “Is this going to be just sex for you? Because if it is—”
“—no, Astaire. This isn’t going to be just sex for me.” I kiss her again, our bodies pressed against one another, grinding, teasing.
I bite a kiss into her neck before peeling myself away to grab a foil packet from the top drawer of my nightstand. Ripping it open between my teeth, I toss the packet aside and roll the rubber down my shaft before returning.
Running my hand between her thighs, I spread them wider before plunging my finger into her wet pussy. Her stomach caves and she exhales as I taste her sweetness one more time before stroking her entrance with the head of my cock.
A second later, I plunge my length deep inside of her, filling her tightness as her nails dig into my shoulder blades. Thrust after thrust, she fucks me back, settling into a rhythm as our mouths meet between breathless sighs.
Thrust for thrust, we go harder, faster, deeper.
We’re not anywhere close to finished, and already I can’t wait to have her again.
“Slow down,” Astaire whispers, her hands sliding to the small of my back. “Enjoy this … … I’m not going anywhere and we’ve got all night …”
Our gazes lock and she brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, her swollen lips twisting into a sideways smile as she stares into my eyes in a way that no one ever has before, like she’s staring into the insulated, obscure parts of me.
I think back to what she said earlier, that she was falling for me.
I didn’t give myself a chance to let those words sink in at the time, to stop and listen to what she was trying to tell me, because I was so busy trying to convince myself that I was doing the right thing.
The words linger on the tip of my tongue.
I’m falling for you too.
I don’t say them.
I can’t. Not yet.
But the craziest thing happens: she slips her fingers around the back of my neck, kisses me soft and slow, and whispers the words, “I know.”
It hasn’t been but a few minutes since I kissed Astaire goodbye Saturday morning when there’s a knock at the door. I shut the shower water off, slip back into my sweats, and jog to the door. I imagine she forgot something.
Or maybe she came back for one more round …
I check the peep hole to be certain—only to be met with the familiar lanky outline of Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach.
She knocks again. “Open up, Bennett. I know you’re home. I just passed one of your conquests in the hallway. I’m not leaving until you answer.”
And she means it too.
She’s been known to set up camp for hours when necessary, having her assistants bring her lunches and magazines and phone chargers.
Steeling my resolve, I swing the door wide.
Her gaze lands immediately on my bare chest. “My God, Bennett. Have you no decency?”
“I was just about to grab a shower … you should have called.”
She steps in, pushing past me. “I’ve been calling you all week.”
My mother’s watchful gaze sweeps the space, as if she’s looking for clues or signs or evidence, though for what I’m not sure.
“I heard you were back in the hospital this week.” She turns to face me, hands clasped.
I’ve no need to ask how she heard. Knowing my brother, I imagine he had Astaire followed after he saw her leaving my place that night with my bag in tow.
“Everything all right, darling?” she asks. But before I can answer she adds, “Well, I suppose I should assume so, seeing how you didn’t think to call your dear mother and let her know you’d been admitted.”
“I’m fine. Now what can I help you with, Mother?”
“We need to discuss that child again.” Disgust colors her voice.