We slowly returned from orbit, and with limbs tangled in the sheets, talked for hours about our day, about the meeting with Gugliotti, about his dinner and my night out with friends. We talked about the broken desk, and that I only packed enough underwear for a week, so he couldn’t ruin any more.
We talked about everything except the havoc he was wreaking on my heart.
I ran a finger down his chest and he stilled it with his hand, bringing it to his lips and saying, “It’s nice to talk to you.”
I laughed, pushing his hair off his forehead. “You talk to me every day. And when I say talk, I mean yell. Shout. Slam doors. Pout—”
With his fingertips, he drew spirals over my bare stomach, distracting me. “You know what I mean.”
I did. I knew exactly what he meant, and I wanted to find a way to stretch this moment, right there, into eternity. “So tell me something.”
He raised his eyes to my face, smiling a little nervously. “What do you want to know?”
“Honestly? I think I want to know everything. But let’s start small. Give me the history of Bennett’s women.”
He ran a long finger across his eyebrow and repeated in a laugh, “Let’s start small. Riiiight.” He cleared his throat and then looked at me. “A few in high school, some in college, some in grad school. Some after grad school. And then, one long-term relationship when I lived in France.”
“Details?” I twisted a strand of his hair around my finger, hoping I wasn’t pushing him too much.
But to my surprise, he answered without hesitation. “Her name was Sylvie. She was an attorney at a small firm in Paris. We were together for three years and broke up a few months before I moved home.”
“Was that why you moved home?”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “No.”
“Did she break your heart?”
The smile turned into a full-on smirk directed at me. “No, Chloe.”
“Did you break hers?” Why was I even asking this? Did I want him to say—yes? I knew he was capable of breaking hearts. I was actually fairly certain he would break mine.
He bent to kiss me then, sucking on my lower lip for a few moments before whispering, “No. We just didn’t work anymore. My romantic life was entirely without drama. Until you.”
I laughed. “Happy to change up the pattern.”
I could feel his laugh in the vibrations along my skin as he kissed up my neck. “And oh, you do.” Long fingers made their way down my stomach, to my hips, and finally, between my legs. “Your turn.”
“To have an orgasm? Yes, please.”
He circled a lazy finger around my clit before sliding it inside me. He knew my body better than I did. When did that happen?
“No,” he murmured. “Your turn to spill your history.”
“No way can I think about anything when you’re doing that.”
With a kiss to my shoulder, he moved his hand back to my stomach, drawing circles there once again.
I pouted but he missed it, watching his fingers on me instead. “God, there have been so many men, where will I ever begin?”
“Chloe,” he warned.
“A couple in high school, one in college.”
“You’ve only had sex with three men?”
I pulled back to look at him. “Hello, Einstein. I’ve had sex with four men.”
A cocky grin spread across his face. “Right. And am I the best by an embarrassingly wide margin?”
“Am I?”
His grin disappeared, and he blinked, surprised. “Yes.”
It was sincere. It made something inside me melt into a tiny, warm hum. I reached to kiss his chin, trying to hide what that information did to me. “Good.”
Kissing along his shoulder, I moaned happily. I loved his taste, loved to inhale that clean, sage smell of his. Digging my fingers into his hair, I tugged him down so I could nibble at his jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He held himself very still, propped over me, very clearly not kissing me back.
The hell?
He inhaled to speak and then closed his mouth again. Somehow I managed to drag my mouth away long enough to ask, “What?”
“I realize you think I’m just a filthy manwhore, but it does actually matter to me.”
“What matters to—?”
“I want to hear you to say it.”
I stared at him, and he stared back, irises growing a familiar shade of angry brown-green. Mentally rifling through the last few minutes, I tried to understand what he was talking about.
Oh. “Oh. Yes.”
His brows pulled together. “Yes, what, Miss Mills?”
Heat pulsed through me. His voice was different when he said that. Sharp. Commanding. Hot as hell. “Yes, you’re the best by a very embarrassing margin.”
“That’s better.”
“At least so far.”
He rolled on top of me, grabbing my wrists and pinning them above my head. “Don’t tease.”
“Don’t tease? Please,” I said, breathless. His cock pressed into my thigh. I wanted it higher. I wanted it pushing inside me. “Teasing is all we do.”
As if to prove me wrong, he reached down, grabbing his length and guiding himself into me, pulling my leg around his hip. Holding very still, he stared down at me. His upper lip twitched.
“Please move,” I whispered.
“You’d like that?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
I bit my lip, tried to glare at him.
He smiled, growling, “This is teasing.”
“Please?” I tried to move my hips but he followed my movements so I couldn’t gain any friction.
“Chloe, I never tease you. I fuck the sense out of you.”
I laughed, and his eyes fell closed when I did, my body constricting him even more.
“Not that you have much sense to begin with,” he said, biting my neck. “Now tell me how good I make you feel.” Something in his voice, some vulnerability or dip in its strength as the sentence ended told me he wasn’t playing around.
“No one has ever made me come before. Not with hands or mouth or anything else.”
He’d been holding still before, though the telltale signs of strain had been apparent; his shoulders trembled and his breath came out in shallow pants, as if his entire body wanted to explode into a wild tangle in the sheets. But when I said this, he completely froze. “No one?”
“Only you.” I stretched to nibble his jaw. “I’d say that puts you a bit ahead of the field.”
He exhaled my name as his hips moved back and then forward. And again back and forward. The conversation was done; his mouth found mine, and then my chin, and my jaw, and my ears. His hand moved up my side, to my breast, and finally to my face.
And when I thought we were both lost to the rhythm and I could feel my climax just beyond me, but so close, and I dug both heels into his ass, needing more, and faster, and all of him, he whispered, “I wish I’d known that.”
“Why?” I managed, an exhale carrying the sound barely past my lips. Faster, my body screamed. More. “Would it have changed how big an asshole you were?”
He unwrapped my legs from around him, flipped me over and up onto my knees. “I don’t know. I just wish I’d known,” he grunted, pushing into me once again. “Jesus. So fucking deep like this.”
His movements were so fluid, like dancing, rippling water; like the sliding of the sunlight across a room. The mattress springs groaned beneath us, the force of his thrusts pushing me farther up the bed.
“Almost.” I clutched at the sheets, begged him to keep going. “Almost. Harder.”
“Fuck. I’m so close. Get there.” He synchronized every movement with the last, knowing now was the point where he couldn’t change a thing. “Get there.”
His face, his voice, his scent—each part of him filled my mind as I obediently came apart beneath him.
He thrust roughly; then every muscle froze before he melted against me as he came. “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .” he breathed into my hair before falling quiet, heavy and still on top of me.
The air conditioner turned on with a rattle and then a steady drone. After he caught his breath, Bennett rolled off me, dragging his hand across my sweaty back. “Chloe?”
“Mmm?”
“I want more than just this.” His voice was so thick and heavy, I wasn’t actually sure he was awake.
I froze, my thoughts exploding in a chaotic mess. “What did you just say?”
He opened his eyes, with apparent effort, and looked at me. “I want to be with you.”
Lifting myself on an elbow, I stared down at him, completely unable to pull a single word out of my brain.
“So sleepy.” His eyes rolled closed and he threw a heavy arm around me, pulling me down onto him. “Baby, come here.” He pressed his face into my neck and mumbled, “It’s okay if you don’t want it too. I’ll take anything you’ll give me. Just let me stay here until the morning, okay?”
I was suddenly wide awake, staring at the dark wall and listening to the hum of the air conditioner. I was terrified that this changed everything, and even more terrified that he had no idea what he was saying, and it would change nothing.
“Okay,” I whispered into the dark, hearing his breathing slow into a steady, sleeping rhythm.
I rolled over and pulled a pillow against my body, seeking comfort. His scent pulled me out of sleep, but the cool sheets on the other side of the bed told me I was alone. I looked toward the bathroom door, trying to focus on any noise I could hear coming from inside. There wasn’t any.
I continued to lie there, clutching his pillow as my eyes began to grow heavier. I wanted to wait for him. I needed the reassurance of his warm body next to mine and the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me. I imagined him holding me, whispering that this was all real and nothing would change in the morning. Before long, my eyes drifted closed and I slipped back into an uneasy sleep.
Sometime later, I awoke again, still alone. Rolling over quickly, I looked at the time: 5:14 a.m.
What? Fumbling in the darkness, I put on the first thing I found and walked to the bathroom.
“Bennett?” No answer. I knocked softly. “Bennett?” A groan and a soft shuffle sounded from the other side of the door.
“Just go away.” His voice was hoarse and echoed off the bathroom walls.
“Bennett, are you okay?”
“I’m not feeling well. I’ll be fine, go back to bed.”
“Is there anything I can get you?” I asked.
“I’m fine. Just please, go back to bed.”
“But—”
“Chloe,” he groaned, obviously annoyed.
I turned, unsure of what to do, battling an odd, unsettling feeling. Did he even get sick? In just under a year, I’d never seen him with so much as a stuffy nose. It was obvious he didn’t want me hovering outside the door, but there was no way I could go back to sleep either.
Walking back to the bed, I straightened the blankets and headed toward the suite’s living room. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and sat on the couch.
If he was sick, I mean really sick, there was no way he could make the Gugliotti meeting in a couple of hours.
I switched on the TV and began flipping through the channels. Infomercial. Bad movie. Nick at Nite. Ahh, Wayne’s World. Sitting back into the couch, I tucked my legs under me and prepared to wait. Halfway through the movie, I heard the water running in the bathroom. I sat up and listened as it was the first sound I’d heard in over an hour. The bathroom door opened and I flew off the couch, grabbing another bottle of water before entering the bedroom.
“Are you feeling better?” I asked.
“Yes. I think I just need to sleep now.” He stumbled into bed, burying his face in the pillow with a groan.
“What . . . what was wrong?” I placed the bottle of water down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed next to him.
“It was just my stomach. I think it was the sushi at dinner.” His eyes were closed and even in the dim light coming from the other room, I could see that he looked like hell. He turned away from me slightly but I ignored it, placing one hand in his hair and the other on his cheek. His hair was damp and his face was pale and clammy, and despite his initial reaction, he leaned into my touch.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked, brushing a few damp strands away from his forehead.
“Because the last thing I needed was you in there watching me throw up,” he replied almost grumpily, and I rolled my eyes, offering him the bottle of water.
“I could have done something. You don’t have to be such a man.”
“Don’t be such a woman. What could you have done? Food poisoning is a pretty lonely business.”
“So what should I tell Gugliotti?”
He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit. What time is it?”
I glanced at the clock. “Just after seven.”
“What time is the meeting?”
“Eight.”
He started to get up but was easy enough to shove back down into the bed. “No way in hell are you going to that meeting like this! When was the last time you threw up?”
He groaned. “A few minutes ago.”
“Exactly. Gross. I’ll call him to reschedule.”
He gripped my arm before I could walk over to the desk and grab my phone. “Chloe. You do it.”
My eyebrows inched to my hairline. “Do what?”
He waited.
“The meeting?”
He nodded.
“Without you?”
He nodded again.
“You’re sending me to a meeting alone?”
“Miss Mills, you’re as sharp as a spoon.”
“Fuck off,” I said, laughing and pushing him gently. “And I’m not doing it without you.”
“Why not? I bet you know the account we’re offering as well as I do. Besides, if we reschedule he’s just going to take a lavish trip to Chicago and send us the bill. Please, Chloe.”
I stared down at him, waiting for him to break into a teasing grin or take it back. But he didn’t. And the truth was, I did know the account, and I did know the terms. I could do this.
“Okay,” I said, smiling and feeling a surge of hope that we could figure this—us—out after all. “I’m in.”
His face grew harder, and he used the voice I had barely heard in days. It sent small waves of hunger through me. “Tell me the plan, Miss Mills.”
Nodding, I said, “I need to make sure he’s clear on the project parameters and timelines. I’ll watch out for overpromising; I know Gugliotti is notorious for that.” When Bennett nodded, smiling a little, I continued. “I’ll confirm the contract start dates and the milestones.”
When I ticked all five of them off on my fingers, his smile grew. “You’ll be fine.”
I bent and kissed his damp forehead. “I know.”
Two hours later, if you asked me if I could fly, I would have answered yes in an instant.
The meeting had gone off perfectly. Mr. Gugliotti, who had initially been peeved to find an intern in the place of a Ryan executive, had softened when he heard the circumstances. And later, he seemed impressed with the level of detail I was able to provide.
He’d even offered me a job. “After you finish with Mr. Ryan, of course,” he’d said with a wink, and I carefully demurred.
I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be done with Mr. Ryan.
On the way back from the meeting, I called Susan to find out what Bennett liked when he was sick. Just as I suspected, the last time she’d been able to spoil him with chicken noodle soup and Popsicles, he’d been wearing a retainer. She was delighted to hear from me, and I had to swallow the guilt I felt when she asked if he was behaving. I assured her that all was fine and that he was only suffering from a mild stomach bug and that, of course, I’d have him call. With a small bag of groceries in hand, I walked into the room, stopping in the small kitchen area to drop off the food and take off my tailored wool suit.
Wearing only my slip, I moved into the bedroom, but Bennett wasn’t there. The bathroom door was open, and he wasn’t there either. It looked as if housekeeping had been in; the linens were crisp and neat, and the floor had been tidied of our piles of discarded clothes. The balcony door was open, letting in a cool breeze. Outside, I found him sitting in a chaise, elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands. He looked like he’d had a shower and was now dressed in dark jeans and a short-sleeved green T-shirt.
My skin hummed, warming at the sight of him.
“Hey,” I said.
He looked up, eyes taking in every curve. “Holy fuck. I hope you didn’t wear that to the meeting.”
“Well, I did,” I said, laughing. “But I wore it beneath a very prim navy suit.”
“Good,” he growled. He pulled me close, wrapping his arms all the way around my waist and pressing his forehead into my stomach. “I missed you.”
My chest twisted tightly. What were we doing? Was this real or were we playing house for a few days and then returning to normal? I didn’t think I could do our normal after this and wasn’t sure I could see several steps into the future to how this all played out.
Ask him, Chloe!
He looked up at me, his stare burning hot on my face as he waited for me to say something. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.
Coward.
His face fell but he hid it quickly. “Much,” he said. “How did the meeting go?”
Although I was still on a high from the meeting with Gugliotti and was dying to tell him every detail, when he asked this, he removed his arms from my waist and sat back, leaving me feeling cold and hollow. I wanted to hit the rewind button and take us back two minutes to when he told me he’d missed me, and I could answer, “I missed you too.” I’d kiss him, and we’d get distracted, and I’d tell him all about Gugliotti a few hours from now.
But instead I gave him every detail of the meeting, how Gugliotti reacted to me, and how I redirected his focus to the project at hand. I recounted every aspect of the discussion in such detail that by the end of my story, Bennett was laughing quietly.
“My, you’re wordy.”
“I think it went well,” I said, stepping closer. Put your arms around me again.
But he didn’t. He leaned back and gave me a stiff smile, the detached Beautiful Bastard kind. “You were great, Chloe. I’m not at all surprised.”
I wasn’t used to this kind of compliment from him. Improved handwriting, great blow job—these were the things he knew how to notice. I was surprised how much his opinion mattered to me. Had it always mattered so much? Would he start to treat me differently if we were lovers instead of fuck buddies? I wasn’t actually sure I even wanted him to be softer as a boss, or try to blend lover and mentor. I rather liked the Beautiful Bastard at work, as well as in bed.
But as soon as I thought it, I realized the way we used to interact now felt like a strange, foreign object in the distance, or a pair of shoes that I’d long since outgrown. I was torn between wanting him to say something dickish to jerk me back into reality and wanting him to pull me closer and kiss my breast through my slip.
Again, Chloe. Reason number 750,000 you don’t fuck your boss. You turn a well-defined relationship into a mess of blurry boundaries.
“You look so tired,” I whispered as I began running fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I am,” he mumbled. “I’m glad I didn’t go. I threw up. A lot.”
“Thanks for sharing,” I laughed. Reluctantly, I pulled away and put my hands on his face. “I brought Popsicles, ginger ale, gingersnaps, and saltines. Which do you want first?”
He stared at me, completely confused for a beat before blurting, “You called my mom?”
I went down to the conference for a few hours in the afternoon so he could sleep some more. He put up a strong front, but I could tell even half of a lime Popsicle made him queasy when he turned a matching shade of green. Besides, at this conference in particular he could barely walk ten steps without being stopped, fawned over, pitched to. Even healthy he wouldn’t make it far enough to see anything worth his time anyhow.
When I returned to the room, he was sprawled on the couch in a most un–Beautiful Bastard–like pose, shirtless and with his hand shoved down the front of his boxers. There was something so ordinary about the way he sat, bored, staring at the television. I was grateful for the reminder that this man was, in some ways, just a man. Just another person, moving around the planet, getting his bearings, not spending every second lighting the world’s stage on fire.
And buried within that epiphany that Bennett was just Bennett was a sense of wild longing because there was this chance that he was becoming my Just Bennett, and for a heartbeat, I wanted that more than I think I’d ever wanted anything.
A woman with freakishly shiny hair flipped her head and grinned at us from the television. I collapsed on the couch next to him. “What are we watching?”
“A shampoo commercial,” he answered, pulling his hand out of his shorts to reach for me. I started to tease him about cooties but shut up as soon as he began to massage my fingers. “Clerks is on, though.”
“That’s one of my favorite movies,” I said.
“I know. You were quoting it the first day I met you.”
“Actually, that was Clerks II,” I clarified, and then stopped. “Wait, you remember that?”
“Of course I remember that. You sounded like a frat boy and looked like a fucking model. What man could ever forget that?”
“I would have given anything to know what you were thinking right then.”
“I was thinking, ‘Highly fuckable intern, twelve o’clock. Disengage, soldier. I repeat, disengage.’”
I laughed and leaned against his shoulder. “God, that first meeting was miserable.”
He didn’t say anything but kept running his thumb along my fingers, pressing and soothing. I had never had a hand massage before, and if he’d tried to turn it to oral sex, I might have turned him down just to keep him doing what he was doing.
Wow, that’s a total lie. I’d take that mouth between my legs any day of the—
“How do you want it to be, Chloe?” he asked, pulling me out of my internal debate.
“What?”
“When we’re back in Chicago.”
I stared blankly at him, my pulse sending my blood thrumming in heavy bursts through my veins.
“Us,” he clarified, with forced patience. “You and me. Chloe and Bennett. Man and shrew. I realize this isn’t simple for you.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to fight all the time.” I bumped his shoulder playfully. “Although I do sort of like that part.”
Bennett laughed, but it didn’t sound like a completely happy noise. “There’s a lot of space that comes after ‘not fighting all the time.’ Where do you want to be?”
Together. Your girlfriend. Someone who sees the inside of your home and stays there with you sometimes. I started to answer and the words evaporated in my throat.
“I guess that depends on whether it’s realistic to think it can be anything.”
He dropped my hand and scrubbed his face. The movie came back on and we fell into what I think was the most awkward silence in the history of the world.
Finally, he picked my hand up again and kissed my palm. “Okay, baby. I can handle just not fighting all the time.”
I stared at his fingers wrapped around mine. After what felt like an eternity, I managed, “Sorry. This all feels a little new.”
“For me too,” he reminded me.
We fell into silence again as we continued to watch the movie, laughing in the same places and slowly shifting until I was practically lying on top of him. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at the clock on the wall and mentally calculated the hours we had left in San Diego.
Fourteen.
Fourteen hours left of this perfect reality where I could have him whenever I wanted him, and it didn’t have to be secret, or dirty, using anger as our only form of foreplay.
“What’s your favorite movie?” he asked, rolling me over so he hovered above me. His skin was hot and I wanted to take off my blouse, but I didn’t want him to move even an inch, for even a second.
“I like comedies,” I began. “There’s Clerks, but Tommy Boy, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Clue; things like that. But I would have to say my all-time favorite movie would probably be Rear Window.”
“Because of Jimmy Stewart or Grace Kelly?” he asked, bending to kiss a trail of fire up my neck.
“Both, but probably Grace Kelly.”
“I can see that. You have very Grace Kelly–like tendencies about you.” His hand came up and smoothed a piece of my hair that had come loose from my ponytail. “I hear Grace Kelly had a filthy mouth too,” he added.
“You love my filthy mouth.”
“True. But I like it better when it’s full,” he said, meaningful smirk in place.
“You know, if you would shut up once in a while you’d be damn near perfect.”
“But I’d be a silent panty ripper, which I think is a lot creepier than the angry-boss panty ripper.”
I dissolved into giggles under him and he dug a finger between my ribs, tickling.
“I know you love it,” he growled.
“Bennett?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “What do you do with them?”
He gave me a dark, teasing look. “I keep them somewhere safe.”
“Can I see?”
“No.”
“Why?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Because you’ll try and take them back.”
“Why would I want them back? They’re all ruined.”
He grinned at me but didn’t answer.
“Why do you do that anyway?”
He studied me for a moment, obviously considering his answer. Finally, he lifted himself onto his elbow and moved his face to within inches of mine. “For the same reason you like it.”
With that, he stood up and pulled me with him into the bedroom.
