Beautiful Bombshell
Page 32
“Nudie club, fake medical emergencies, fan-fucking-tastic dinner, grand theft auto, transvestite escort, Chloe wins a few grand, and we nearly get maimed by some goons,” Max said, standing up straighter. “Not so bad, eh?”
Will turned to stare at him. “Grand theft auto?”
Max rubbed his face, shaking his head. “A story for another—”
Will held up a hand, eyes wide as if he’d already moved on from his first question. “And how could you forget Mike Hawk? I think, especially for the two of you, Mike Hawk figured quite prominently in this evening’s activities.” Will hiccupped, weaving slightly as the doors to our floor opened. “I’d say you’re pu**y-whipped, but I think it’s even worse than that.”
I watched as Max’s smile went from self-satisfied to mocking. “Will. Darling.” He put a heavy hand on Will’s cheek and clucked his tongue. “I can’t wait for that one girl to come in and kick your feet out from under you. You think you have things organized, sorted. You think you’re content with your low-key bachelor apartment, with your triathlons and your work and your scheduled pu**y. When that one girl comes along, I’m going to say I told you so, and give you no bloody sympathy when you’ve turned into a lovesick strop.” With a light slap to Will’s cheek, he stepped away, laughing as he walked down the hall. “Can’t f**king wait for it, mate.”
Will watched Max’s heavy limbs and dragging feet, and then turned to me expectantly as if I would add to the lecture. I shrugged. “Pretty much what he said. When you find that girl, we’ll be happy for you, but mostly we’ll be happy to give you endless shit.”
“This is why you’re my people,” he mumbled, punching me weakly in the chest before turning the opposite way down the hall.
Bidding Will good night, I walked to my room, wishing I knew where Chloe was staying. Even as exhausted and half drunk as I was, I still would have gone downstairs and climbed in a cab to go anywhere to her.
Just inside my door, I stopped at my closet to hang up my blazer, and froze. Dangling from a wooden hanger was Chloe’s lingerie from the club, the jewel stones of the tiny bra and underwear winking green and white in the dim light coming in the bedroom window.
I moved farther into the room, wanting to confirm what my racing pulse had concluded: she was here, in my bed, waiting for me. Sure enough, a Chloe-shaped lump was sound asleep amid a mountain of blankets and pillows in the middle of the king mattress.
Stripping my clothes off and leaving them in a discarded pile on the floor, I climbed over her, braced on my arms and legs. Not touching her, not yet, just taking her in: a tangle of brown curls against the stark white bed linens, eyes closed but lids fluttering in her dreams, lips wet and red and begging to be kissed. Everything below her neck was covered by her cocoon of blankets, and when I stared down at the steady rhythm of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her neck, I felt a little predatory. The thrill of being able to do this—kiss her, wake her up, f**k her—was still as fresh tonight as it was nearly two years ago when, for the first time, we finally had time alone in a hotel.
Lifting the covers, I slid in beside her and realized she was wearing nothing but my shirt. Beneath, her body was bare. It was one of my favorite iterations of Chloe: when her limbs were heavy and slow from sleep, her sounds similarly deeper, more wanton.
I inched down beneath the covers only as she began to be aware that I was in bed with her. She’d bathed; she no longer smelled of an unfamiliar woman but of her own soap now, blossom and citrus. I kissed the curve of her breast over the shirt, lifted the cotton to lick a line from her belly button to the sweetness of her hip.
Curious fingers ran through my hair; fingertips grazed along my jaw and moved up to trace the shape of my mouth. “I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered, rising into consciousness.
“Not dreaming.”
Her hands found my hair, her legs opened wide beneath the covers because she knew now that I was there, and that I was going to give her what she loved more than almost anything on the planet. Shifting so I was lying between her legs, I bent and blew a soft stream of air across her pu**y, teasing and relishing how she bowed off the bed for me, urging me closer, offering her little broken sounds of pleasure. It was a dance I loved: kissing her hips, her thighs, exhaling oh-so-close to that sweet, tiny slide of skin. The room was cool but her skin was already damp with perspiration, and with a single finger I easily slid through the heat of her sex. My Chloe cried out, in a tangle of relief and need.
She didn’t urge me faster because if she’d learned anything, it’s that I would just slow down. She was in my bed, in my room, already my wife for all intents and purposes, and no way was I rushing this when I’d been thinking of her all night, and had nowhere to be early tomorrow morning—this morning—except in bed with her.
Will turned to stare at him. “Grand theft auto?”
Max rubbed his face, shaking his head. “A story for another—”
Will held up a hand, eyes wide as if he’d already moved on from his first question. “And how could you forget Mike Hawk? I think, especially for the two of you, Mike Hawk figured quite prominently in this evening’s activities.” Will hiccupped, weaving slightly as the doors to our floor opened. “I’d say you’re pu**y-whipped, but I think it’s even worse than that.”
I watched as Max’s smile went from self-satisfied to mocking. “Will. Darling.” He put a heavy hand on Will’s cheek and clucked his tongue. “I can’t wait for that one girl to come in and kick your feet out from under you. You think you have things organized, sorted. You think you’re content with your low-key bachelor apartment, with your triathlons and your work and your scheduled pu**y. When that one girl comes along, I’m going to say I told you so, and give you no bloody sympathy when you’ve turned into a lovesick strop.” With a light slap to Will’s cheek, he stepped away, laughing as he walked down the hall. “Can’t f**king wait for it, mate.”
Will watched Max’s heavy limbs and dragging feet, and then turned to me expectantly as if I would add to the lecture. I shrugged. “Pretty much what he said. When you find that girl, we’ll be happy for you, but mostly we’ll be happy to give you endless shit.”
“This is why you’re my people,” he mumbled, punching me weakly in the chest before turning the opposite way down the hall.
Bidding Will good night, I walked to my room, wishing I knew where Chloe was staying. Even as exhausted and half drunk as I was, I still would have gone downstairs and climbed in a cab to go anywhere to her.
Just inside my door, I stopped at my closet to hang up my blazer, and froze. Dangling from a wooden hanger was Chloe’s lingerie from the club, the jewel stones of the tiny bra and underwear winking green and white in the dim light coming in the bedroom window.
I moved farther into the room, wanting to confirm what my racing pulse had concluded: she was here, in my bed, waiting for me. Sure enough, a Chloe-shaped lump was sound asleep amid a mountain of blankets and pillows in the middle of the king mattress.
Stripping my clothes off and leaving them in a discarded pile on the floor, I climbed over her, braced on my arms and legs. Not touching her, not yet, just taking her in: a tangle of brown curls against the stark white bed linens, eyes closed but lids fluttering in her dreams, lips wet and red and begging to be kissed. Everything below her neck was covered by her cocoon of blankets, and when I stared down at the steady rhythm of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her neck, I felt a little predatory. The thrill of being able to do this—kiss her, wake her up, f**k her—was still as fresh tonight as it was nearly two years ago when, for the first time, we finally had time alone in a hotel.
Lifting the covers, I slid in beside her and realized she was wearing nothing but my shirt. Beneath, her body was bare. It was one of my favorite iterations of Chloe: when her limbs were heavy and slow from sleep, her sounds similarly deeper, more wanton.
I inched down beneath the covers only as she began to be aware that I was in bed with her. She’d bathed; she no longer smelled of an unfamiliar woman but of her own soap now, blossom and citrus. I kissed the curve of her breast over the shirt, lifted the cotton to lick a line from her belly button to the sweetness of her hip.
Curious fingers ran through my hair; fingertips grazed along my jaw and moved up to trace the shape of my mouth. “I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered, rising into consciousness.
“Not dreaming.”
Her hands found my hair, her legs opened wide beneath the covers because she knew now that I was there, and that I was going to give her what she loved more than almost anything on the planet. Shifting so I was lying between her legs, I bent and blew a soft stream of air across her pu**y, teasing and relishing how she bowed off the bed for me, urging me closer, offering her little broken sounds of pleasure. It was a dance I loved: kissing her hips, her thighs, exhaling oh-so-close to that sweet, tiny slide of skin. The room was cool but her skin was already damp with perspiration, and with a single finger I easily slid through the heat of her sex. My Chloe cried out, in a tangle of relief and need.
She didn’t urge me faster because if she’d learned anything, it’s that I would just slow down. She was in my bed, in my room, already my wife for all intents and purposes, and no way was I rushing this when I’d been thinking of her all night, and had nowhere to be early tomorrow morning—this morning—except in bed with her.
