Tycoon
Page 30
“Is that a good idea?” I gasp in disbelief at his suggestion. “I can hardly keep my hands to myself right now.”
“Spend the night with me,” he says.
“Aaric.”
He takes my chin and lifts my face, one eyebrow rising. “We can talk business.”
I swallow.
“Or we can actually sleep,” I hedge.
“I’m up for that.” His lips hike up halfway as he nods in consent.
“We can’t kiss again,” I breathe.
His gaze falls to my mouth. Is there regret there? Lust? Both? “I’m trying to take it slow with you, Bryn.”
“Christos…frankly, I don’t know what to make of this.”
“Like I said, I’m hoping to take it slow enough for you to feel comfortable.”
“Comfortable with what?”
“The idea of you and me being involved, bit. To us taking things to where we want them. Tonight I want you to sleep here—I can sleep in a separate room if you need your space.”
“I don’t want space. But I don’t want to regret anything…” I trail off.
Because I already know sometimes the regrets go both ways. Going home won’t guarantee that I won’t wake up without any regrets. With more what ifs, more mind-dream kisses from Christos.
“I suppose if I’m staying I should change. Do you have something decent I can wear?” I ask.
We walk into his bedroom—it’s too big and beautifully decorated to be anything but his. He leads me to the closet, motioning to the very end.
I am surprised to find a whole section of his closet contains women’s things. I would leave if he weren’t standing at the door watching me. “I’m not wearing Miranda’s stuff.”
“She leaves shit here. Grab anything else.” He pushes off the door frame.
“I’m not wearing her stuff!” I raise my voice so he can hear me as I stalk to the other side of his closet, undo my dress, then quickly grab a folded gray sweatshirt and slip my arms into the sleeves.
He stands by the bed and watches me walk into his room while he fiddles with his phone. His head snaps back attentively, and he freezes.
“What?” I ask.
He stares another moment longer.
“Just really like seeing you in my things,” he says. Low. A lovely smirk on his lips.
I smile, flushing head to toe.
“1 a.m., right?” he asks, glancing down at his phone.
I realize what he is doing and discreetly bite down on my lip while more heat bubbles up in my veins. I nod.
He sets his phone aside and pulls back the sheets in invitation.
He’s still dressed. I’m wearing nothing but my undergarments and his very large sweatshirt and his eyes on me—eyes that won’t focus on anything else.
God. He makes me feel sexy and that’s dangerous. I already feel sensitive when it comes to him. And I’ve never done something like this. This is a little too brazen for me, but I still cross the room and settle into his bed. I have no intention of misbehaving, but the truth is…
I don’t want to sleep alone tonight either.
He unbuttons his shirt, revealing his tattoo. It runs up over his shoulders and across part of his chest.
I’m no longer relaxed. Not one bit.
He climbs the bed with me, I hold my breath.
I feel his bare chest against me as he draws me toward him. His long legs still in slacks.
“I’m going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?” I cant my head up to his and shift to get closer.
“No.” His mouth presses to my forehead, and that tiny contact makes me groan. “God, I want to feast on you,” he says, against my temple.
His eyes gleam as he slips his hand to my hair and squeezes the back of my neck proprietarily as he ducks his head and takes my mouth beneath his, the kiss so hard and brazen it pushes the back of my head into the pillow and my senses into chaos.
I feel myself claw at his scalp and his fingers fist my hair, the kiss full of tongue and teeth and frustration and lust.
Six minutes later or a lifetime later, we stop kissing. My mouth hurts like hell, but I still want more. He looks ready to turn to ash from the heat in his gaze as he takes in my expression.
He looks about as wrecked as I feel, because I’m stealing this moment from him. A moment that should belong to another girl.
He looks wrecked but hungry, so hungry that when he ducks his head for another kiss, I turn my head and breathe, “We can’t. We can’t do this.” He lets out a soft but frustrated laugh and whispers in the back of my ear, “We can. But I’ll wait for you, Bryn. I’ll wait to get any piece of you I can get.”
It’s almost enough to break my resolve.
Bryn
It felt surreal to wake up at his place at 1 a.m.
At 3 a.m.
at 5 a.m.
and at 7 a.m.
The first three times, he turned off the alarm and whispered in my ear that I was okay. For some reason, I believed him and went back asleep. At 7 a.m., a different sound began buzzing. The clock on the nightstand.
I scanned his empty bedroom in a panic.
Did I really sleep here?
I breathe, spot a note on his pillow, and get out of bed.
I consider using the shower, but then rule against it. When I return his sweatshirt to the drawers, I can’t help but peek at the long line of female things in his closet. The clothes Miranda has left here. They are made of high-quality fabrics. I don’t want to do this to myself. In fact, I’m not going to compare. It’s ridiculous to think she’s the better woman because of her clothes, because she wears European designer and I wear my own, and I know it’s not true. But I can’t help but remember what Christos told me. They make sense as a couple—and in the light of day they make more sense. Last night seems more reckless and impulsive than ever.
“Spend the night with me,” he says.
“Aaric.”
He takes my chin and lifts my face, one eyebrow rising. “We can talk business.”
I swallow.
“Or we can actually sleep,” I hedge.
“I’m up for that.” His lips hike up halfway as he nods in consent.
“We can’t kiss again,” I breathe.
His gaze falls to my mouth. Is there regret there? Lust? Both? “I’m trying to take it slow with you, Bryn.”
“Christos…frankly, I don’t know what to make of this.”
“Like I said, I’m hoping to take it slow enough for you to feel comfortable.”
“Comfortable with what?”
“The idea of you and me being involved, bit. To us taking things to where we want them. Tonight I want you to sleep here—I can sleep in a separate room if you need your space.”
“I don’t want space. But I don’t want to regret anything…” I trail off.
Because I already know sometimes the regrets go both ways. Going home won’t guarantee that I won’t wake up without any regrets. With more what ifs, more mind-dream kisses from Christos.
“I suppose if I’m staying I should change. Do you have something decent I can wear?” I ask.
We walk into his bedroom—it’s too big and beautifully decorated to be anything but his. He leads me to the closet, motioning to the very end.
I am surprised to find a whole section of his closet contains women’s things. I would leave if he weren’t standing at the door watching me. “I’m not wearing Miranda’s stuff.”
“She leaves shit here. Grab anything else.” He pushes off the door frame.
“I’m not wearing her stuff!” I raise my voice so he can hear me as I stalk to the other side of his closet, undo my dress, then quickly grab a folded gray sweatshirt and slip my arms into the sleeves.
He stands by the bed and watches me walk into his room while he fiddles with his phone. His head snaps back attentively, and he freezes.
“What?” I ask.
He stares another moment longer.
“Just really like seeing you in my things,” he says. Low. A lovely smirk on his lips.
I smile, flushing head to toe.
“1 a.m., right?” he asks, glancing down at his phone.
I realize what he is doing and discreetly bite down on my lip while more heat bubbles up in my veins. I nod.
He sets his phone aside and pulls back the sheets in invitation.
He’s still dressed. I’m wearing nothing but my undergarments and his very large sweatshirt and his eyes on me—eyes that won’t focus on anything else.
God. He makes me feel sexy and that’s dangerous. I already feel sensitive when it comes to him. And I’ve never done something like this. This is a little too brazen for me, but I still cross the room and settle into his bed. I have no intention of misbehaving, but the truth is…
I don’t want to sleep alone tonight either.
He unbuttons his shirt, revealing his tattoo. It runs up over his shoulders and across part of his chest.
I’m no longer relaxed. Not one bit.
He climbs the bed with me, I hold my breath.
I feel his bare chest against me as he draws me toward him. His long legs still in slacks.
“I’m going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?” I cant my head up to his and shift to get closer.
“No.” His mouth presses to my forehead, and that tiny contact makes me groan. “God, I want to feast on you,” he says, against my temple.
His eyes gleam as he slips his hand to my hair and squeezes the back of my neck proprietarily as he ducks his head and takes my mouth beneath his, the kiss so hard and brazen it pushes the back of my head into the pillow and my senses into chaos.
I feel myself claw at his scalp and his fingers fist my hair, the kiss full of tongue and teeth and frustration and lust.
Six minutes later or a lifetime later, we stop kissing. My mouth hurts like hell, but I still want more. He looks ready to turn to ash from the heat in his gaze as he takes in my expression.
He looks about as wrecked as I feel, because I’m stealing this moment from him. A moment that should belong to another girl.
He looks wrecked but hungry, so hungry that when he ducks his head for another kiss, I turn my head and breathe, “We can’t. We can’t do this.” He lets out a soft but frustrated laugh and whispers in the back of my ear, “We can. But I’ll wait for you, Bryn. I’ll wait to get any piece of you I can get.”
It’s almost enough to break my resolve.
Bryn
It felt surreal to wake up at his place at 1 a.m.
At 3 a.m.
at 5 a.m.
and at 7 a.m.
The first three times, he turned off the alarm and whispered in my ear that I was okay. For some reason, I believed him and went back asleep. At 7 a.m., a different sound began buzzing. The clock on the nightstand.
I scanned his empty bedroom in a panic.
Did I really sleep here?
I breathe, spot a note on his pillow, and get out of bed.
I consider using the shower, but then rule against it. When I return his sweatshirt to the drawers, I can’t help but peek at the long line of female things in his closet. The clothes Miranda has left here. They are made of high-quality fabrics. I don’t want to do this to myself. In fact, I’m not going to compare. It’s ridiculous to think she’s the better woman because of her clothes, because she wears European designer and I wear my own, and I know it’s not true. But I can’t help but remember what Christos told me. They make sense as a couple—and in the light of day they make more sense. Last night seems more reckless and impulsive than ever.
