My eyes flutter at the same time my stomach tumbles. Before I can argue, the elevator doors spring open. And curiosity wins in the end, holding up a gold trophy for all to admire with my reawakened libido and Andrew’s claim to keep this between us.
I don’t say anything as I reach for his hand and step off the elevator. I stay quiet as we round the corners, our steps moving at an urgent and resolute pace. The silence stretches across the threshold of my doorway. Andrew watches me while I dig around in my purse for my keys. I feel his hands on me again, poking and prodding within the confines of what my dress is allowing to expose. And the door opens, cautiously welcoming us into another closed space shut off from the rest of the world. Here, in my two-bedroom condo, it’s just me and him.
Clunky taps of rough claws and a loud, jangly collar charge after Andrew, pushing him against the closed door.
“Whoa,” he exclaims as Buster jumps to greet him.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, looping my finger under Buster’s collar and guiding him to the bathroom. He follows obediently, the standard process for when we have guests while we wait for them to acclimate before letting Buster sniff test them. “He just wanted to say hi.”
“It’s fine,” he tells me, throwing in an understanding smile.
The stirred-up dust that created a cloud of bad decisions has settled, and the aftereffects of the kiss in the elevator seems to be nothing but an awkward silence. I try to fill it with logistics.
“I don’t think I have anything that fits you,” I start, pointing a vague finger to the couch. “But you’ll have the living room to yourself if you want to just…” Sleep in his underwear? No, that’s not where this conversation should be heading. “I’ll get you some sheets and a blanket.”
“Grace,” he calls.
“I should have an extra pillow too. It has pretty good neck support. Not all flat and lumpy. It’s in my closet,” I inform him, ignoring what sounds like a protest. “I’ll go grab it.” I turn to walk away, avoiding his eyes.
He stops me. His hand curls around my waist, turning me to face him with just enough force I don’t feel coerced. The right amount of fingers and palm and wrist veering and guiding.
“Do you trust me?” His eyes scour my face, taking in my hesitance. He watches me pull my lips between my teeth, and I take in the way his gaze hardens, turning determined and steely. His other hand cups the nape of my neck, and I shiver under his confident touch. He’s sure and hopeful, a complete contradiction to the divergent thoughts in my head. Like two sides of a road traveling in opposite directions. He inches closer when I don’t answer him. “Grace?”
My nod is barely a nod, but it’s there. In the way my chin tilts toward my chest and how my eyes turn eager and obedient. “I trust you,” I finally whisper.
And he kisses me.
This kiss upstages the one he gave me in the elevator. By a mile. It ticks off every check mark he left behind. Ones I didn’t think were possible. Like how his hands slip into my hair or how he takes control, adjusting his hips and shoulders so I know when and how to follow his lead. He nudges me backward so my butt perches on the back of my couch, and I’m completely at his will. Me, pressed against a solid surface while Andrew steps between my legs, and my knee hooks over his hip. It’s mind numbing how quickly I’ve relinquished every ounce of control to someone who knows exactly where to touch me. Like the dip in my collarbone or the back of my thighs. The knowledge that he knows what the fuck he’s doing slithers down my spine, looping down to the pit of my stomach where it feels tingly.
Deft fingers tickle my nape, blindly searching for the single button holding my dress up. I feel it peel away from my back, the cornered edge curling toward my shoulder. Time stands still as he glides his thumb over my collarbone. Time that feels phantom.
“I don’t think you realize how fucking beautiful you are,” he whispers. And he does the most intimate thing a man has ever done to me. He leans down and kisses my shoulder. But he doesn’t just kiss me. He reassures me. He calms me and comforts me into letting me trust him with my entire body.
My hands shake as they undo his buttons. Starting at the top, trembling more and more with each button I meet. He finds the last two, gripping my hands in a firm hold.
“You don’t need to be nervous,” he whispers, his lips pressed behind my ear.
“I can’t help it,” I whimper. A helpless, wretched whine squeezes through my lips.
He pulls away and takes my wrist in a gentle hold. He turns my palm over, holding it up and creating a safe distance of space between us. A small break from the heated moment. When he presses his lips to my palm, he calms my anxiety. When those lips travel to my pulse point, he replaces that anxiety with anticipation and thrill.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks sincerely.
I shake my head. “No.”
A flash of a smile, and he asks, “Where’s your room?” He slips off his dress shirt, exposing his wide chest and broad shoulders. Metal glints off his neck under the low light from my kitchen. A silver chain. Vines of black ink peek past a stretched undershirt I want to tear off and pile on top of his tossed aside shirt on the floor.
I gesture a loose hand toward his bicep, attempting to hide my efforts to catch my breath. “Is that new?”
He looks down at his arm, examining the object of my evasion tactic. “Kind of. I got it about a year ago.”
I nod. “Looks…interesting.”
His pinky brushes my knuckles. “Are you stalling?”
“And what would I be stalling?” I ask, avoiding his question.
“Since you said you don’t want me to stop, I’m really not too sure,” he muses.
