She shifts to get off me.
I reach for her wrist, feeling her delicate pulse beneath my thumb.
“Can I offer you a glass of water? More wine?”
For purely selfish reasons, I don’t want her to leave. Not like last time. Something about her walking out that door feels wrong tonight. I never ask women to stay after we fuck. But knowing I’ll see her in the office on Monday—and at April’s engagement dinner tomorrow—makes me feel like we could benefit by forming a friendship. She’s my sister’s best friend. I know this is a superficial arrangement, but I don’t want her to feel like I’m using her, like I don’t value her or what she’s given me.
She exhales. “Sure. Wine would be nice. Thanks.”
I follow her into the hallway, naked, watching as she collects her trench, wrapping it around herself.
“I have clothes,” I say, rounding the island and twisting open the wine bottle. “What do you need? Joggers? A jumper?”
She cocks a brow. “You want me to wear your clothes?”
I shrug. “They’d look good on you.”
“I have clothes,” she says.
“Gemma, you came here wearing the equivalent of dental floss.”
“You didn’t seem to mind mydental flossan hour ago.”
“Believe me, Iloveyour dental floss. But throw something comfortable on, something warm. I promise, you can put your floss back on later.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Fine. But not because I want to. I’m only accepting your offer because I don’t feel like having lace wedged up my crack right now.”
“Are you always so alluring?” I ask, pouring another two glasses of wine.
She flashes a smile and winks. “Only for you.”
I hand her the wine and lead her to my bedroom, pulling open a drawer. “Take your pick.”
She rummages through my jumpers, eventually selecting a well-worn NYU jumper. “NYU? How predictably elite of you.”
“I got restless and wanted to get out of London,” I say, my voice casual.
I hold her wine and watch her sultry hips sway as she disappears into the bathroom. “Really? Why? London isn’t that bad,” she calls from behind the closed door.
I lean, one hand braced against the top of the doorframe. “Our upbringing, I suppose. I got so used to moving from city to city for Dad’s work when I was a kid, well before Anna came along. It felt constricting staying in one place for so long. I got itchy feet.”
I hear the toilet flush followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps against tiles, then she swings the door open, freezing.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Max. Yes, you’ve got a body that belongs on the cover ofMen’sHealthand a dick that deserves its own Instagram, but could you please put some trousers on?”
I’m rooted on the spot. Her half compliment goes way over my head, because there’s something about the way she looks in my clothes that sets off an inherent need to claim her all over again.
It’s primal.
The long sleeves fall past her dainty fingertips, the hem reaching just above her knees. Her hair is mussed, makeup slightly smudged, and she smells like sex.
She looks more breathtaking now than when she arrived in that emerald number.
“What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious as I regard her.
“Nothing,” I say, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between us. I finally reach for my joggers, pulling them on. “Better? Or should I find a turtleneck too?”
“Hilarious.” She snatches her wine glass and makes her way back out to the sofa. “So.” She settles into the cushions, crossing her legs. She looks small. Fragile. The total opposite of who she presents outside the comfort of an apartment.
