I nod and he slides into me again, slower now, my legs hooked over his shoulders.
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands roaming my hips, my tits, pinching my nipples as I moan. Our rhythm syncs, desperate and intimate, his thrusts matching my gasps.
“Come with me,” he growls, his fingers finding my clit again, rubbing just right. The coil in my core snaps, my pussy clenching tight around his cock as I scream, my orgasm crashing through me.
He groans, “Fuck, yes,” and buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me, hot and thick, our climaxes merging. Then we collapse against each other, breathless, finally spent, tangled in the wreckage of what we’ve done, my heart pounding with the weight of it all.
CHAPTER 15
GABBY
Iwake up the next morning with a big, stupid smile on my face.
My eyes are closed, the sheets cool against my skin, my body humming with the delicious, floaty ache he put there. Memories from last night slide in, playing like my favorite movie—his mouth at my throat, the rough way he said my name, the delicious stretching of him inside me. And the quiet after.
I stretch my toes under the sheet and bite my lip, hoping he’s still here—close enough to drag back into more fun, the slow and lazy kind, before coffee.
I roll over and reach for him. I only touch cold linen, empty space.
My eyes open to an immaculate, massive bed that looks like no one else slept it in. The other pillow is perfectly aligned. The sheet is smoothed. Of course, it is.
I close my eyes again and think about what happened last night after the sex. He’d laid me down on the couch, fed me this amazing boysenberry sherbet, and covered me in a thick, warm blanket as I laid with my head on his lap, the fire crackling in front of us.
It’d been perfect.
I sit up and look around. I’m in my room, the space otherwise empty. I must’ve fallen asleep on his lap, and then he carried me up here. Sweet. But I really want to see him.
A sleek, modern clock hangs on the wall, and the time reads a little after seven. I roll out of bed, see that I’m in some comfy, slightly oversized sleeping pants, colored in a very masculine blue and black pattern. And my shirt is an XL tank top.
His stuff. I pause for a moment, grabbing the fabric of the tank top and bunching it in my fist, bringing it to my nose and inhaling the scent of him. Musky and woodsy and perfect.
Outside, the day is a misty gray—standard fare for late winter in Chicago. I find myself looking forward to summer. By then, my belly will behugewith this baby. The idea is kind of scary and kind of exciting.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s not Sasha’s booming rap, but a gentler thing.
“Yes?” I ask out loud.
A woman’s voice—warm, professional, answers. “Ms. Resse? I’m Mrs. Kunetsova, the housekeeper.” Her voice has a heavy Russian accent. “Breakfast will be ready shortly. Mr. Orlov is out with Mr. Bogdan.”
“Okay, thank you!” I reply, trying to sound chill and casual, like talking to housekeepers, is something I do all the time.
Her footsteps fade, and silence presses back in.
I shower in the ridiculously luxurious spa bathroom, steam curling around the black marble, the delicious water pressure easing the sleep out of my muscles. When I’m done, I throw on a pair of yoga pants and my University of Chicago t-shirt. In the closet I find a gorgeous, soft, fluffy robe and toss that on over everything, cinching it tight.
After stepping into my slippers, I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair’s still wet, and I spot the slightest whisper of a hickey on my neck. My face reddens, and even though it’s kind of middle school, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little turned on by him marking me like that.
Downstairs, the kitchen gleams like a spaceship. My neck gets hot as I lay eyes on the kitchen bar, remembering what happened there last night.
Mrs. Kunetsova has laid out a feast: eggs, berries, toast—the works. There’s even coffee in a big carafe marked “D” for decaf.
“Please sit,” she says. Her accent lilts. I wonder if she’s from wherever in Russia Sasha is from. “Anything else you need?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She excuses herself to another part of the penthouse. I hover at the island, instead of sitting. For some weird reason, the idea of making a plate and eating alone at a giant dining room table makes me feel odd.
Daylight makes the penthouse feel even colder than before. The penthouse has no photos, no clutter. Not a stray book, or a forgotten cardigan, or anything else that might indicate someone lives here, and this isn’t just some gorgeous display.
