Page 58 of Saved By the CEO

And that is unfortunate. Because the dimples are on display, his jaw is slightly scruffy from not shaving, and his eyes are half-lidded in a way that makes him look warm and rumpled and devastatingly male. It hits me like a cannonball. Hard, uncomfortable, and still hot from the blast.

He’s beautiful.

So incredibly beautiful.

Not just hot. I knew he was hot. Everyone and their grandma knows he’s hot. God, women on the internet probably have entire group chats dedicated to that man’s bone structure.

But this is different.

This is Andrew rumpled from sleep. Andrew with his shirt wrinkled and his hair a mess. Andrew who looks less like the terrifying CEO of BenCo and more like a man who let me pull him into bed because I asked him to stay.

And somewhere between that thought and the way he’s looking up at me, soft and amused and still half-asleep, something inside me gives an extremely concerning little lurch.

Oh no.

“We still have about an hour before we need to leave,” he says, pulling me out of my increasingly worrying train of thought. “Should we…?”

My brain stalls.

Right.The treatment.

The whole reason he came here last night. The whole reason he ended up in my bed. But for some strange reason—maybe masochism—I gesture between us and say, “Are we not going to talk about this?”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t see why we have to,” he says with a shrug and squeezes my hip.

Oh my god.

I didn’t notice the hand there.

“Lie down,” he says.

I do as he says, and suddenly he’s above me. Still in his dress shirt from last night, wrinkled now, the top buttons undone, his hair mussed from sleep. For one brief second, I desperately wish he wasn’t wearing the shirt at all.

That second is apparently enough for him to see the disappointment on my face.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, already shifting like he’s about to make space between us.

I don’t want space. I want the opposite of space. I want him closer. So close we fuse into one person. An Andrew-Carly hybrid. An Andrly, if you’re nasty.

This is bad. This is so, so bad.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”

Mostly you.

He studies me for a second. Then his expression changes, just slightly. “I can give you something else to think about.”

A hand settles on my breast, right over the thin tank top I’m wearing. My nipple tightens immediately. I’m not wearing a bra, and he must feel it, because his thumb starts circling the little peak through the fabric.

A shaky breath leaves me.

“It’s very easy to get you going, Carly,” he murmurs.

The words make heat rush through me so fast it’s almost embarrassing. He pulls the tank top down, exposing my breasts, and for a second he just looks at me. I lie there beneath him, flustered and flushed, while his gaze moves over my bare skin.