Page 66

When he pulls back, I place my palm on his jaw because I just want to keep looking at his face. He doesn’t seem to want to look away from mine either.

“You’re actually happy to see me,” I whisper.

He raises a brow. “I just sat on a train for three and a half hours simply to spend the night with you. Is that really a surprise?”

The answer is both yes and no. When I think of the guy I ran with, the guy who watched me like a hawk the whole muddy, treacherous climb down the Kalalau Trail and who kissed me like he’d die without it at the airport—then no.

But when I think about Joshua Bailey, MD, cold and brilliant and intimidating, rattling off facts in front of senators with barely hidden contempt, generous and selfless and far too good for me—yes, it’s a little surprising.

“I guess not,” I reply. “I do give a really good blowjob.” I crack a smile but his is muted in response.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he says, holding my eye. Something in his expression, in his tone, chastens me: Don’t make this cheap. Don’t make this out to be the same bullshit you have with everyone else.

I swallow. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

He tips my chin up with his index finger. His lips glance off mine once then press again, just holding there while he breathes me in and out. “Don’t apologize. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope there was a blowjob somewhere in the next seven hours.”

I glance from him to the privacy glass. “I could ask him to circle the block.”

His eyes fall closed. “Fuck. Now I’m hard. All you had to do was offer and it happened that fast, Drew.” My hand unlinks from his and travels, hip to groin. He wasn’t lying. It’s lovely and long and firm. I manage to give it one solid squeeze before he removes my hand.

“Not here,” he says through gritted teeth.

“No?” I ask.

“I have a pretty specific fantasy involving you doing that, and you’ll probably want to be undressed when it happens.”

Joshua Bailey has specific, filthy fantasies about me. The muscle in my core clenches so hard it hurts.

* * *

In the hotel room, he pulls me against him the minute the door shuts behind us. We shrug off our coats, and his hands slide to my thighs as I kick off my heels.

I tug at his belt and then stop myself. “Wait,” I command, then go to the bed and lie back against the pillows. “Now undress.”

He grins and slowly, seductively pulls off the jacket, his eyes on me. His button-down is smooth as glass, molding to the curves of his chest. He raises a brow. “Are we good?”

I laugh. “Hell no. Now the shirt.”

His mouth tips up at the corners. “I’m feeling objectified,” he says, making quick work of the buttons.

The shirt falls open. He tugs at the belt, undoing the buckle without instruction, and pulls the zipper down on his neatly pressed pants, watching me the whole time with that slow smile on his face.

The shirt flutters to the floor. The pants follow. There’s a bulge in his boxers that makes me dizzy.

“Now—” I begin, and he shakes his head.

“It’s my turn, Drew,” he says, walking toward the bed. “Pull the dress up.”

It’s a short dress. There is little pulling required. I remove the panties without being asked and let my legs fall open. His lids flutter closed for a moment and then he kneels on the edge of the bed. His lips go to my left thigh, and begin to work their way up.

“I—” I begin.

“Shhh,” he says. His tongue sweeps over my center. “Your time in charge is over, for the moment.” His mouth closes over me. My hands fist the bed sheets at my sides, and all I can do is hold on for dear life.

* * *

It’s the middle of the night and I’m lying with my head on his chest and his hand on my hip—just like we did when we were camping except, you know, naked. He really ought to get some sleep and so should I, but this is it. The last time I’m going to see him. “What’s the rest of your week look like?” he asks.