Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me. Jo Leigh
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from then on was white heat and being filled. Raw and hard, every slap of flesh was followed by a desperate gasp from him, from her.
She came again. Squeezing him, pulling him closer, tighter. Then he froze, his face a mask of intense pleasure.
When he came back from the edge, he kissed her. More than the date, more than the tea, more than anything, the kiss turned everything sideways. Long, slow and deep, it wasn’t a thank-you or showing off or like any other après-sex kiss she’d ever had. It was as real as the night sky, and it made her as dizzy as if she’d downed a magnum of champagne.
After, as she gathered in her stolen breath, he fell into a graceless heap beside her.
She still had her heels on.
When he forced himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, she closed her eyes, still dazed and confused. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bree,” she said softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Whoa.”
IT WAS SIX-FORTY. CHARLIE had looked at his alarm clock at six thirty-eight, then at Bree, still sleeping, still with him. All he’d been able to see was part of her bare shoulder and the back of her head. Now he was staring at the ceiling and having a panic attack.
He’d never had one before, but the way his heart was hammering in his chest had to be a sign. As a test, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of her. Fuck. What the hell had he done?
The last time he’d felt like this, not quite like this but the closest thing he could remember that had a similar vibe, was at fifteen. His first time. It was at Amy Johnson’s house, in her twin canopy bed with her parents two doors down the hall. He’d been crazy about Amy, madly in whatever passes for love at fifteen. The sex had been horrible but he’d gotten off. He couldn’t imagine how bad it had been for Amy. He’d felt like the stud king of the world, and even when he fell flat on his face escaping out her bedroom window, he’d considered the night a raging success.
He’d made sure his parents found one of the condoms from the box of Trojans. Their apoplectic fit at the inappropriateness of sex with a girl from that kind of family—she went to public school and her father was a dentist at a clinic—had been the most satisfying development in his life until age sixteen and a half, when he’d discovered the joys of older women and realized how much he had to learn.
Those lessons had been a downright pleasure.
But no one and nothing since Amy had recaptured the out-of-his-mind exhilaration of that maiden voyage. Until last night.
No matter what they’d done, Bree was definitely an innocent. Ah. Okay. Bree reminded him of Amy. Nothing to panic about. His breathing should return to normal soon. Last night had been a rerun of a great night. That’s all. His reaction had nothing to do with the nice woman in his bed. He would give her coffee and cab fare, and that would be the end of it.
The sooner the better. She had to get to work, and so did he.
He stilled as she turned over and they touched. His hand, her thigh. It was warm, the place where they came together, and all the progress he’d made in the breathing department went to hell.
Why was he getting hard again? Shit.
He pictured her in that pose, her hands gripping the headboard, her nipples hard as little rocks and those heels. Jesus. She’d smelled like honey and tasted like the ocean, and he hadn’t been that hard in years. He bit back a moan as he pictured her face when she’d come. And there was the problem in a nutshell. Or should he say in his nuts.
Forcing his mind to focus, he refused to acknowledge anything below the waist. If he’d been thinking with anything but his dick he would’ve sent her home last night. As soon as she’d asked for tea. Tea? Seriously? Then he’d made everything worse by getting down the goddamn silver. What was that about?
Screw his hard-on. This was ridiculous. He had work. Last night had been a favor for Rebecca, a nice surprise for him. No denying Bree was fantastic in bed, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a great lay, he needed A-listers, women who would draw readers to the blogs, gossip fodder. He needed Mia Cavendish and her counterparts, the more photogenic and controversial, the better. He wanted to trend on Twitter, make the headlines on the New York Post’s Page Six. He needed ad revenue and infamy.
Bree could get him exactly none of that.
GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, she was in so much trouble.
How was it possible that the best thing about her night as Cinderella had been a one-night stand with the King of Manhattan?
Not the limo, not Charlie’s fame, not the stars or the dresses or meeting her design heroes. No. The best thing, the thing that would cripple her if she didn’t get a grip right this minute was making … sex with Charlie.
She was no blushing virgin and she knew what happened between the sheets. She’d had bad sex and she’d had amazing sex and what had happened with Charlie wasn’t even on the same scale.
Falling for Charlie was not acceptable.
She really needed to get out of bed because if he moved the hand against her thigh even a little bit, she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.
Where was her dress? By the window. Somehow, the room wasn’t filled with light, which it should have been because the last time she’d looked, there’d been nothing but glass between them and Central Park. Yet, it wasn’t dark, either. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was some kind of pale gold thing happening behind her lids, so …
The lamp that had been on while they’d been …
She inhaled quietly, regrouping. It didn’t matter what Charlie was doing. She was in control of her actions and her thoughts. She’d throw back the covers, get out of bed, pull up her dress, slip on her heels and go to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have to look at him at all.
Crap. The back of his fingers brushed against her thigh. Just that quickly, her resolve vanished and her body tensed. Things were happening against her will. Nipples hardened. Kegel muscles contracted. Not to mention the thunder of her heart.
It was one time, Kingston. One night. You had champagne. It was like being in a fairy tale. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. It’s over. Stop being a moron and get out.
After a silent count to three, she did it. Tossed covers, pulled up dress, screw the zipper, picked up shoes, darted to the bathroom, slammed the door, breathed.
Cursed herself from here to Sunday because while she was in the nice, safe bathroom, her purse with all her stuff was in the living room.
She sighed and leaned on the door, barely restraining herself from banging her head against the wood until she passed out. Her makeup was already a disaster so crying wasn’t out of the question.
What were the odds he had a spare toothbrush in this humongous room? The shower alone was bigger than what she laughingly called a bedroom.
She could wash her face with whatever soap he had, and rinse her mouth with something that would at least hide the morning breath for a while. All she had to do was be somewhat presentable for a cab ride home, then she could start forgetting about Charlie as she hustled to get ready for work.
Coffee. Coffee would help everything. No, aspirin and coffee. That’s what she needed, and her world would fit neatly back into place.
A knock on the bathroom door made her jump so hard her dress nearly slipped all the way down to the floor. “Um, busy,” she said, yanking it up again.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and God, his voice rippled through her like a slow fire. “I thought you might want your pocketbook.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yes.” She turned, holding up her dress with one arm as she opened the door an inch. It wasn’t quite enough. Another inch, then another, and finally her purse was inside. She snatched it as if it were connected to a mousetrap. “Thanks.