Page 39 of The Good Love Collection
By the time we get Steve into his cat carrier, gather his food, pack CJ’s bags for a week out of her apartment, and deliver the cat to the 24-hour vet, it’s three thirty in the morning.
A huge yawn escapes me as we stand outside the vet’s office.
She joins me in the yawn parade. “If it’s okay, I think I’ll go crash at the hotel until morning. Then, since I don’t have a place to stay for the week, I can look for an apartment rental or something tomorrow when I’m not fried.”
But there’s no need to return to the St. Regis. I have a better idea. “Come home with me. We could both use some sleep, and my bed is sinfully comfortable.”
“Are you sure?”
I scoff. “I’m not sending you to the St. Regis solo, and my place is closer. We aren’t done with our non-lesson of cuddling, my butterfly. Besides, we only have a few more nights of classes, and I want to make the most of my time with you. Although, of course, I want you to feel free to stay at my place even after the board meeting, until your apartment is fixed. I have more than enough space, and I’m happy to have you.”
She stiffens briefly in my arms, and I fear I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Right? Do you want to make the most of this?” I ask, tucking a finger under her chin and raising her face so she can meet my eyes.
A flicker of sadness colors her expression—maybe she hates being away from her home base as much as I do—but then it’s gone, replaced by a certainty. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
An Uber ride later, we drag our exhausted bodies into my place and take care of our pre-bed business. I’m the first to collapse onto my king-size mattress. She slides on a T-shirt that says When I think about books I touch my shelf, and the sight of it on her—a naughty little bookworm—makes me laugh. “So very you,” I say, and she curtsies and gets into bed with me.
As we snuggle under the covers, that “just right” feeling returns.
When this evening started, I pictured it ending with a departure from the St. Regis before dawn, well before CJ wound up tangled up in my arms.
But now that I have her here, it’s the perfect end to her stripping.
Just for me.
Only for me.
It’s so good that I drift off to sleep with the sweet smell of CJ filling my head and dream the nicest dreams I can remember having in ages.
But the next morning, as so often happens with sweet dreams, there’s a nightmare just around the corner. Waiting in my lobby. Dressed in a hot-pink raincoat and stiletto heels.
14
CJ
Best. Sleepover. Ever.
Spending the night with Graham was never on my sex ed agenda—I figured that belonged in a relationship class rather than a seduction course—but now I can’t imagine my lesson plan being complete without this extra session. Drifting off in his arms, waking up with his lips warm on my neck and his husky voice asking if I want coffee, meeting his eyes in the mirror as he shaved and I swept on a coat of mascara—it was all wonderful. Perfect. A lesson in intimacy and the “morning after” that I won’t soon forget.
Because I’ll be repeating it tonight.
And the next night, and the next, and the next.
Then I’ll be moving into his guest room . . . I guess. Once the seven days of sex-cation are over, and if my apartment is still under construction . . .
I knew from the start that we had an expiration date, but when Graham said that last night, about me staying past Monday since he has plenty of room, it hurt a little. I didn’t realize how upsetting it would be to imagine a future without his kiss, his touch, or the new closeness that’s growing between us. I’m seeing sides of Graham I never knew were there, and experiencing the pleasure of his company in ways that go beyond the physical.
Though that’s quite nice too. If “nice” means absolutely toe-curlingly incredible.
I’m daydreaming about everything we did to each other last night—about the moment when I made him lose control in my hand, and how much I want to do that again—when we step out of the elevator into the lobby. Graham stops dead, cursing softly beneath his breath.
I follow his mildly horrified gaze to a leggy woman posed near the front desk. Everything from her hot-pink raincoat, skin-tight pink skirt, scandalously low-cut gray blouse, and sky-high stilettos screams, “Look at me!” Add in the bouncy blond hair and expertly made-up blue eyes, and she’s probably one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen in real life.
But there’s something . . . not right about her smile, something that reminds me of what it feels like to be the last kid picked for volleyball in gym class every single day.
