The moon lights a path from the small bathroom to the foot of the bed, and I flip off the bathroom light, pulling the light covers back so I can climb into bed beside him. He’s warm, and his soap and aftershave immediately trigger the hunger I’ve missed for days now, that desperate need for the urgent grip of his hands, the feel of him kissing me and moving over me. But even when I slide my hand up his stomach and over his chest, he remains still, limbs heavy beside me.
Nothing comes out when I open my mouth the first time, but the second time I manage to whisper, “Do you want to have sex?” I wince at the stark words, blown free of nuance or seduction.
He doesn’t answer and I shift closer, heart hammering as I curl around his hard, warm body. He’s fast asleep, breaths solid and steady.
HE’S UP BEFORE me again, this time in a charcoal suit, a black shirt. He looks ready for a photo shoot: black and white stills of him caught unaware on the street corner, sharp jaw carving a shadow through the sky behind him. He’s bent over me, about to deliver a chaste kiss to my lips, when my eyes open.
He steers himself from my mouth to my temple, and my stomach sinks when I realize it’s Monday, and again, he’ll be working all day.
“Sorry about last night,” he says quietly into my ear. When he pulls back, his gaze flickers away from mine and he focuses instead on my lips.
I had dreams, though—sexy dreams—and am not ready for him to leave yet. I can still imagine the feel of his hands and lips, his voice grown hoarse after hours over and behind and beneath me. Sleep still clouds my thoughts, makes me brave enough to act. Without thinking, I pull at his arm and bring it beneath the covers with me.
“I had dreams about you,” I rasp, smiling sleepily up
at him.
“Mia . . .”
He’s unsure what I’m doing at first and I watch when understanding dawns as I drag his hand down my ribs, over my navel. His lips part, eyes grow heavy. Ansel meets my hips halfway with his hand, sliding his fingers between my legs and cupping me.
“Mia,” he groans with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s part longing and part something that looks more like anxiety. At the border, awareness trickles in.
Oh shit.
His suit jacket is folded over his other forearm, laptop bag still slung over his shoulder. He was rushing out the door.
“Oh.” The flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Pushing his hand away from my body, I begin, “I didn’t—”
“Don’t stop,” he says, jaw clenching.
“But you’re leavi—”
“Mia, please,” he says, his voice so low and soft it drips over me like warm honey. “I want this.”
His arm shakes, eyes roll closed, and I let mine do the same before I fully wake up, before I lose my nerve. What had I thought in Vegas? That I wanted a different life. That I wanted to be brave. I wasn’t brave then, but I pretended to be.
With my eyes closed, I can pretend again. I’m the sexbomb who doesn’t care about his job. I’m the insatiable wife. I’m the only thing he wants.
I’m drenched and swollen and the noise he makes when he slides his fingers over me is unreal: a deep, rumbling groan. I could come with barely an exhale across my skin I’m so keyed up, and when he seems to want to explore me, to tease, I rise into his fingers, seeking. He gives me two, pushed straight into me, and I grip his forearm, rocking up, fucking his hand. I can’t stop long enough to care how desperate I seem.
Heat crawls up my skin and I pretend it’s the heat of the spotlight.
“Oh, let me see,” he whispers. “Let go.”
“Aah,” I gasp. My orgasm takes shape around the edges, the sensation crystallizes and then builds, crawling up from where his thumb now circles frantically against my skin until my orgasm is hammering through me. Clutching his arm in both hands, I cry out, rippling around his fingers. My legs and arms and spine feel fluid, filled with liquid heat, molten as relief floods my bloodstream.
I open my eyes. Ansel holds still, and then slowly pulls his fingers from me, slipping his hand back out from under the covers. He watches me as consciousness eventually pushes sleep completely aside. With his other hand, he hitches his bag higher on his shoulder. The room seems to tick in the quiet, and even though I try to grasp on to my feigned confidence, I can feel my chest, my neck, my face grow warm with heat.
“Sorry, I—”
He silences me with his wet fingers pressed to my mouth. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t take it back.”
He traps his fingers with his lips pressed to mine, and then slips his tongue across his fingers, across my mouth, tasting me and releasing a sweet, relieved exhale. When he pulls back enough for me to focus on his eyes, they’re full of determination. “I’m coming home early tonight.”