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.
Chapter Fourteen
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.
Anything with balls, I’m bad at. Which reminds me . . .
Note to self: research how to correctly play with a man’s balls so you have something new to show Graham tonight.
“Hey, G-man,” the woman purrs, eliminating any doubt that she’s exactly what she looks like—one of Graham’s women. I’ve only met a few of his former girlfriends, usually in passing at a reception or event, and they’ve all been stunning to the point where other women feel like trolls in comparison.
“Lucy.” Graham’s voice is clipped, brimming with irritation. I glance up at him, my eyes wide.
So this is the woman Graham said turned stalker on him after their breakup a few months ago.
Ouch.
I glance back at her, trying to hide my knowledge of her past misdeeds—who buys an ex-lover a plane ticket to Barbados or takes up running solely for the opportunity of bumping into him on his morning jog, for goodness’ sake? Running is abhorrent. But I school my expression, keeping my face neutral, since I don’t want her to feel embarrassed. I’d be deeply embarrassed if I knew an ex of mine had been talking about me with his new lover.
“Hey, I know this is kind of out of the blue.” Lucy’s eyes flit from Graham to me and back again with a nervous laugh. “And I’m sorry to, um, interrupt your morning. I just, I think I left my scarf at your place. You know, the black silk I always wear with this outfit?”
She motions down at her décolletage—which is impressive, borderline inappropriate if she’s on her way to the office, and could definitely benefit from a scarf tied at the neck to help conceal some of the extra boobage going on—but Graham’s eyes remain fixed firmly on her face.
“I don’t have anything of yours in my apartment, Lucy,” he grinds out through a tight jaw. “It’s all gone, and I would appreciate it if you would honor the boundaries we talked about.”
Her brows pinch. “I know you said I shouldn’t come over,” Lucy says, her voice creeping half an octave higher. “But I was just a couple blocks away and I thought—”