It’s distance. That’s what it is. I can sleep in his bed. I don’t get to know the hidden part of him.
It’s safer this way. I know that. Because the hidden part of Will Leblanc is dangerous.
I spread my legs for him, wide, accepting, and watch his pupils expand in the dark.
Two things happen at once. His hand comes down over my mouth, and his body settles over mine. He pushes himself inside me. One slow, hard thrust. It lights up nerve after nerve like a string of lights.
But nothing is more electric than Will’s face.
For a split second, just as he bottoms out, his lips part. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows. He looks like a man who’s just walked in the door after surviving a long, harrowing journey, finally home.
All of his weight rests on me.
One heartbeat.
I make a sound against his palm. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, or ask, or beg for.
Then he’s moving, face hot with concentration. He fucks me until I’m short on breath and desperate to come. Will angles himself back, creating just enough space to slide his hand between us, and then he stares down into my eyes while he works my clit.
I come all over him, the sounds I can’t stop caught in his palm.
I’m still coming when he uncovers my mouth and uses that hand to turn my head. Will leans down close to my ear. “Quiet,” he orders. “Be a good corporate whore.”
I know you’re not supposed to sleep in your boss’s bed. I know you’re not supposed to let him fuck you with his hand over your mouth in exchange for a thousand dollars. I know you’re not supposed to fall for him, just a little, when he forgets to treat you like a corporate whore.
Will drops his head down next to mine, his teeth grazing my shoulder. The angle of his hips sends me up toward another orgasm, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy fucking me. His breath hitches when I start to come again.
But he doesn’t call me a corporate whore. He whispersfuck, Bristol.Puts a hand on the side of my face. Pushes himself in deeper and deeper, muscles working through his own release.
No, I’m not supposed to fall for him. I’m only supposed to pay him back.
I do it anyway.
17
WILL
My phone buzzes onceon the bedside table.
The length of the vibration is highly specific. It’s a message in the group text with my brothers. It’s one of the only notifications I don’t silence between midnight and five.
For a long time, when we’d drifted apart, nobody texted the group. But since Emerson met Daphne and married her, and since Sinclair has made it his mission in life to annoy the hell out of me in New York City, we’ve been talking.
We’ve been closer. The way we were in that damned photo Bristol found like she was pulled in by a laser beam.
It’s a risky investment, being close to my brothers. Not one I’d usually make. One I’d usually know better than to make.
But I’m not thinking about investments when I reach for the phone. I’m barely awake. I’ve been sleeping deeply. Dreamless. I snatch it up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Cover the screen with a cupped hand. These things get brighter every year.
Emerson: Come over
My heart rate spikes.
Emerson textingcome overis not a thing. His invitations are always for a reason. He’ll invite us to come surf with him, or have dinner with him and Daphne, or see a new piece of art. Never like this. Never in the middle of the night.
Writingcome overin the group text with nothing else is a desperate demand if I’ve ever heard one. It’s the same as writing 9-1-1.
I’m not invested enough in my brothers to haul my ass out of bed and respond to their emergencies. That’s what I tell myself all the way across the room and into the walk-in closet. I still believe it while I throw on boxers. Sweatpants. Hoodie. I’m being very fucking convincing when I text the night-shift valet and tell him to bring my SUV to the front of the building as fast as he can.