Make Me Sin

42

His voice husky with want, he says, “The answer is no. Now stop talking because it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to tear off your panties and your stupid ZZ Top T-shirt and f**k you, Chloe Anne with an e, until we both come so hard we pass out.”

I bite back a moan. A shiver of desire runs through my body, followed by blossoming heat. My n*****s are so hard they could cut glass.

Apparently my brain also decides it’s time for a nap, because I breathlessly ask, without a hint of hesitation or shyness, “You want to f**k me?”

His answer is a low, dangerous growl. His hand on my belly spreads wide. His fingers dig into my flesh.

I can’t help it; I arch against that hand.

His reaction is instantaneous. His entire body stiffens. His arm becomes an iron band around my waist. His right hand fists into my hair. He hisses, “More than I want my next breath. But I won’t. I never will, you understand? Never.”

That hurts so unexpectedly, I suck in a breath. I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach. “Why not, because I won’t charge you for it?”

My bitter dig only seems to make him sad. The tension drains from him. He releases his grip on my hair, and gently combs his fingers through it, fanning it over the pillow. “No, Princess,” he whispers. “Because I’m not that goddamn selfish.”

I lie there in silent misery for a few seconds, blinking back tears. I don’t know what he means, and I’m too mad to care. Right now, I just want him to leave so I can rub one out, cry into my pillow, and call it a night.

Behind me, there’s a deep sigh. His hand on my stomach slides over my waist, and he begins to caress my back. “It’s just over two hours before your alarm goes off. Get some sleep.”

I tuck my head into the space between the crook of his elbow and the pillow beneath. I’m hiding. “You know what time my alarm goes off?”

His hand doesn’t falter. He just rubs me, slowly, his strong fingers kneading the tense muscles of my neck and shoulders, his palm following the line of my back down to my waist, then up again. It’s a nonsexual touch, but I’m aroused by it. Even though I’m mad and exhausted, I’m still aroused.

He murmurs, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, songbird. Just go to sleep.”

Songbird. I think of the origami birds, the beautiful, painstakingly crafted birds. In the dark, my heart sings.

“I have something to say. It’s not a question,” I hurry to add, as his hand freezes.

He waits, listening.

I blow out my breath, hard, and bury my head deeper into the pillow. “I’m mad at you right now. And I’m so freaking confused my eyes are crossed.”

I feel his head move closer to mine. His forehead touches my shoulder. He whispers, “I know.”

“But . . .” My voice drops. “I’m glad you’re here.”

For this, I’m rewarded with my first-ever kiss from A.J. It’s feather soft and achingly sweet.

It’s on my shoulder.

Who are you? I drift as his hand continues to caress my back. Its warmth and softness soothe all the ragged edges that he’s torn just by showing up, by being his incomprehensible self.

Unexpectedly, I fall asleep.

When the alarm jolts me awake at four, the space beside me in bed is empty. On the pillow next to my head sits an origami bird, white with its head tucked under its wing.

A dove. Sleeping. It’s made of the same plain white paper I use in the printer on my desk.

I touch the sheets where A.J. had lain.

They’re still warm.

I’m in a fog of sleep deprivation and hormonal overload all the next day at work. I can’t concentrate on anything. When the phone rings at three o’clock, I answer robotically, without my usual chipper, please-be-calling-to-spend-thousands voice.

“Good afternoon thank you for calling Fleuret this is Chloe speaking how may I help you.”

The snort on the other end of the line is all too familiar. “Well good afternoon to you, too, sweetheart! Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

My lips curve upward. If Grace only knew what had happened in my bed this morning, her head would explode.

“I slept blissfully, thank you very much.”

There’s a pause. “Why do you sound like you’re smiling when you say that?”

Damn, that girl is sharp. I wipe the smile from my face and sit up straighter in the chair. “No reason. I’m not. Anyway, how are you? What’s up?”

There’s another pause. I worry she’s going to grill me, in which case I’m toast because Grace can sniff out a lie like a shark can sniff out a single drop of blood in ten thousand gallons of water. But she lets me off the hook.

“What’s up is the time. We’re waiting for you over here!”

Frowning, I look at the clock. “Here? Where?”

Grace groans. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first fitting is today, genius! You forgot!”

“Oh, crap.” She’s right; I did forget. At this very moment, I’m supposed to be at the Monique Lhuillier atelier in Beverly Hills, getting fitted for my outrageously expensive, incredibly gorgeous, floor-length, sage-green silk chiffon bridesmaid’s dress. “I’ll be there in twenty. Make sure there’s champagne ready.”

Grace chuckles. “You’re so going to tell me what’s up with you the minute you walk in the door. Did you by any chance see our friend the surly drummer s***h Russian spy?”

I try to sound nonchalant. “You wish. I’ll see you soon.” I hang up before I can do any more damage.