AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Around him, I feel the compulsion to be perfect, more so than I’ve ever felt with anyone else. I care what he thinks of me. I can’t genuinely say that about anyone else, even my parents. It’s a problem—one I don’t have the energy to think about right now. Especially since he doesn’t appear to be here. There’s nothing indicating he ever has been.
I’m not sure why I expected my home to look different—but I did. I thought there would be some obvious evidence a man lives here now. Maybe boxers on the floor or a tie draped on the couch or a strip of condoms on the coffee table. There’s nothing. Not even a water stain on the teak coffee table I picked out. The tidiness is really all I absorb before I flop face-first onto the white couch. It’s uncomfortable, having my face smushed against the cushions. The construction crew hammering away at my skull isn’t all that relaxing either. I’m too uncomfortable to fall asleep and too comfortable to move upstairs.
I must fall asleep, though, because when my eyes blink open, I’m no longer alone. At first, I think the shadowy figure must be Phillipe or Martha. Then, I realize it’s too broad and tall to be either my chef or my maid. Recognize the way my traitorous heart starts beating faster for no good reason at all. I’m lying down—no exertion in sight.
“Rough trip?” Crew asks. The low, rough timbre of his voice washes over me, temporarily taking care of the headache. Adrenaline erases exhaustion. I forgot how stupidly symmetrical his face is.
I groan in response. My head still hurts. My throat is dry and my muscles feel stiff. “I feel like shit.”
“I gathered.” There’s a dry note to his voice that makes me think I must look as terrible as I feel. I shouldn’t care. I do. Crew Kensington is the last person I want to exhibit any sort of weakness in front of.
He approaches me hesitantly, like I’m a rabid animal likely to attack. If I could move my head, I would. I’d stand up and go far, far away. Somewhere I can’t smell him and sense him and see him. I close my eyes, like shutting off that sense will help. “I just need a minute before going upstairs. Go…do whatever. Have a drink in the library like usual.”
“How would you know what my usual is?”
Crap. Shit. Fuck. I keep my eyes closed and hope my face doesn’t sayI browsed the security footage instead of watching Netflix while I was in Paris.“You’re just predictable, I guess.”
Crew hums. It’s an infuriating sound that gives no indication of whether or not he believes me. I consider opening my eyes and decide I’d rather not know what he’s thinking. A warm palm presses against my forehead. I flinch. The physical contact is unexpected. So is the gentle way his hand brushes my hair off my face. My skin prickles, reacting to his touch even after it disappears.
“How long have you been like this?”
“I don’t know. I’m hungover or tired or jetlagged or all three. The couch was closer than my bed. I haven’t left the office before five…ever.”
The last sentence isn’t necessary. I feel some strange compulsion to justify the fact I’m splayed out on the cushions like a starfish while it’s still light out. To prove I don’t sit back and collect a paycheck. Once again, I shouldn’t care. But Ido. I care that my mascara must be smudged and my hair matted, and my work ethic appears questionable.
Crew doesn’t reply. Then, suddenly, I’m not lying horizontal on the couch. I’m weightless—at least that’s how it feels at first. A few seconds later, I’m rocking. I focus on the solid press of his chest and arms. My head isn’t appreciative of the movement. The rest of my body embraces the sensation of Crew carrying me. But I protest anyway. “What the hell are you doing?”
“How out of it are you? I thought it was obvious.”
I’m not out of it atallanymore. I wish I were. Every sensation I’m experiencing right now are ones I’m fully present for. Worse, I’ll be able to remember this later. The way he smells good and feels even better. The press of a metal band against the skin of my thigh that symbolizes he belongs to me in a way many people would consider permanent.
I clear my throat. “This is sort of sweet of you, but I’mfine.” I pack as much conviction into the last word as I can muster.
“I think that couch would disagree.”
Crew starts up the stairs. I stop arguing. If he’s going to be stubborn about it, I’m best off pretending this is no big deal. Like I let men carry me bridal style all the time.
He turns to the right as soon as we reach the top of the steps and heads straight into my bedroom. “You explored?” The question comes out dry. There are seven guest bedrooms, minus the one he’s claimed as his own. This wasn’t just a lucky guess.
“What’s yours is mine, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” I mumble. The heat of his body is seeping into mine, and it’s making me sleepy. Sleepier. I haven’t slept well in weeks. Before I left for Paris, I was riddled with nerves about the wedding. In Paris, I worked late and was woken up early by the market underneath my balcony. I’m the sort of tired that blurs reality. I wouldn’t be shocked if I wake up on the couch in an hour to learn this was a dream.
Rather than dump me on the bed, Crew carries me into the attached bathroom and sets me down on the marble that surrounds the tub. “What are you doing?” I question.
He doesn’t answer. Either with an explanation or by telling me I’m asking the obvious again. Itisobvious when he starts the tap running and dumps in an assortment of the salts and soaps from the glass containers set along the windowsill. Steam starts to rise from the water, swirling with the fragrant scents of rose and eucalyptus and steadily building bubbles.
Once the tub is filled, Crew shuts the water off and pulls me standing. I’m worried I might fall asleep mid-bath. I’m far more concerned this sweet gesture might make me say or do something very stupid.
Crew’s eyes hold mine hostage as he reaches behind me and tugs at the zipper of my dress. I feel the back gape open and slide down. He pulls the fabric over my shoulders. With a quietwhoosh, the silk hits the floor, leaving me standing in my bra and underwear. He doesn’t drop his gaze. Blue burns me, roots me in place.
His touch is clinical and detached. Neither hand lingers as he unsnaps my bra and lowers my thong. In seconds, I’m naked before him.
“Do you need me to get you anything?” He holds eye contact, not looking lower.
“I…” I clear my throat and shake my head. “I’m good.”
Arousal is a better stimulant than caffeine. I’m no longer worried about falling asleep and accidentally drowning. I’m standing in front of him, totally naked, while he’s completely dressed. After he ran me abath. And Crew is acting like all of this is a normal occurrence.
