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Surprise flared in her eyes. “Yes.”
“We’re both safe,” he told her, studying her face. “Do you still want me to get one?”
“I’ve never not used one,” she said, biting down on her lip. “Have you?”
“No, but I’m not going to lie, honey. All I want right now is to slide inside of you. To feel you bare and wet around me.”
Holly drew in a breath, trembling in his arms.
“But you need to know that I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” he assured her. “This is your call. Your choice.”
“Then I want you to stay here with me. Just like this,” she whispered. “I want you so much, Eli.”
That was all he needed to hear before he was easing inside of her.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, groaning as she gripped him with her tight, wet heat. “Yeah.”
Her eyes closed, and she tipped her head back, her hair hanging in twisted wet strands against her damp skin. The sight of her—the look of pleasure on her face—nearly made his brain shut down.
“Eli.” She wrapped her arms around his neck as he fucked her deep and slow against the tiles. “Please, hold on to me. Hold tight.”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, holding her sure and steady. “I won’t let you fall. I promise.”
He couldn’t make the same promise to himself, however. When it came to how he felt about Holly Wilkes, he was pretty sure he’d already fallen.
17
After putting her impossibly messy sex hair into a simple braid, she paused in the bathroom doorway and glanced around the extravagant hotel suite.
They’d thrown away the pizza and wing boxes, drank the rest of the champagne, eaten all of the chocolate-covered strawberries, and half-heartedly made the bed.
Her little pink suitcase was packed and sitting next to the door, her purse perched on top of it.
It was time to go.
Eli had gotten dressed but now lounged on the bed, a ghost of a smile on his face as he tapped away on his phone screen.
Holly’s stomach clenched at the sight. It was probably one of his many puck bunnies messaging him about getting together tonight. Or maybe it was Layla Tuvare, the gorgeously perfect supermodel he’d hooked up with a few months ago.
Stop.
Okay, these feelings were straight up ridiculous. She had absolutely no right to feel jealous about who might be sending him text messages. He wasn’t her boyfriend, and she had no claim to him at all.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her and how he’d touched her? Or about the things he’d whispered when he’d been buried deep inside of her?
Straightening her back, she flipped off the light in the bathroom, then smoothed her hands down over her skirt.
The entire reason she’d proposed spending one night together was to pop the gigantic balloon of sexual tension that had been hanging over their heads for the past year. So they could move forward in a professional capacity when working on the article together, instead of being distracted by that tension.
And they’d certainly done everything they could to pop that balloon over the past twelve hours.
Many times over.
The problem was that it had felt like way more than just sex. She’d felt close to him. She’d feltcherished.
Unfortunately, sleeping with Eli hadn’t done shit to get him out of her system. It had only made her want him more.
What an epic failure. It was the kind of idea that would look reasonable on paper, but in practice?
