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And I just lost, and I don’t regret it one damn bit.
* * *
One of us broke the rules last night—apartfrom the sex. I wake up to find his thigh flush against mine. One of my palms is braced against his chest, and one of his hands is still in my hair—tangled in it.
The bastard has a thing for hair, apparently. Pulling it. Running his fingers through it. My entire scalp is sore, but in that strange aching way, that isn’t really painful. Just sensitive.
Everything about me feels sensitive, balanced on this luxurious mattress. Namely my pride. Graeme Bellamy liked to manhandle that too.
“It held up well enough.”
I shiver as the raspy tone races down my spine. He knows I’m awake, but I take my time before opening my eyes to find him staring. Judging from the faint gray light that filters in through the windows, it's painfully early. Even still, the man somehow manages to look perfect, bedhead, heavy-lidded eyes, and all. He nods down to my waist, and the crumbled wad of lace and silk still somehow draped around it.
“I’m surprised the damn thing didn’t tear,” he declares, followed by a satisfied sigh. “I’d say it’s definitely worth the price. Do you agree?”
My cheeks heat up, and I turn away before he can see the reaction. Bad idea. Now I’m faced with the sad, lifeless remains of my stolen panties lying on the floor a few feet away. More than anything, that sight drills in the implications of just what happened within a few hazy hours.
More sex.
More confusing tidbits of information to process about Graeme Bellamy—such as the fact that he likes to use his hands. Hereallylikes to use his tongue. His favorite position seems to be missionary, allowing him to stare directly into his partner’s eyes as she comes, reinforcing the knowledge that it was because ofhim.
Either Portia, Penelope, and that girl related to some duke or duchess he dated once had all experienced something different, or they had bold-faced lied to the tabloids. Not that it mattered either way, because this certainly wouldn’t happen again.
“Where are you going?” He tightens his grip on my hair when I attempt to sit up, forcing me to lie back down. He’s closer than before—his heat bastes my back, and his breath fans the side of my throat. He doesn’t even sound alarmed, merely curious as though we spent every morning like this, and it was completely natural for him to give a damn.
“Do I require your permission to use the bathroom now, Mr.Bellamy?” Either the title or my snarky tone makes him let go. I glance over my shoulder to find him smirking, though, unperturbed in the slightest.
“I like it better when you call me Graeme,” he admits. “By then, you’re so breathless that I can barely hear you.”
“You’re an ass.” I draw myself upright and do my best to untangle the negligee from around my hips. I’m annoyed to find that the bastard was right—the damn thing held up despite being dragged across the bed during half the night and subjected to tugging, groping hands.
“Am I truly in this situation?” Graeme’s expression is genuinely curious as he sweeps his gaze along my bare shoulders and then to the matted tangle of my hair. “After all, I’ve brought you breakfast in bed twice, yet you don’t seem inclined to return the favor.”
I choke out a sound that’s more like a cross between a laugh and a snort. “I’m not making you breakfast in bed.”Because you fired me,is the part I hold back. When I was under his employ, I had been more than willing to bring him food wherever and however he wanted it, just so long as he’d eat. But now, his well-being is no longer any of my concern.
It isn’t.
“Considering that you weren’t the one doing the lion’s share of the work last night, it’s understandable that you wouldn’t feel as ravenous as I do.”
My cheeks catch fire as memories flood my brain. Every kiss. Every touch. Everything else that happened in between.
“What are you doing?” I can’t ignore the note of panic that leeches into my tone as I scramble to the edge of the bed. It’s still there, though, building in my stomach as I brace my feet flat on the floor and look back at him over my shoulder.
He still looks half-asleep. Still damn near perfect. “What do you mean?” I flinch at the rougher octave his voice dips too.
“This—” I wave my hand around the room, indicating the bed and my discarded panties. “You keep treating this like it’s all just a game.”
Even before the words finish leaving my mouth, I know they’re the wrong ones to say. I’m not sure why, but I don’t miss how his jaw clenches, and his eyes touch on that cold, distant shade of blue I typically saw only in a boardroom when he was at his most calculating. “Maybe I don’t see it as a game,” he says. “Or maybe I find it all simply entertaining.”
I don’t know how to process that. Not this latest tryst or the fact that he doesn’t seem to be throwing this last lapse of judgment in my face merely to be a prick. Rather than focus on the emotions wreaking havoc on my system, I stand and wrench on the ribbons of my nightie, tying it closed. For added security, I enter the bathroom and grab his robe. Dear God. It smells like him, deliciously musky—a fact I struggle to ignore as I return to find him watching me, unmoved from his position.
His eyes light up with recognition at the sight of what I’m wearing, but he doesn’t seem to disapprove. Sputtering, I attempt to steer his focus back to what matters. “I still have use of your credit card,” I remind him. “I’m going to ordermeroom service.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve momentarily lost my mind long enough to order the most expensive items from the bistro menu that I find clipped to the front of the fridge. The tab alone costs more than a month’s rent, but it’s all for a good cause.
Getting Graeme Bellamy to eat his smug words.
By the time the food arrives, I’m convinced that this stunt alone will revert the scales of control. I almost smile as I mount the stairs with the steaming bag in tow. Or maybe it’s a snarl. Regardless the expression quickly becomes one that features my mouth hanging open when I find him still unashamedly naked, lying on his bed with his head propped on one of his hands.
