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I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and a moment later he pushes into me.
The slight sting sends my arousal even higher. When he’s as deep as he can go, he grabs onto my hips and slides out slowly. Ugh…I want more, so I surge back. The move unlocks something in him and he starts pounding into me. I get lost in the moment, rocking back when he pushes forward. It feels amazing. He moves faster and harder. I don’t want him to stop—he’s giving me exactly what I wanted.
He shouts as he comes. I can feel him pulsing inside of me, and I wish I could see his face even though I know it’s better this way.
I slump against the sofa, my limbs like jelly. He relaxes against me, his breath tickling the back of my neck. “I need to take care of you,” he whispers.
It takes a second for my brain to understand what he’s saying, and when I do, I almost stop him. My emotions are raw. My heart is pounding. The sex is already too good—an orgasm right now, when I’m already feeling emotional, might be too much.
I should get up. Dress. Leave.
He slips away and gently flips me over. He takes care of the condom, then spreads my legs and presses his lips against my clit. All thoughts of leaving flee. The muscles in my legs tense as he sucks gently. It feels so good. Too good. I’m insanely sensitive, and the orgasm that was just out of reach crashes over me. My back bows off the sofa and a lengthy moan escapes me.
He rests his head against my stomach as my body relaxes.
His phone dings once. And then again. He heaves himself up.
“Food is here,” he mumbles, looking at the screen.
I swallow thickly. I got what I wanted. A fast, hard fuck. But he got what he wanted, too. He brought me to release gently. Like he cares.
Tenderness scares me.
I can handle physical attraction, but this doesn’t feel purely physical. The emotions that are swelling inside me are confusing, so I try to ignore them.
I grab my sweatshirt and jeans as he pulls on his pants. As soon as he leaves to grab the food, I remind myself that good sex does not make a relationship.
I’ll stay for dinner. We’ll eat and chat and I will not reveal—even for a second—how much I like being with him. No matter how caring he is, this thing between us is going nowhere. He’s eligible for a new contract in a little over a month, and Cam told me that Slater will take the best offer he receives. He’ll leave, and I’ll be a distant memory.
When he comes back with the food, I stand up and say, “We should move to the table.”
If I take the seat across from him, I’ll get a bit of much needed space.
I grab the wine while he unpacks the food. He ordered fish, steamed vegetables, and farro. I ordered pasta carbonara and garlic bread. Carbs are my friend.
“I was surprised to find you at your sister’s,” he says once we’re seated.
“Oh…yeah.” We don’t usually talk about me, but something about tonight makes me open my mouth and reveal the truth about why I’m in New York. “My mother is selling her house and I’ve been a bit out of sorts about it, so I decided to visit while I have the time.”
“Your mother has always lived in the house she’s selling?” he asks.
“She has. My parents bought it when they were pregnant with me.”
While we eat, I tell him about my childhood. Once I start, I can’t seem to stop. Normally I skim over the fact that Libby doesn’t like me, that my father pretends everything is fine, and that my mother is a brittle version of who she was before the divorce.
For some reason, I don’t omit any of it. I tell him all the parts that suck. At the end, I say, “It’s easier for me with my dad. Even though he cheated, and he left, and it’s his fault, he’s easier to be around. He’s proud of me.” I sigh. “I like having his approval.”
I’ve never told anyone why things are easier with my dad. Not even Kelsey.
The compassion on Slater’s face almost makes me lose my composure. I feel raw and exposed. I can’t believe I just told him those things.
He rises from the table, walks around to my side, slowly draws me to my feet, and then pulls me into a hug. I burrow my face into his neck, and the composure I was clinging to breaks.
I sob into his shoulder, soaking the fabric of his shirt. He rubs my back but doesn’t say anything. I’m glad he doesn’t, because I don’t know if I can handle words. And I don’t want to acknowledge the intimacy of crying in his arms.
“Do you want to watch TV?” I ask when I’m finally done crying.
He follows me over to the sofa, and when we’re settled, he asks, “What do you want to watch?”
