Page 78 of I Saw You First

Wil Wilshire gave me hickeys, not to mention orgasms, plural. I could get used to this.

Rows of neatly rolled washcloths and towels—all black—fill a shelf next to the bathtub. I find a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and a black bathrobe hanging behind the door. When I go back to the bedroom, makeup scrubbed off, hickeys covered by the collar of the robe, hair in a messy bun, and mouth minty fresh, Wil has clicked on a light and lies stretched out on the bed languorously. The sheet covers his lower half but cannot disguise his obvious arousal. I smile, but he frowns.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He scowls. “I’ve been waiting months to see you naked.”

“It was cold in the bathroom.” I sit down on the edge of the bed next to him, tucking one foot underneath.

“You’re not in the bathroom anymore. Let’s make a rule. No clothes in the bedroom. Ever.” He reaches out and pulls the sash. The robe opens slightly.

“You love your policies and procedures, don’t you?” I smirk but then I remember: Wil’s my boss, and my expression falls. “What happens next, Wil?”

“I give you a matching set of hickeys on the other side of your neck and anywhere else you request?” He grins.

“I’m serious. What now?”

“We’re both off tomorrow,” he says. “I propose we spend the entire day in bed.” He smirks again, flips me onto my back, and hovers above me.

“And then?” I bite my lower lip.

“Then… I say we give this a shot. We spend time together.”

“Like, date?”

“Like, date.” He starts in on my neck again. It’s the best feeling in the world. Well, second best. Third best. Definitely third best.

“What made you change your mind? What about…” I don’t want to bring up his family at a time like this, but I can’t say what I mean without at least alluding to the main issue. “Hometown?” That seems broad enough.

“I don’t care, Abbey. I can’t let that dictate my life anymore. I want to be with you. I like you. A lot.”

I sigh. He likes me. A lot.

“I’ve got another couple of months before I move up to an AGM spot,” he continues, “so we just need to be, you know, careful about it. And then, when we’re in different stores, problem solved.”

“Am I the problem?” I’m teasing, I think.

“Most days, yes,” he says. He frowns again.

“What?!” I cry. “I’m a problem?”

“Yes. I’ve wanted you since the day I met you. It’s been a big problem.”

“Oh, poor you,” I say. I reach my hand down to where he’s hard and stroke him. “What should we do about this big problem?”

He lets out a hiss and then moves his mouth to my breast. He takes the nipple between his teeth, and I moan.

“Wil,” I whisper as he releases his hold and moves lower, across my ribs, my swizzling belly, and I cry out when he settles between my legs, and I’m lost in the movement, the momentum, the moment.

Nothing has ever worked out for me like this is working out for me.

TWENTY-ONE

“IN THE MEANTIME” BY SPACEHOG, 1996

WIL

I’m at the stove when Abbey comes out of the bedroom dressed in my robe again. I’m making eggs and bacon—quick and easy. I brewed French press coffee, and I pour her a mug as she slides onto one of the barstools at the counter.