Page 113

But I’m already sliding the satin scrap of her panties down her legs. Clara arches like a cat as I trail my fingers up the back of her calf. Gives a purr as I reach her thighs. The sweet gasp of her shock as I part her flesh ricochets through my insides.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” I rasp. “So pink and ready.”

She gives a soft moan as I press the flat of my tongue to her pussy and give one long lick.

“Jesus.” Toes en pointe, her fingers scrabble against the countertop as I begin.

Soft circles. A filthy flick of my tongue. Fingers, mouth, and dirty words, I use them all. I tell her how good she looks like this, spread wide and twisted with need. How pretty her pussy flutters and how delicious she tastes. Like honey and musk and the kind of sins I’d sell my soul to own. She tastes like she belongs to me. In this minute, at least.

But then I can’t talk any more as my need swells, and I begin to devour her.

It isn’t long before her body begins to tighten and her thighs to shake.

“That’s it, baby. Give in. Come for me, Clara. Let me drown in you.”

She peaks, crests, and the room fills with the sweet, sweet sounds of her climax. It’s beautiful. It’s also dangerous as a realization settles in my chest.

It doesn’t feel like we’re crossing a line. It’s more like coming home.

Chapter 32

Clara

The morning light is bright and obnoxious, none of this creeping in slowly to rouse us. Rouse me, at least. Troy is still asleep, his skin golden in the excessively cheery morning light.

Maybe I should be cheery, too, after three orgasms. Which is three more orgasms than I’ve had in the last two years. Self-administered not included in those statistics.

I sigh softly, the sound sort of wondrous. When I woke earlier, I hardly scuttled across the bed like a crab. Instead, I did the opposite, tucking myself closer, pressing my cheek to Troy’s chest. I told myself that I wasn’t seeking the sound of his heart as proof that last night was real.

Whether kissing me was part of the ploy, the narrative. Whether it was tension or biology or a yearning for the past, I refuse to regret what passed between us last night.

Bottom line? I feel okay in a way that’s almost suspicious.

Could be the orgasms, I suppose.

Last night was probably inevitable. But we’re adults, aren’t we? We can deal with this rationally. I hope. Just because we had sex—mind-blowing, atom-bending, organ-rearranging sex—doesn’t mean we’re destined to be together. We’re just good in that way.

We always were.

Troy looks like the boy I once loved when he sleeps, the hard edges of the man who runs boardrooms and worries about success softened into something that looks like . . . peace.

I watch him, for a moment, watch him sleep, the sight of him easing something in me. But then my head sharply turns. This is the problem. I shouldn’t feel like this—I shouldn’t moon over him. We can’t be together. We both understood this long before last night, the reality like a fault line between us. We can pretend it doesn’t exist, but we both know what happens when that line shifts.

People get hurt and hearts break.

I can’t live through that again.

I close my eyes and swallow hard. I won’t make those mistakes again. I won’t tie myself up in something I can’t control.

My gaze drifts back, despite what I tell myself, a memory of last night rising between us. The way he moved above me and the sounds he made as he broke. Every moment, every touch somehow familiar and yet at the same time new.

Too easy, I think. Too dangerous to fall into again.

Troy doesn’t stir. His eyes just spring open before I can look away. He blinks, then his mouth curls as he sees me watching him.

“Hey.” His voice is the kind of smoky that makes my insides flip.

“Hey.” My cheeks pinken with giddiness as we just stare at each other.