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Still, she doesn’t move.
“You may move now,” I say. “Christopher will drive you home.”
She stays in position for a few seconds before she turns to face me, her pants and underwear still around her knees. “You said you’d never kick me out of your home again.”
“That’s true. I did.” I walk out of the kitchen but look over my shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I left my business meetings to get back here, so I have a lot to do. I’ll be in my office working.”
Skye pulls up her undies and pants, while I mourn the loss of her naked pussy. I want Skye here. I would love to wake up next to her again.
But I need to maintain control as much as she does. Much more, actually. And with Skye…my control is hanging precariously by a thin thread.
I text Christopher quickly, thankful he decided to stay in tonight.
Are you available? Skye needs a ride home.
Be down in a minute.
Great. Thanks.
And that’s that.
I ignore the part of me that wants her to stay.
I ignore the part of me that wants to throw her over my shoulder, take her to my bed, and make love to her all night long.
I ignore the part of me that wants to say those words—words I’ve never said to a woman, words I never thought I’d even consider saying.
I ignore all of it, because if I don’t, I’ll be walking straight into a whirlwind I’m not even close to ready for.
Then I head into my home office, leaving Skye to wait for Christopher.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I’m restless the remainder of the night. I didn’t lie to Skye when I said I had work to do. I always have work to do. But it wasn’t because of cutting my trip short. I delegated that work, and the team in Manhattan will get the job done. If Foster McCain is a problem, I’ll go back, but I have full faith in Dimitri to handle it.
I fire up the computer and sit down to go over tomorrow’s agenda when my phone buzzes.
It’s my brother.
“Yeah?” I say into the phone.
“Good evening to you, too,” Ben says.
“Sorry. It’s late. What’s up?”
“It’s nine thirty, Braden. You’re always up until midnight, and you rise at six a.m.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry.” I shouldn’t be short with Ben. None of this is his fault. It’s not like he waved some wizard’s wand and hurled Skye Manning into my life to throw it into chaos.
“So hey,” he says, “I just got a call from Stamos in Manhattan.”
“And…?”
“Well, once I went outside and convinced myself that pigs weren’t flying and glaciers weren’t rising from hell freezing over—”
“Ha-ha. I assume he told you I came home.”
“Yeah, and he wanted to check with me and make sure it was really what you wanted. To which I replied, ‘How the fuck should I know? This is the first I’m hearing of it.’”
