His mouth, a hot, wet place of perfection, left my neck and moved up, his eyes careful and concerned, watching my face as his touch moved, his eyes darkening when he saw me reach the edge. “Don’t stop,” I begged.

“Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his head and biting gently on my neck. “Take your time,” he whispered, and I whimpered as his mouth trailed lower, skipping along my skin, a quick scrape of his teeth across my stomach, the intensity building, every sensor in my body tuned to and focused on his fingers. God, this was with my panties on. What would it be like when I was naked? When it was his cock and not his fingers? When he was inside me and pushing deeper, his hands holding me close, his…

“Oh my God, I’m—”

“Not yet,” he growled, and his hand ripped at my panties, pulling them down, and his hot mouth was suddenly where his fingers had been, his hands on me, holding me down as he explored me with his mouth, his tongue light and constant as it played across my clit then dipped lower and deeper. The man had no fear, no hesitation, and I dug my hands in his hair as I tried to stay in control, tried to stay coherent. The sensation … it was building, spreading outward from his mouth, every muscle tensing, my body clenching in preparation for what was coming, and he groaned my name in worship and

in that sound, raw and primal…

in the clench of his hands on my skin…

in the wet, perfect flick of his tongue…

in the dark look of ownership and confidence in his eyes…

in the buildup, a hundred pieces of arousal climbing together…

I lost words, I lost thought, I lost every single piece of myself. My shoulders came off the table and I whispered his name, my eyes closing, hands grabbing at him, his mouth staying on me as the intensity grew and stretched and inhaled my world.

I fell down to earth lazy and broken. My legs rolled off his shoulders, and I lay there on his table, his fingers soft as they trailed away, his mouth sweet as it slowly kissed its way off my skin, his arms strong as they lifted me off the table and carried me away, down a dark hall with another stunning Presa Little painting, and onto a bed that was big and soft.

There, he drew me into his arms. Take your time, he had said. Quite possibly the best three words I’d ever heard during sex. I ran my hand along his forearm and shifted against him, closing my eyes and listening to the beat in his chest.

There, lulled by the metronome of his heart, I slept.

34. The Walk of Shame

I opened my eyes and felt the weight of an arm across my stomach.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. I let my eyes adjust to the morning light and caught as many details as I could from my place in the bed.

Light gray walls. No furniture sitting on the charcoal floors. No curtains framing the windows. His room had nothing in it. No dirty clothes, no dresser, no desk, no phone charger hanging off the wall. I eyed the closet door and wondered if it was packed full or OCD organized. I bet on organized. The sun was shining through a clean window, his baseboards were dust-free, and his freakin’ fan blades sparkled from above me.

So. One upside to my fall into a handyman’s bed: it was clean. I straightened my right leg, realized my lack of panties, and remembered a second upside: a long-awaited orgasm. An orgasm that had been great for me but had left him with nothing. I smiled despite myself. A sexual gentleman. Vic wouldn’t have let me sleep until the scales were even.

My experience with random hookups was fairly limited, and I wondered at the next step. Should I roll out from under his arm and sneak out? Would we pass each other in the hall and smile and pretend nothing happened? Would he want to have a relationship talk? I stared up at his sparkly clean ceiling fan and felt the first tinge of panic.

Nicole’s ringtone suddenly blared, scaring the hell out of me. I bolted upright, throwing off his arm and crawled over his hard body, headed for his bedside table, my fingers stretching to grab my cell. I answered it while turning around his clock. Saw the time and panicked, throwing some bullshit Nicole’s way while I looked around for my shorts.

“They’re in the living room.” Carter was sitting half up, his bare torso on glorious display, watching me with an amused half-grin stretched across his face.

“Thanks,” I whispered, hopping off the bed. His hand reached out and grabbed my wrists, pulling me back and I was suddenly right there, inches from his face, his other hand at the back of my neck, his mouth soft as he gently pulled me in for a kiss. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the moment. Nicole barked a fresh set of orders through the phone and I quickly came back down to earth. “I have to go,” I whispered and pulled away. I waved at him and mouthed an apology, jogging down the hall. “I’m literally right here, Nicole. I’m walking in the door now.”

I found my underwear and my shorts, pulling them on. A spare key for my apartment lay right next to my shoes, my apartment number neatly printed on the tag. I stared at it for a moment, something about the way it was laid out, felt like a giant Get Out of Here sign. I shrugged off the feeling, pocketing the key, my feet shoved into my shoes, and ran out.

I waited on the street, my eyes scanning for a cab, and tried to understand the roll of feelings. I felt like a thirteen-year-old girl. One who had just *cough* kissed a guy and had no idea how to handle it. I wasn’t even sure, catching sight of a cab, why I was analyzing this. We hadn’t even had sex. It was a one-night thing, nothing more. I had nothing in common with the man, wasn’t even sure he liked me. I had caught him in a weak moment and gotten a mind-numbing orgasm from it. End of story.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Not.

The stack of publications before me grew. People, In Touch, Variety, the Times, the Hollywood Reporter—I added Star to the pile and picked up the next, flipping through the newspaper, my eyes skimming for any mention of Nicole. My stomach flipped when I stuck the blue flag on page 7A, right by a story naming Boston Love Letters an expensive vanity project, one set to tank.

I shifted on my stool, in the Brantley’s kitchen, and eyed Nicole, who thumbed through a stack of mail. She wandered over, tossing the mail on the counter and reached for the newspaper, pulling it from my hands, her eyes darting over the article. “Is everything—?” I didn’t get the rest of the sentences out, barely having time to duck when she picked her phone off the counter and threw it.

“CLAARRRKKKE!” She screamed the man’s name like she was on the battlefield, and I heard his feet, heavy down the stairs. Then he was in the kitchen, T-shirt damp with sweat, ear buds hanging from around his neck. He stopped in the doorway, his hands braced on the frame, and looked at Nicole, his eyebrows rising in question.

“I told you this would happen!” Nicole screamed the threat as if it were the plague, and thrust out the newspaper, stretched tightly so we could read the headline: BOSTON LOVE LETTERS ALREADY IN TROUBLE. I slowly eased to my feet and picked up the laptop, ready to escape the carnage. “Chloe!” Nicole barked, pointing a finger in my direction. “Don’t go anywhere!” I slunk back down on the stool. Chanel deserted my feet and ran for cover, her nails clicking down the marble hall and out of sight. Lucky bitch.

“Nicole, calm down.” Clarke let go of the doorframe and stepped closer. Brave man. I shifted slightly, hunching behind my laptop in case things started flying in my direction. As quickly as possible, I navigated over to TMZ to see if there was any news about BLL there. This shit was about to get nuclear if they’d grabbed the story too.