by Noelle Adams
He hasn’t made a move on me, and I feel kind of weird about bringing it up.
Maybe he thinks I’m still having my period. (I’m not.)
Or maybe he’s just not that interested, despite what he said.
Surely if he wants to have sex again, he’ll say something or make a move.
Won’t he?
I’m mulling over this question as I’m getting ready for bed on Friday night. It’s come up specifically because I’m trying to decide what to put on.
I could put on comfortable pajamas that are cute but not sexy.
Or I could put on something better.
I’ve got some genuinely sexy lingerie, but I only wear it if I know I’m having sex. I don’t actually want to sleep in it, and I’ll feel pretty stupid going downstairs in it if Owen doesn’t already have sex on his mind.
But I’d like to give him at least a little hint that sex wouldn’t be out of the question this evening.
I sort through my options and end up putting on the same black chemise I wore last Saturday. He’s already seen it, but he probably won’t remember it. And even if he does, it won’t really matter. He wears the same three pairs of pajama pants over and over again.
I brush out my hair, rub on some vanilla-and-ginger-scented lotion, and check myself out in the mirror.
I look pretty good. The chemise makes the most of my breasts and highlights my long legs and toned arms. But it’s comfortable to sleep in and doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard.
When I go downstairs, Owen is in the shower. I hadn’t realized he showered before bed, but he’s done so every night I’ve been sleeping with him. It’s nice. He comes to bed smelling clean and warm.
Surely he’s going to want to have sex again soon.
It’s been a week. Tonight would be a good time.
I stand next to the bed and think for a minute. If I get into bed and under the covers, he won’t be able to see how pretty I look. But I can’t just stand around posing.
When I hear the shower turn off, I leave the room and go to the kitchen, lingering longer than necessary in getting a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator. After it’s been long enough for him to have come out of the bathroom, I return to the room, trying to look natural and not like I’m all jittery about the possibility of sex.
Owen is out of the bathroom, but he isn’t looking at me as I approach. He’s standing over an open drawer in his dresser. He’s already got a pair of plaid pajama pants on.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He turns and eyes me up and down soberly. I can’t tell whether he likes what he sees or not. “I’m clearing out a drawer for you.”
“What?”
“I’m clearing a drawer. So you can use it if you want. If you’re going to sleep down here, there’s no reason for you to have to go upstairs every night to get ready for bed. You can have a drawer for your pajamas and stuff. Or two drawers if you need them. And you can move the stuff you need to get ready for bed into my bathroom. That way, you won’t have to traipse all the way upstairs every night.”
I’m so surprised that I can’t say anything. I just stare.
He clears his throat and looks down at the empty drawer. “Only if you want. You don’t have to, if you’d rather—”
“I do! I want to.” I sound way too urgent, so I temper my tone as I continue. “I mean, that’s really nice. It will make it easier. Thanks.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“I’ll move some stuff down tomorrow.”
“Good. Great.”
We stare at each other for several seconds.
He finally looks away, shifting from foot to foot. “So... did you...”
My heart jumps. “Did I what?”
“Did you want to...?” He clears his throat again.
He’s so adorable I just want to squeeze him, but I manage to refrain. “Are you asking about sex?”
“Yes.”
“You can have it, but you can’t say the word?”
“I can say the word.”
“So say it. Ask me.” I’m teasing him, and it should be more than obvious by my tone. All my jitters have transformed into excitement.
He scowls. “Do you want to have sex?”
“Yes. Was that so hard to say?”
“No. I was trying to be... nice.”
“Nice?”
“Nice. Sensitive. Patient. I’m not the kind of selfish, pushy asshole you normally hook up with.”
“I know you’re not.” I take a step closer to him, my body reacting to the sight of his. Big. Shirtless. Familiar. “But believe it or not, I’m not wild about always being the one who makes the first move.”
“You’re not?”
“No.”
“So you want me to make the first move?” His eyes are still serious, but they’re hotter than they were before. I can tell he’s getting excited too.
“I want you to let me know if you want to have sex with me.”
“Okay.” His eyes move from my face to my breasts to my legs, and I can see the effect in the tightness of his body. “I want to have sex with you.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I do.” He swallows visibly, his eyes lingering on my neckline. “Really bad.”
I’m torn between giggling and purring, and I end up making a sound between the two. “Okay. I’m going to go to the bathroom real quick, and then we’ll have sex.”
“Don’t take too long. I’ve been waiting for a week.”
I huff as I turn toward the bathroom. “You only have yourself to blame for that.”
He grumbles under his breath, but I find that rather sexy too.
I pee and wash up quick before I come back out to the bedroom. He’s in bed with his lower half covered and his head propped up on two pillows. His eyes follow me as I walk to the bed.
I don’t feel awkward anymore. I’m way too excited for that. I get onto the bed and crawl over on top of him, straddling his hips and rubbing his chest with my palms. His skin is warm, firm from muscles and rough from hair. The friction fires up nerve endings on my hands that I didn’t know existed.
He raises one hand to push a strand of hair from my face. “You are so gorgeous.”
“Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.”
“For a man of my advanced years?” A smile is twitching on the corner of his mouth, an irresistible contrast to the heat of his eyes.
“Exactly.” I lean down to kiss him slowly, softly. “You’re not too bad for a man of your advanced years, grandpa.”
He makes a low, growling sound that really does it for me.
“What?” I’m trying and failing to suppress a giggle. I’m still pressing little kisses all around his mouth. “You’re the one who said it. I’m just agreeing.”
“I never called myself grandpa.”
“That’s true. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to call you daddy.”
“Fuck, please don’t.”
“I won’t. That one really doesn’t do it for me.”
“Me either. But you really think grandpa does it for me?” He’s really turned on now. His body is palpably tense, and I can feel him hard beneath the cotton of his pants.
I laugh and straighten up, my thighs still straddling his hips. I pull my chemise off over my head, baring my body to him completely. “It’s not supposed to be sexy. It’s supposed to be an endearing pet name.”
He chuckles and reaches up to cup my breasts. “Maybe you can think of another one.”
He’s fondling my nipples with his thumbs, and I can’t help but arch into the touch. “Gramps? Grandad? PeePaw?”
He chokes on a laugh and bucks his hips up against my weight. “PeePaw?”
“Yes. Haven’t you heard that before? I had a friend in school who called her grandparents MeeMaw and PeePaw.”
“If you start calling me that, you can forget about sex tonight or any other night. I’ll be flaccid for life.”
I scoot
farther down his body so I can get my hands under his waistband and wrap my fingers around his thick erection. “Really? Flaccid for life? You don’t feel very flaccid to me.”
He groans uninhibitedly. “Shit, Chelsea. How are you doing this to me?”
My heart jumps at the hoarse question. “What am I doing to you?” I’m stroking and squeezing, and I’m really getting into how helplessly he’s responding to it.
“You’re... ruining me.”
My heart is in my throat now, and arousal is throbbing between my legs so intensely it’s almost painful. It’s a struggle to keep my tone light and teasing. “Then maybe you want me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare.” He lifts his hips and pulls down his pajama pants, toeing them off over his feet before he settles me on top of him again. “You’ve already ruined me, so you might as well do it all the way.”
The lights are still on in the room, and we’re both completely naked as I raise my hips and lower myself over him. He holds his erection in place as I sheathe him with my body.
He feels particularly big and hard in this position. I gasp and arch my spine as I fit myself around him. I’m not usually a fan of being on top for very long, particularly if we’re not in the dark. But the look in Owen’s eyes right now is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
It’s more than lust. More than urgency. More than simple enjoyment.
It’s deeper, needier, warmer, bigger.
It’s breathtaking.
And I really can’t believe that it’s focused all on me.
His eyes never close, and they never leave my face and body as I start to move over him. I start slow, trying to get a feel of what works for him, what works for me. I lean forward and brace myself on the headboard so I can pick up my speed without putting all the strain on my thighs.
“Chelsea,” he breathes, holding on to my hips and keeping me in place as I ride him harder. “Oh fuck, Chelsea.”
I’m already breathless, and an orgasm builds inside me. I want it. Need it. Chase it as I shake more urgently. My breasts are jiggling wildly, which I’d normally be embarrassed about, but the friction is just adding to my sensations.
“Fuck, Chelsea, can you come?” He sounds strained, breathless. His hands are gripping me so strongly I might end up with bruises.
“Yeah. Think so. Yeah. Oh yeah.” I sound different. Shameless. I’m panting out the words as pleasure tightens into a hard coil.
“Oh fuck!” He’s pumping his hips up into me now, and it’s making the whole thing even better. “Chelsea. Chelsea!”
He’s a lot louder than I am, and I really like it. I love how he’s choking out my name.
I don’t want him to come before I do though. I make a silly sobbing sound as my motion grows even wilder. The muscles of my thighs and back and abs are all burning, but I’m almost—almost—there.
“Chelsea,” he says again, this time barely a breath.
And that does it.
I come hard.
He’s obviously been holding out for me because he comes right after me, pushing into my clenching body with a series of loud, uninhibited grunts.
He says my name again as he lets go, riding out the pleasure with the rocking of his body. He comes inside me, both of us making little shakes and twitches with the aftershocks of the pleasure.
I’m gasping achingly as I collapse on top of him. He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my face against the crook of his neck. He’s starting to soften, and the move causes him to slip out of me. My whole weight is resting on him, and he’s holding me there.
I want to say something, but I don’t know what to say. So I stay in his embrace for as long as I can.
After a while, I feel something against my hair. I raise my head, wondering if he kissed me there.
His eyes are opened and looking at me.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
He lets out a little huff, his eyes warm and soft. “Hi.”
“That was... good.”
“Yeah. Really good.”
“I’m glad we did it.”
“Me too.”
I’m feeling too much. Way too much that goes way too deep.
My heart is in real danger here, but it doesn’t feel wrong.
Owen isn’t like the other men I’ve been with. He’s not always guarding himself, doing only what’s easy and comfortable for him.
He thinks about me. He cares about me. He’s not going to hurt me.
I can hardly blurt out that I’m falling hard for him. Our relationship isn’t like that. But I don’t think I need to stop myself from feeling this way.
Owen is different.
I’m safe with him.
I smile and manage to find my teasing tone. “You know, you’re pretty sexy for a grandpa.”
He chuckles, the amusement shaking his body beneath mine. “And you’re pretty sexy for anyone.”
I give him a little kiss. “The truth is, you are too.”
Things feel good between us right now. Fond and warm but still safe. Comfortable. I roll off him and get off the bed, picking up my chemise and pulling it on before I head for the bathroom to clean up.
He follows me to the bathroom, and then he crawls back into bed beside me.
I’m happy as he pulls me against him, holding me with one arm.
I’m warm and sated and tired and happy.
It doesn’t take long for me to go to sleep.
Just before I do, I randomly remember what Pop said about Owen always prioritizing his company. He’ll always care more about Masterson’s than he does about me.
I brush the thought aside.
Pop is an idiot when it comes to relationships. That much has always been obvious.
Owen cares about me the way I do about him.
I wasn’t sure before, but I am now.
Pop is just plain wrong.
Eight
FOUR FRIDAYS LATER, I’m sitting at my desk in the office and rubbing the nape of my neck to ward off a tension headache.
I’ve been working on this project for more than seven hours today. I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard for so long on anything in my entire life.
That sounds pretty sad, but it’s true.
The past month has been really good. I’ve gotten more involved in my work, learning the ins and outs and finding significant ways to contribute. It’s harder than I imagined, but I think I might actually be getting good at it.
And I enjoy both the work and the feeling of doing something worthwhile. I’ve never experienced that before.
Things have also been good between Owen and me for the past four weeks. I’ve pretty much moved downstairs for real now—except my clothes, which are still in the room upstairs. We have sex regularly, and it feels to me like we’re married for real.
I like that feeling.
I never would have expected to like it, but I do.
But I’ve gradually been getting a tension headache today, starting at the base of my skull and tightening outward. I know it’s a tension headache because I’ve heard them described before, but I’ve never actually had one before.
Just another one of the perks of my new life.
When the words begin to blur on my computer screen, I close my eyes and bring both hands up to rub at my neck and scalp.
Maybe this is what being an adult feels like.
That painfully tight feeling of having one’s head constricted in a vise.
“What are you still doing here?”
The voice—male and soft and familiar—surprises me so much I give an embarrassing jump in my chair. I open my eyes to see Owen standing in front of my desk. He’s wearing one of his old suits today—this one in a deep brown-gray shade—and his hair needs to be trimmed again.
He doesn’t look sleek or stylish. At all. He looks like Owen, and no one has ever looked better.
I give him a tired smile. “I’m working.”
“I can see you’re working. But you got in at eight th
is morning.” He’s frowning as he walks over to look over my shoulder at my computer screen. “You’ve been here way too long.”
“I’m just trying to finish this before the weekend.”
“Why? This can wait until Monday.”
“Yeah, but I was on a roll, so I just wanted to—”
Owen puts his hand on the armrests of my chair and spins me around to face him. “Chelsea, go home.”
“I just have another hour—”
“Chelsea.” The one murmured word silences me.
I swallow hard and stare up at him. He’s leaning over me, and his gaze makes me breathless. His eyes are sober and intent and oddly possessive.
“Chelsea, how many hours have you worked this week?”
I glance away.
His brows draw together for a minute. I can see he’s doing mental math. “It’s got to be over thirty. Right?”
“Y-yeah. What’s your point?”
“My point is you’re only supposed to do twenty hours a week.”
“I know, but what does it matter—”
“It matters because you’re not getting paid.” I’m the only one in the office right now because Heather’s assistant has left for a dentist appointment, but Owen’s voice is low and soft. No one will be able to hear it but me.
“I don’t care about getting—”
“Maybe not. But I care. I can’t let you work a full-time job as an unpaid intern. I can’t let you do it, Chelsea.”
The intensity of his tone—that low, soft tone he only uses when he’s starting to get angry or urgent—always has an effect on me, and today is no exception. My back stiffens, and I feel shivers running up and down it. I stand up so he won’t be looming over me this way. “I love what I’m doing, Owen. It’s the first time in my life when I feel like... I feel like I’m... not a frivolous waste of space.”
His mouth twists, and he doesn’t step back as I stand, so we end up only a few inches away from each other. “You were never a waste of space, Chelsea.”
“I know. But I felt that way. And I don’t now, so I want to—”
“You’ve done amazing work here, Chelsea. You think I don’t see that? You helped me get the deals with Deanna Barton and Max Frone.” Last week, another good designer came to meet with Owen, and that visit ended up with a deal for a small exclusive line of stylish business clothes. “And I know how much you’ve been helping to steer Mary. I know it, Chelsea. You’ve done miracles. And I want you to keep doing this work for as long as you want.”
