by Tessa Bailey
“I don’t care if you smell, but if you want to take a quick shower, there are extra towels in the hall closet. Don’t use the purple one, though.”
“Why not?”
“Louis’s birthday gift from Roxy is rolled inside it. You don’t want to know.”
“I assure you, I want to know.”
Her eyes twinkled, and he experienced some serious relief at seeing something besides fatigue on her. “Edible underwear. For him to wear, not Roxy.”
Russell executed an overhead first pump. “All the worry you put me through today just became marginally worth it, Abby.”
Her drowsy laughter followed him from the room, knocking him square in the chest. As soon as he’d closed himself in the bathroom, he started with the now-familiar breathing exercises. A few hours. He could get through a few, measly hours.
Chapter 4
REMINDING HERSELF IT was only three o’clock in the afternoon, Abby forced herself to sit up before she lapsed into a coma. Russell had blown off the rest of his workday to keep her company, and it would be rude to fall asleep on him. She could hear the shower spray drumming in the adjacent bathroom and pictured him scowling at her pink loofah and white-grape body gel.
Smiling to herself, Abby set aside the bag of peas and eased to her feet before limping to the kitchen. Her ankle had started to throb, and without any painkillers in the house, she would have to employ the ancient alcoholic remedy known as tequila. And wow, her roommates were really rubbing off on her. She’d never been much of a drinker and was still considered the resident lightweight among the super group, but she enjoyed the buzz a couple of shots gave her. Maybe it would take her mind off the avalanche of work she would have to complete when Russell left. Work that would probably take her until dawn.
Determined to ignore anything but a couple hours of laughing with her friend, Abby retrieved two shot glasses and the bottle of Patron left over from their last indoor summer barbecue. By the time she returned to her bedroom, the shower spray had quieted, so she poured two shots in anticipation of Russell’s coming in and left them on her bedside table. Using the piece of furniture for support, she peeled off her nylons and flopped back onto the bed. Abby didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes until Russell’s heavy tread forced them open, and she saw him standing in her doorway.
Shirtless. Damp. Jeans sitting low on his hips.
A red-hot fist formed beneath her belly button. For Russell? She tried to shoot into a sitting position so fast, the back of her head bashed against the headboard, which really didn’t help her confusion. Not a bit. She wasn’t supposed to notice Russell in that way, right? But when a water droplet rolled down the center of his abdomen and vanished into the waistband of his jeans, she noticed. And she noticed good. Today marked the first time she’d ever seen him without a shirt. It also marked the first time they’d ever been alone, without their friends around. Both facts occurred to her simultaneously and out of nowhere, she wasn’t just watching a movie with a friend, anymore.
She was watching a movie on her bed. With an extremely well-built man. A man with chest hair. A man with his family name—Hart— tattooed across his chest.
Russell dropped the towel he’d been holding and came toward her. “What was that reaction about? Did you forget I was here?”
In a manner of speaking. “No. I just . . .” She sucked in a silent breath when he stopped beside the bed, reached out, and cradled the top of her bumped head, rubbing gently. A touch that would have comforted her two minutes ago but now felt very intimate. “I brought tequila.”
He must have already noticed the filled shot glasses because he picked one up without looking and held it to her lips. “I would have gotten it for you, gimpy.”
Needing to buy herself some time before speaking, Abby tilted her head back and let him feed her the shot, another gesture that felt like . . . foreplay. Or what she’d always envisioned foreplay would feel like. She was grateful for the burn tracking down her esophagus because it distracted her, but as soon as the fire hit her belly, she wished she’d gone for iced tea instead. It only exacerbated the still-undefined problem. “Thanks,” she whispered.
Russell watched her with suspicion as he rounded the bed and climbed in beside her, muscles flexing in the television’s glow while he settled. Seriously, why hadn’t she known about his chest hair? Why did she like it so much? It made him seem so earthy and masculine. Older than the rest of their group.
“I give up. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Shoot. She performed an imaginary search for the remote. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo. Or chest hair. Who are you?”
Her joke eased the tension a little. Until he stacked his hands beneath his head and stretched out, like a big, contended animal, making her queen-size bed feel tiny. “I’m sure there are things I don’t know about you, too.”
She doubted there was anything underneath her clothes as exciting as tattoos and chest hair, but she declined to voice that opinion. Something else entirely popped out of her mouth instead. Something she wanted to lasso and drag back immediately into her big gob. “Why don’t you ever bring girls around, Russell?”
He sat up without warning, jostling her on the bed. “Hand me that shot of tequila.”
“What? Oh.” She reached over and handed him the glass. “Forget I asked about girls. It’s none of my business.”
For some reason, that made him laugh, but it sounded strained. His throat muscles slid up and down as he took the shot. “Would you like me to bring girls around?”
No. The word was yodeled inside her head, echoing like it might around the Swiss Alps. “If you brought a girl around, could we still be friends the way we are now?”
“No, Abby.” Had he moved closer? “Probably not.”
“Then, no,” she whispered.
Horrified she’d revealed a lack of desire to see Russell with someone else, confused she even felt that way, Abby busied herself pouring another round of shots. She felt Russell’s gaze linger on her turned head a moment before he picked up the remote and started the movie. God, she didn’t like feeling awkward around him. This was Russell. Maybe she had been affected by the explosion? They just needed a good subject change to get back on solid ground.
“How is the Tribeca job going?”
He looked kind of shocked that she’d remembered. “Really well. We should wrap up in a few weeks unless we get some unexpected rain.”
“So I should stop my morning rain-dancing sessions on the roof?”
His lips tilted. “Yeah. Knock that off.” Just when she thought they were back to normal, he started looking uncomfortable again. “Actually, we’re looking to expand soon. Take on more jobs.”
She handed him a shot. “Really? That’s great.”
“More jobs means more equipment, an actual office, a supply surplus. All that good stuff.” Down went his tequila, almost as if he needed liquid courage to finish what he wanted to say. “I have a meeting at the bank next week to discuss a business loan.”
Abby’s shot sat forgotten in her hand. Just how many new things was she going to learn about Russell tonight? His pride and excitement had always been visible when talking about new contracts. She’d assumed he was satisfied with the current trajectory of Hart Brothers but not actively looking to expand or make the company more lucrative even if there was occasionally unspoken tension when money came up in conversation. She felt guilty now for underestimating him. “Do you need help?” When his head snapped up, and he pinned her with a dark look, Abby realized he’d misinterpreted her offer and felt herself flush bright red. “N-not with money. I meant help preparing for the meeting.” She pressed a hand to her cheek, attempting to cool the heated skin. “Numbers are kind of my thing.”
“Right.” The tension eased from his big body. “I guess I could use the help, seeing how my brother would rather be filmed wearing spandex while completing an obstacle course.”
“Huh?”
�
��Exactly.” Russell stole the tequila from her hand and drained it. “Thanks for the offer. I bet you didn’t think I’d say yes, huh?” He leaned close and pressed their foreheads together. “That’s me trying not to be a dick. Please take note.”
“Note taken,” Abby murmured, wondering when her lungs had stopped working. Oh, brother. She needed some time to acclimate to this new consciousness of Russell. He’d never loomed so large or . . . smelled so good. Even with the scent of her soap wafting from his bare skin, his usual maleness was making it seriously difficult to pull away. But she had to.
Nearly every time they hung out as a group, Russell spoke about women with such knowledge, he had to be experienced, whereas she’d only been kissed twice in her life—once by her intoxicated and immediately apologetic stepbrother—and both times severely disappointing. Common sense said that if Russell hadn’t shown any romantic interest in her after six months, he didn’t have any, and if she let her new awareness of him show now, she risked losing a friend. In addition to landing in a freshly fallen pile of rejection.
Abby moved away, throat tightening under the fear of that possibility. “Helping is the least I can do after forcing you to hang out with a gimp.” She lifted her chin. “And making you use her loofah.”
“I didn’t use it,” he responded too quickly.
She poked him in the chest. “You know you did.”
Russell snagged her wrist and drew her up against his side. When Abby’s head landed on his shoulder, everything inside her relaxed, the same way it always did when she put her head there. His strong arm curled around her, and the paperwork stacked around the room vanished into nothingness. Having her face pressed directly to his skin was a new experience. One she’d likely think about later. A lot. But just then, while the movie played in the background, she felt safe enough to let the pressure she’d been carrying around drop off like heavy stones . . . and allow exhaustion to overtake her.
ABBY WOKE UP by degrees. Her head was filled with churning cement, but as the heaviness of sleep wore off, allowing her to open her eyes in the partial darkness, she became aware of anticipation. Deep in her belly, between her thighs . . . expectancy hummed like a motor. All over, her flesh was sensitized and warm, in a way that told her minimal effort would be required to ease the discomfort. She’d woken up like this before, usually after watching a racy movie or catching Honey or Roxy making out with their boyfriends, like the hormonally charged couples they were. How could she not be affected by the sight of them going at it, like they might expire if they didn’t orgasm?
She could relate. It was how she felt at that very moment.
There was a fine layer of sweat on her forehead, a low pulse below her waist, taunting her hand to come closer. Her work skirt was tangled around her thighs, pressing her legs together, and she squeezed even tighter, a soft moan tripping past her lips. Abby shifted with the intention of yanking the skirt higher, reaching into her panties . . . and froze.
Holy shit. Someone else’s hand was already there. Not just any hand, though. A blunt-fingered, callused, man’s hand was molded to the juncture of her thighs. Gripping her hard . . . like he owned her.
This didn’t simply feel like another one of her fantasies. One of those sweaty, often confusing dreams where she imagined being held with such . . . possession. Sometimes more than just holding took place. Her limbs being pinned. Mouth being kissed hard. A deep voice ordering her to do . . . things. Intimate acts she knew all about but had never tried. Never had the opportunity.
Wait. Russell. Oh God. She’d fallen asleep beside Russell. Abby heard her thin, rapid breaths and forced herself to quiet down. Calming down was another story altogether. Instead of her need cooling upon discovering who had inflicted it? Oh, it was on a warpath now, blazing down her middle with a vengeance. Wetness rushed to the spot where his hand held tight, her body begging without words for his fingers, his palm, anything to provide friction.
This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He wasn’t even awake, probably would be horrified if he woke up and found his hand under her skirt. She should wake him up right now, laugh it off, wait until he left and finish herself off like a good, single lady. Her instinct should not be to move against him, tempt him and hope like hell he woke up needing sex enough to follow through, no matter that they were supposed to be friends. Only friends. Best friends.
Russell’s hold at the juncture of her thighs increased, that hand tugging her back into his hard body, releasing a rumbling growl into her hair at the same time. Abby’s pulse went haywire, making itself evident in every extremity, every private region of her body. And that was before his body even moved.
It started as a slow, unhurried roll of his hips, but it was so much more than that. The movement introduced her backside to his erection, full and long. Desire for her? Wow . . . yeah. Desire for her. She’d never had a man want her like this. Or if she had, none of them had ever done anything about it. Russell has never done anything about it, either, a stern voice whispered. Stop this now.
Abby slipped a hand down her belly, fully intending to remove his touch, much as it was going to kill her. Before she could reach her destination, however, Russell’s hand dragged up the front of her underwear, over her throbbing clitoris—oh God–and slid inside the material. Rough skin against smooth. His middle finger pressed against her entrance, and Abby winced, hyperaware of the dampness he would encounter, but his guttural groan at the back of her head assured her it wasn’t a bad thing. Not to Russell. He used the desire coating his finger to glide higher, higher, and find her clit, teasing it with lazy circles.
Abby turned her face and moaned into the pillow. Already she was starting to spasm, his touch so completely different than her own. Unexpected and perfect.
“How’d you get here, angel?” he muttered in a gruff tone, fueling her flaming body even more, when his asking why she was in her own room should have warned her he wasn’t fully awake. Wasn’t aware of his own actions.
Her body jolted forward as Russell’s hips bucked behind her—once, twice—then started to move in tandem with his fingers’ movements. A tight stroke of her sensitive nub, a sensual drag of his arousal up and down the curve of her ass. There was no ending this, no way. Reason had gotten tangled up in the lusty fog encompassing the bed. Her thighs were a restless mess on either side of his hand, her belly shuddering, her back bowing against his chest. She gasped and cried into the pillow as her body sprinted toward the finish line. Yes, yes.
When the orgasm crested over her, Abby’s heels dug into the mattress to push herself back into the welcoming strength of his body, bearing down on his pleasure-giving hand at the same time. And God, even with the wicked climax turning her inside out, she wanted to feel his erection against her backside. Wanted to tempt him to do something about relieving the hunger she sensed in him. Already, his movements were growing uneven, staggered, his breathing ragged at the back of her neck.
“Yes,” he grated. “That’s how I make you come. Hard as fuck when you’re in my bed. That’s the way I do it.”
Still shaken, Abby found herself nodding, because holy crap, he was right. She’d never come that hard in her life. But this wasn’t his bed, like he’d said. It was hers. Russell still wasn’t fully awake, and she’d already let this situation go on too long.
“Russell,” she breathed, biting her lip when he started to strum her clitoris with his thumb and her muscles tightened with anticipation once again. “Russell, we can’t—”
“I know, angel. I know.” He sounded miserable, giving her immediate pause. When had Russell ever sounded like that? “Can’t get what I need in real life. Fuck, I won’t even let myself take it when I’m dreaming.”
“You’re not dr—”
Russell rolled Abby onto her belly with one, whip-tight action. Then he . . . climbed on top of her, wedged an arm beneath her hips, and yanked them up into the cradle of his lap. Ohhh. Her insides were clamoring with the new, sudden position. It was ba
d. And incredible. She hadn’t managed to get leverage with her arms, leaving her cheek pressed down into the pillow where her harsh breaths were absorbed. What was he going to do? She should stop him now, but if he did, she would always wonder what came next. Twenty-four years old and a virgin. This had been so long in coming, and she’d dreamed of it so many times. The flesh between her legs craved the feeling of fullness, didn’t care if it hurt. God, at this point, she’d welcome the promised flash of pain just to feel something.
Russell took hold of her skirt’s hem and lifted, leaving the material gathered around her waist. The arm beneath her hips flexed and tightened as his hips started to move, his denim-clad arousal using the damp friction to pump between her thighs, making love to Abby through the barrier of her panties. Light winked behind her eyes as a new, kinkier kind of desire burrowed itself under her skin, raising goose bumps as it went.
“More, Russell,” she cried out, shuddering as he drove against her faster. “Please.”
“Can’t have that pussy. Can’t have it. Stop trying to give it to me.” She felt his forehead press into the crook of her neck and turn, his mouth finding her ear. “This is my dream, isn’t it, angel? Always a fucking dream.” His hand worked between their bodies, his big fingers hooking into the top of her underwear and dragging it down, exposing her. “Maybe I’ll work myself into your tight ass tonight.”
Then he slapped her bottom. Hard.
“Russell,” Abby shouted, staggered by what she’d just heard. Felt. The unexpectedness of it, by the usually overprotective Russell making her flesh sting. Mostly her mind reeled over the fact that she still didn’t want him to stop. One of the primary reasons she’d been attracted to Russell’s personality was his irreverence. The way he treated her like she wouldn’t break under a little disapproval . . . and his palm snapping against her backside took those feelings and turned them up full blast.
