Clearing my throat to suppress a growl, I squeezed Andy's hand. "I have it on good authority that your boss wants to take you to lunch tomorrow, and you should come home with me tonight. I might have an inside track on those pop quiz questions."
"Say no more," she laughed, a bright, uninhibited smile breaking across her face.
I was blaming it on being past my friends-with-benefits phase. There was also the whole issue of her showing up all sweet, babbling, and sloppy drunk on Saturday. And she read my thesis. Repeatedly and for comfort, though it certainly called her idea of comfort into question.
I wanted her body, but I also wanted her conversation, her bent eyebrows worth a million words, her sharp, dry humor. It was gradually ripping me apart, and it was all foreign to me.
Somewhere between the creepy staring and finally tying her to my bed, I developed an affection for Andy that made every minute she wasn't in my arms feel wasted. Saturday night wasn't 'just sex' with every word of her inner monologue on display and quiet mentions of wanting to see me, or waiting for me to invite her over, or me being made for her. It was no more 'just sex' than her uncharacteristically shy description of her boss, and how much she liked lunch with him. Or with me. Or whatever.
I was done with 'just sex.' It was never just anything. I knew that when I agreed to it, and I knew it when Andy thought I was breaking our treaty by touching her in the office. I wanted to respect her parameters, but I also wanted so much more of Andy.
My fingers skimmed over the curved characters of the tattoo clinging to her ribs. The sight of Andy's exposed skin lit only by moonlight while she was tucked against my chest was staggering, and part of me recognized that she would always affect me this way.
"Andy," I murmured. She hummed in response, and pulled my arm under her breasts. The simple gesture was a giant billboard reminding me I passed the exit for 'just sex' many miles back. "Tell me something about you. Something I don't know."
Her nails scratched up and down my forearm for a few minutes, and I figured she was tuning out my request until she replied, "My father died when I was seven."
I tightened the arm around her torso while I kissed her shoulder and rummaged around my memory for mention of Andy's family. I only knew she was from a town far up north Maine's coast.
The cold, heavy ache of understanding landed in my gut, and I pulled the blankets up. My mother's death ended childhood for me and my siblings. When it broke us, it wasn't the kind of break that healed neatly. It was the quiet shattering of a frozen-over pond protesting too much weight, all tiny fissures racing out from the impact site until the ice dropped out and chilled emptiness rushed in.
Some of the broken places made us stronger, and some healed over time, but not all.
Andy glanced over her shoulder. "You're not going to ask what happened?"
"No." My mouth continued mapping the sharp jut of her collarbone. "My mother died when I was ten and I hate when people ask. If you want me to know, you'll tell me."
Minutes slipped by, and the rasp of her fingers against my arm combined with city noises to occupy the quiet.
"He was shot, in South Africa. Some militant group wanted him dead. His family was exiled during the Iranian Revolution, and he ended up in Egypt, and then London. That's where my mom met him. I was born in Istanbul, and we lived between there and London until he died." She released a long sigh. "I never talk about that. Ever. People know he died, but they don't know why, or that I didn't always live in Maine, or that I'm even Persian. They just think I tan easily."
Holding her closely, I searched for the right words but I knew all too well nothing eased the loss. It shrouded even the best memories in sorrow. "After my sister Erin was born—you haven't met her—my mother was pregnant again, and there was a complication and she bled to death. She and the baby died in that big room on the second floor at Wellesley, with the six of us there. We never really talk about it, and like you said, people know, but they have no idea."
The blueprint of that bedroom appeared in my mind, and within white space bound by thin black lines, I saw my mother crumpled on the hardwood floor, and the puddle of blood around her. I saw the paramedics working on her while Sam refused to let go of her hand. I saw the ambulance spitting gravel as it skidded down the driveway, leaving us and our blood-stained hands behind.
Andy rolled over, her brown eyes boring into mine before she wrapped an arm around my neck and pulled me in for a kiss. Her lips soothed, and communicated that she understood, and knew the limitations of words. She pressed her forehead against mine with a smile.
"Tell me something. Something else. Something that's really off-limits."
"'Really off-limits?' I don't even know what that includes. Hell, Andy, I've never seen what's hiding under your socks."
"Not hiding anything. My toes just get really cold." She laughed, though her expression rapidly sobered. "Something that scares the shit out of you to say."
Unless I was completely misreading her signals and she was expecting me to ask for a threesome, she wanted me talking about this. It wouldn't be the first time I completely misread Andy, but something she let slip on Saturday night told me to push forward.
"I have a crazy idea." I gazed into her eyes, and she nodded in encouragement. Her eyes dropped to my chest and she studied my freckles, her teeth clamping the edge of her lip. "I want…I want to stop pretending this is 'just sex.' This isn't 'just sex' for me, Andy, and I don't think it is for you either."
After a long, painful pause during which I invented at least nine ways to play off my comment if her response wasn't the one I needed, she shook her head. It was always her little gestures. The eyebrows, the tiny smiles, the 'hm,' and now her slight head shake.
"I like you," I confessed. "A lot. As in, miss you when I don't see you, need to talk about your Facebook privacy settings, want to find out how you found my thesis, rearrange my schedule to eat lunch with you, ready to see what's under your knee socks, like you."
"Hm." Andy nestled her head against my chest, and I inhaled the rich lavender scent of her hair. "I like you, too. Even if you're a growly, bitey stalker, and always rolling up your sleeves and stretching so I have to—" Her nails scraped low over my stomach and I was ready for her again. My hand rubbing deep circles on her hip, I urged her body closer to mine. "—look at this."
I used to think hearts only skipped beats in near-death experiences, but often enough, Andy's words had that effect on me. "Sounds like we have a lot to talk about."
Andy's leg hooked over my hip, and our bodies were flush together with her breasts pressed against my chest, my erection digging into her stomach, and our hands gliding over warm skin. "Maybe I should stay over."
"I like that plan." Armed with the best possible outcome from my crazy idea, I plowed into the most dangerous territory without a shield. "I get that your boss is Captain Douchebag, but would it be so bad if he knew about this?"
"No." She laughed and glanced up at me with a wince. "But it would be bad if his partners knew."
"Why?" I cupped her breast, the flesh heavy and heated under my fingers, and my thumb brought her nipple to attention.
Her forehead pinched into fine wrinkles while her finger traced paths between the freckles on my chest. "Hooking up with the boss isn't usually a good idea, and you're in each other's lives so much…"
Rolling Andy to her back, I bracketed her hips with my legs and balanced my hands on either side of her head. "I don't give a fuck what they think," I said, and sucked a nipple into my mouth.
"Easy for you to say," she ground out, her body quivering beneath me. "You run the place. You're forgetting that I'm just an apprentice. I can't be that cavalier, Patrick."
Her nipple shone with moisture when I released it from between my teeth, and I promptly shifted to the other. I needed the distraction of her skin in my mouth. I was too close to giving her the keys to the firm, or offering to fire any number of my siblings if they gave her so much as a side-eye. N
one of that would help, either; she'd gut me for suggesting it.
In many ways, Andy was nothing like the other women I'd known intimately, and above all else, it was obvious that she didn't need me. I admired her strength and independence. Guiding her career was part of my responsibility as her mentor, but I knew she wasn't about to let me stand in her way or set her course. Part of me loved that she wouldn't be calling me to unclog a drain anytime soon, yet another part of me wanted to be much more than a dirty little secret.
My teeth grazed over her nipple, and I moved my way down her breast before biting at the underside while her nails dug into my scalp. The time I could reasonably allot to this discussion without coming all over her belly was nearly up.
"Fine. Here are your options. One—we don't tell them until June when you've passed your boards. I hate that option, by the way." Andy started to comment, and I pressed my thumb over her lips to keep her quiet. I didn't count on her sucking me into her mouth. I felt the wet suction all the way in the base of my cock. I needed to talk faster.
"Two—you work with Sam or Matt, but I'm telling you right now you'll hate that option and be on your knees begging me to take you back before lunch. I mean, that doesn't actually sound terrible," I murmured, and she bit down on the pad of my thumb. "Ow. Behave."
The wicked gleam in her eyes nearly pushed me right over the edge. Grinding against her center, I felt her heat coating my cock, and I snatched another condom from the table.
"Three—decide you don't give a fuck because it's never been 'just sex' and aside from the fact I spend most of the day wondering whether you'll let me fuck you in the printer room, we've managed to make it work." Reluctantly removing my thumb from her mouth, I gestured for her to respond.
"Is that what we've been doing? Making it work?"
I groaned and my head fell back against my shoulders. She wanted the secrets. "Kitten, let's just make it work right now and hammer out the details later. My brain might explode if I don't get inside you in the next four seconds."
Andy's knees pressed against her shoulders, and she glanced at her kelly green and pink polka dot knee socks. "You can take them off," she said while the head of my cock pressed into her wet folds. "But you have to keep me warm."
She eased the socks down her legs, nodding for me to complete the job, exposing her slender feet tipped with shiny black toenails to me. I brushed my fingers over her skin, hooked her ankles around my waist, and laced our fingers together, pinning her wrists to the mattress. Andy squeezed my hands, her fingertips gently rubbing against me.
For a moment, the offering stunned me. For whatever reason, socks were a hard limit, and now they weren't. It meant something I didn't understand, but my dick was not concerned with deconstructing the symbolism.
Lavender tinted with the aroma of her arousal permeated every breath while her fingers communicated her desires against my hands, alternately squeezing and stroking and scratching. She met me, thrust for thrust, and demanded more until I was drenched with sweat and pistoning into the hot clench of her center.
"Oh fuck yes," she moaned. I knew she was close, and a few more deep thrusts would send her right over the edge. "More, Patrick. I want more of you."
She had no idea how right she was. I realized I wanted more of her too—more than I understood. I wanted her hands in my hair, on my skin. I wanted to watch her orgasm shatter through her body and listen to her quiet moans. I wanted to hold her while she slept and wake up with her in my bed. Whatever it was before this night wasn't enough anymore and the recognition I could never be content with so little left me reeling.
I sank into her heat, groaning at the sensation of her body engulfing me, drawing me in. We fit together perfectly. Our bodies anticipated each other's moves and I felt the ghost of release tickling the base of my spine. Bracing our clasped hands beside her shoulders, I dragged her lip between my teeth and nibbled while my hips rocked into her, offering barely enough friction to turn her body feverish.
I wanted to convince her we could be open about our relationship without compromising her career. I needed her to know that, despite her heroic attempts at avoidance, she did something to me I couldn't comprehend, and whatever it was, I liked it. There was more to say, more to confess but Andy still wanted secrets. She thought she needed them, and nothing I said would change that yet.
I'll never know how I managed to hold back.
When Andy went over the edge, her body melting beneath me, I saw that rare openness take over. So captivated by her unrestrained smile and wide, hazy eyes, I barely noticed my orgasm charging through my veins until heat filled the condom. My lips found Andy's and my hands were in her hair, and she was the only woman I wanted.
For that moment, she was raw and beautiful and mine.
16
Andy
Patrick: Where did you go?
Andy: Home
Patrick: Why?
Andy: Clean clothes
Patrick: Tell me if you're leaving. or, keep your ass in my bed until I get back from my run, because I wasn't finished with you.
Andy: I'm going to Roslindale this morning and you're going to Medford, so…
Patrick: grr
Andy: ?
Patrick: I'd like to know who scheduled us on opposite sides of town
Andy: My boss.
Patrick: I need to have a few words with that asshole.
I slipped my phone into my pocket—this line of conversation was going nowhere good—and headed for the early Gothic cottage. Studying my clipboard, I forced all sexytime thoughts from my head and ignored the repeated vibrations inside my pocket. A narration of his plans for me wasn't going to fast-forward the time before lunch, and it wasn't magically depositing me into his bed.
My only option was supervising some demo and thinking about anything other than the thin grasp I had on the storm brewing between Patrick and me.
"This doesn't make sense," he muttered. I noted the measurements while Patrick's hands skimmed over the surface of a pale yellow wall. He pivoted, and gestured for me to join him. "Does this feel like the original plaster to you?"
I spent the early morning hours figuring out how things would be different today. We never agreed upon a more-than-sex plan, and I didn't know how I'd handle it if Patrick wanted to be all cuddly at jobsites. I was down for a quick, silent fuck in a closet on special occasions but I drew the line at holding hands in front of our general contractors—those boys would die laughing if they knew I was with the boss, and any credibility I had built would them would be lost.
Relief did not even begin to describe how I felt when we met up for lunch and things felt normal—or, as normal as they could be when you're sleeping with your boss and revealing basically every private thought you've ever had.
My hands pressed against the wall, and I concentrated on the smooth, seamless texture beneath my skin. "No. This feels like drywall. Drywall with…some kind of faux finish, or a few layers of oil-based paint. It's too flat for one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old plaster."
"Exactly," he murmured, and stepped back from the wall. "But those—" Patrick gestured to the other walls, "aren't. It's just this one."
I shrugged. "A lot of walls are redone when there are electrical or plumbing issues."
"There are no major junctions here, though." Patrick took another step back and crossed his arms over his chest, and I seriously considered stroking his bicep. Just for a minute, and just because I could, even though it contradicted everything else in my head. "Let's bust it open."
"Patrick. That's ridiculous."
He stared at the wall for another moment then strode into the hall. I found him standing in the doorway of the neighboring room, his hands fisted at his side. That was the room—the one where his mother died—and this time, I let my hand rest on his arm.
I always resented that my father died alone on the street, in a sea of strangers, and the opportunity to say goodbye was stolen from me, though I never considered being t
here—powerlessly watching his final breaths—might have been worse in ways I couldn't begin to fathom.
Resting my head against Patrick's shoulder, I squeezed his arm. I knew something about Patrick's grief. He kept it hidden away, but I saw it. I knew it.
We stayed that way for a few moments, and he covered my hand with his before charging toward the wall adjoining the yellow room.
"It's the same. This isn't the original wall. Do we have a sledgehammer around? I might have one in the trunk."
"No." I shot him a bland look. "I don't want a sledgehammer in here until the floors are protected and the original moldings and baseboards are appropriately handled."
"This doesn't make sense. He did this for a reason. He wouldn't put up new walls to fuck with us…there's a reason."
Patrick was quiet on the drive back to the city and didn't say much while we returned to his office. Something was bubbling around in his brain, but he immediately turned his attention to design plans when he reached his desk.
The afternoon quickly faded to evening while I updated my plans with the corrected measurements and printed new copies for the contractors.
He glanced up when I returned with a reel of new designs hot off the printer. "Matt and Riley are downstairs. They want to check out what you have. I told them about the room dimensions and new walls."
It was a full house in Matt's office. Shannon, Matt, Riley, and Lauren occupied the seats around the conference table, and the hungry vultures dug in the minute I put the plans down. Patrick nodded toward the small sofa on the other side of Matt's office, and we sat there while they debated. I listened attentively for comments on my designs, and was pleased with the stray remarks.
Patrick's knee bumped mine and he whispered, "Your phone."
Grabbing it from my pocket, I glanced at the unopened text messages. I shot him a confused expression. He nodded toward my phone, his knee rubbing against my leg again. "Why are you texting me?"
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