Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(59)

“Certainly not,” he says in agreement. “But my family issues . . . God, I can’t believe I even complained about them to you.”

“Don’t think that way,” I say, looking up and meeting his eyes. “Your pains are just as valid.”

We hold each other’s gaze for several seconds, and there’s nothing uncomfortable about it. Merely understanding.

“We’re kind of screwed up, huh?” he says with a sad smile.

“I prefer the word guarded.” I wink in an effort to lighten the mood. “We’re just smart enough to know that two people can enjoy each other’s company, maybe even be friends, without the whole messy, painful stuff.”

He pushes his hand farther into my hair, fingers tangling in the messy curls. “Friends, huh?”

“Hypothetically. You know, in theory. For people who actually like each other.”

“Not us, though,” Matt murmurs.

“Definitely not,” I say softly as he pulls me in for a kiss, and I smile when I feel his smile.

The kiss starts out light and playful, but with each brush of our lips, we linger a little longer, our breath growing a little faster.

“Sabrina,” he says. “This enjoying-each-other’s-company thing you speak of . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Care to enjoy each other’s company . . .” His mouth moves down my neck. “You care to enjoy each other in the bedroom?”

I manage a nod, and when Matt stands and scoops me into his arms, I have the breathtaking realization that despite my words, I’ve been wrong about not having avoided the “messy, painful stuff.”

I’m horribly, awfully aware that . . . I’m already in the middle of it.

I’m already all the way, painfully in love with a man who will never love me back.





27

MATT

Friday Night, October 6

I thought I knew every type of sex. Fast sex. Playful sex. Angry sex. Dirty sex. Public sex. Vanilla sex . . .

The moment I set Sabrina on the bed, I know tonight is different. I know that whatever’s about to happen between us will go beyond anything I’ve known before.

Because tonight matters. She matters.

And I intend to show her.

Sabrina’s hands reach for me the moment I lower over her, but I gently take both her hands in mine, pressing them down to the mattress as my mouth moves over hers.

She huffs in protest but kisses me back, her lips and tongue greedy, her hips tilting toward mine in invitation.

Lifting her hands above her head, I pin her wrists with my left hand and use my right to skim down her side, flattening my palm to her hip. Slow down. Let me savor you.

I feel the moment she capitulates, her breath coming out on a sigh against my lips. She tastes a little like wine and whiskey, but mostly she tastes like her. That elusive, captivating element that is simply Sabrina.

No woman has ever gotten to me like this one does. No one’s ever wiggled beneath my guard to make me long for things that aren’t even real.

Usually I push aside these realizations, determined to keep her at a distance, however I can.

Tonight—just for tonight—I let her in.

I let her in the way she let me in, telling me every heartbreaking detail of her early life. I want to tell her that it’s made her strong. That every hardship she’s endured has made her remarkable.

But I don’t have the words, and I’m not sure she’d be ready to hear them even if I did.

Instead, I show her. I show her with kisses, first on her sassy mouth, then along the sensitive column of her throat.

I tell her with my hand drifting over her side, her hip, her thighs, until we’re both panting for more. More touching, more contact, more everything.

I slip a hand beneath her sweater to where her skin is hot and just the slightest bit damp. I unhook her bra, then slide my hand upward, palming her breast, heavy and perfect in my hand.

She groans, twisting her wrists to be released. I relent, only because I need her naked and writhing beneath me.

I peel her sweater over her head, both my hands cupping her breasts before the garment even hits the floor.

She says my name on a sigh, almost like a prayer instead of the usual curse. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the importance of the moment, then realizing I don’t want to.

I open them, looking into her face as I use my fingers to tease her nipples, holding her gaze as I lower my mouth to her.

I know this woman’s body better than I’ve known anyone else’s, and I know that for all her strong feistiness, her breasts are sensitive. I keep my touch light and teasing, my kisses soft and fleeting.

When I finally wrap my mouth around a nipple, sucking with gentle pressure, she arches into me, her hands holding my head close.

I’ve never been so damn hard, and my need to drive into her is strong.

Instead, I ease my hand beneath the elastic of her yoga pants, stroking her lightly over the soft fabric of her underwear until wetness greets my fingers.

We both moan the moment my fingers slip beneath the fabric, touching her for real. She’s wet and more than ready for me, but again I restrain myself from ripping off the rest of our clothes and burying myself deep. I want to be careful with her, want to prolong the moment.

I stroke two fingers over her, pressing and circling, teasing, until her panting breaths are punctuated with pleas. I ease a finger inside her, my thumb circling.