Wherever It Leads(34)

I rock back against him, our bodies in total sync. The sound of our skin, tacky with sweat, heated with desire, smacking each other echoes through the suite.

My arms begin to shake, my legs feeling heavy. The pressure in my core starts to boil, the muscles in my * spasming.

“I’m going to come, Fenton,” I warn, gripping the leather so I don’t fall face-first against the bench.

His pace quickens, his cock swelling inside me. My * instinctively begins to milk it, clenching around his length.

“Fuck, Brynne!” he shouts, his grip moving to my shoulders.

I roll my head back, the orgasm uncoiling in my body and shooting through every cell. My moan ricochets off the glass, and as my head falls forward, I catch a glimpse of Fenton. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips in a tight line as he, too, finds his release.

He presses into me, a small smile slinking over his lips. The look sends another ripple of orgasmic bliss through me and I shake as the high begins to even out, and then, as he slides out and back in again, settles.

As he pulls out, I nearly topple forward. He catches me around my middle and draws me back into him. I look up at his handsome face and he just grins. No words are said, but none need to be. Our smiles say it all.





One of Fenton’s t-shirts drapes my body as I come out of the master ensuite. Unlike last night, I’m not self-conscious or at all unsure about what to do. Maybe it’s that we finally had sex or maybe it’s that Fenton had to leave again as soon as we finished earlier and I got to spend some time soaking everything in.

He makes me smile. I feel desired and protected and considered. I know he’d never hurt me; I see it in his eyes. He’s kind and compassionate, and I’ve enjoyed the start to our little getaway. I’ve enjoyed him.

When I come around the corner to the living room, I stutter-step. He’s standing in the middle of the room, typing away on his phone.

“I didn’t know you were back,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

“Just got here,” he says. He finishes whatever he’s doing and shuts his phone down before looking at me. “Did you just take a bath?”

“Mm-hmm,” I breathe, “And it was fantastic. But it would’ve been better if you were in it with me.”

“We can take another. Maybe the hot water would be good for my neck.” He cups the back of neck and winces.

“I’m taking it you had a bad day?”

“Well, you can say that. Or you can say today was a disaster. Whatever word you want to use would suffice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll accept your apology.”

I toss him a baffled look. “I’m sorry you had a bad day. I’m not actually apologizing. What would I be apologizing for?”

“For wearing that bikini again without me.”

“Is that still bothering you?”

“Yes, that’s still bothering me. It’s worse now, actually.”

I grin. “And why is that?”

“Because now I know what you feel like under that strip of fabric and I don’t want anyone else thinking about it.”

“Get over it, Fent,” I laugh.

He shifts his weight. “I remember having a discussion that you wouldn’t go out like that without me. And then you go off and nullify our agreement.”

“You told me not to wear it,” I say, smiling sweetly. “And that, Mr. Abbott, is not a discussion or an agreement. That’s you being an * and me choosing to ignore you.”

That does it. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Is that what happened?”

“I’m a grown woman. If I want to wear a bikini to a pool, I will. I don’t need your approval to do that. And if you want the truth, you telling me not to is probably going to guarantee I do it again just to prove a point. Although,” I tease, “I do kinda like you not wanting anyone else to see me. So I’ll take that under consideration next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yes. Next time.”

“You’re frustrating.”

“So it’s been said. Now,” I say, switching topics, “Let’s discuss why your day was so bad otherwise. What happened?”

Only because I’m paying attention do I see his shoulders drop a touch forward. It’s a sign of defeat—or at least a battle he’s taking a hit in. I have no idea what to say because I have no idea why he’s even here in Vegas. Something about the way he stands, his posture, the distant look in his eye makes him seem lonely.

I move across the room without saying a word and grab his hand. He watches me with uncertain eyes, but lets me usher him to the bedroom.

My heart thumps wildly, his hand so warm and strong against mine. He holds it possessively and I vaguely wonder if this goes back to the bikini conversation—to him asserting his control—but I dismiss it. I’ll think about that later. Right now, I want to make him feel, just like he did to me last night.

“Sit,” I breathe, pointing to the bed. He drops onto the edge, his weight causing the mattress to dip. He rests his hands on his knees and looks up at me through his thick lashes.

Summoning every bit of self-confidence I can find, I lift the hem of my t-shirt and pull it slowly over my head. I toss it to the side, keeping my gaze glued to his. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react except for the swallow I see bobbing in his throat.