Beautiful Bitch (Beautiful Bastard, #1.5)(3)

She swung the door open, turning to me. “Bennett—” she started, but I pushed her inside and back against the nearest wall, quieting her with my mouth. Fuck, she tasted good, a mix of the lemon water she’d been drinking and that familiar taste she always had: soft mint and softer, hungry lips. My fingers teased at the back of her skirt but I lost my finesse, yanking the zipper down and shoving the fabric to the floor, immediately reaching for her blazer. Why the f*ck is she still wearing this goddamn thing? Why is she still wearing anything?

Beneath her deep purple dress shirt, her nipples hardened as I stared, and I reached out to circle one with a fingertip. Her sharp gasp pulled my eyes to hers.

“I missed this. I missed you.”

Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips. “Me, too.”

“Fuck, I love you.”

When I kissed her throat, her chest lifted and fell with quickened breaths, and I wasn’t sure how this was going to go down, how I could possibly slow down. Would I take her here, fast and hard first, or would I carry her to a couch or chair, kneel down, and just taste her? I’d been thinking about all of it for so long—playing out in my head how every scenario would go—and in the moment I felt a little paralyzed by the reality of her here, in the flesh.

I needed it all. I needed to feel her sounds and her skin, lose myself in the comfort of her hand wrapped around me, watch the sweat bead her brow while she rode me, showing me how much she’d missed me, too. I’d see it in the way her rhythm would falter when she got closer, or she would clutch me when I would say her name in that quiet whisper she always liked.

My hands shook as I reached up and carefully slipped her top button free. It registered somewhere in the ever-shrinking evolved portion of my brain that I didn’t want to destroy the buttons on the shirt she’d worn for her thesis defense.

I also wanted to savor this. Savor her.

“Bennett?”

“Mmm?” I undid another button, ran a finger across the hollow of her throat.

“I love you,” she said, her hands braced on my forearms, eyes wide. My hands faltered, and I lost my breath. “But . . . you’re going to hate what I’m about to tell you.”

I was still stuck on the I love you. My grin felt a little out of control. “What . . . ? Whatever you have to say, I’m sure I won’t hate it.”

She winced, turning to look at the clock on the wall. It was the first time it occurred to me to take a look around her apartment. I stepped back in surprise; her place looked nothing like I expected.

Everything about Chloe had always been impeccable, stylish, current. But her apartment could not be farther from that description. The living room was tidy, but full of worn furniture and things that didn’t look like anything she would own. Everything was brown and tan; the couches looked comfortable but like they were made out of the same material as a stuffed animal. A small collection of wooden owls was clustered on a shelf near a tiny television and, in the kitchen, the clock that she’d glanced at had a big smiling bumblebee on the face with the words “Bee Happy!” in garish bubble letters.

“This . . . is not what I expected.”

Chloe followed my attention around the apartment and then let a loud laugh burst free. It was the same laugh she used to let out before she would verbally eviscerate me. “What would you have expected, Mr. Ryan?”

I shrugged, not wanting to insult her but feeling sincerely curious about this disconnect. “I just expected your place to look a little more like you.”

“What, you don’t like my owls?” she asked, grinning.

“I do, yes, they just—” I started, running a nervous hand into my hair.

“And these couches?” she interrupted. “Don’t you think we could have fun on them?”

“Baby, we could have fun on any surface in this place, I’m just saying I expected your place to be less . . .”

Fuck. Why was I still talking? I looked over at her and she had a hand over her mouth, laughing silently.

“Calm down,” she said. “This was my mom’s apartment. I love it, but you’re right. None of this stuff is mine. When I was in school it just didn’t make sense for me to sell it, or to get new things.”

I took another curious glance around. “You could buy yourself hundred-dollar panties but you didn’t want a new couch?”

“Don’t be such a snob. I didn’t need a new couch. And I frequently needed new panties,” she said quietly, meaningfully.

“Hell yes you did.”

With this perfect reminder, I stepped close to her, resuming my gentle attack on her line of buttons. Pushing her shirt over her shoulders and down her arms, I stared at where she stood in front of me, in only a red lace bra and matching underwear. They were tiny.

“Tell me what you want,” I said, feeling a little desperate as I pushed her hair behind her shoulder so I could suck on her neck, her jaw, her ear. “My cock? My mouth? My hands? Christ, I’m doing it all tonight but where does one start? I haven’t seen you in months and feel like I’m losing my mind.”

I reached for her arm, urging her closer. “Baby, put your hands on me.”

She ran her hands up my neck and cupped my face. I could feel her shaking. “Bennett.”

Only when she said my name like this—like she was shy and maybe even anxious—did I remember she said she had something to tell me other than I love you. Something I wouldn’t like.