Mr. Wrong Number(71)
“Just call him and tell him there’s a tire vibration, and he’ll take care of it.”
He walked back into the bedroom, and the expression on his face shifted when he saw me in his bed. “I can’t talk, Jill. Gotta go.”
He hung up and dropped his phone on the bench at the foot of his bed. “Am I a terrible person if I tell you I fantasized about this exact thing when you still lived here?”
That made me strangely happy. “You did not.”
“Swear to God.” He pulled the sweater over his head and tossed it toward the hamper, then reached for his belt, grinning at me as he unbuckled, unzipped, and let the pants drop to the floor, stepping out of them. “Once you told me you’d napped in my room, I couldn’t get rid of the idea of you in my bed. I imagined discovering you sound asleep in here . . .”
“And . . . ?” I rolled onto my side and propped my head on my hand.
“And I’d wake you up, but you’d be in the middle of a very naughty dream.”
“Of course I would.” I was obsessed with the thought of him fantasizing about me. “You little pervert. I bet in your fantasy I thought you were part of the dream, right? So I pulled you down on the bed . . . ?”
His teeth flashed. “Something like that.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the other night when I was begging?”
“You were asking about before you moved back.” Instead of crawling on top of me like I would’ve expected—and wanted—Colin tossed his pants on the chair, climbed under the covers next to me, and switched off the lamp.
It was so . . . habitual. Ritualistic. It felt like we were a couple climbing into bed, the same as we did every other night. He turned toward me and said, “Are you going to shut off that lamp or what, Marshall?”
“On it.” I turned off the lamp, plunging the room into total darkness.
“Much better,” he breathed, his body moving closer as he pulled the comforter up and over us. The weighted blanket cocooned us together, and I felt like the air was sucked out of my lungs because one minute I was fine, and the next his hands were cupping my cheeks and he was dropping the softest kisses over my face.
Featherlight, reverent, and sweet. I looked up at his face, the eyes I could still see in the darkness, and I felt the warmth. Not the heat of sexual need—that wasn’t new to either of us—but real warmth, almost as if he really cared about me.
I took a deep breath and waited for the panic to arrive, but I think my body—brain, heart, lungs, nervous system, all of it—knew that Colin was safe and was slowly lowering the protective wall I’d carefully erected. I relaxed into the soft bedding, every muscle in my body melting into his perfect linen sheets as he literally made me shiver.
His lips settled on mine, and I let my fingers slide over his muscular shoulders, but instead of the wildly intense kisses I was well versed in, the ones that made me moan into his mouth, he gave me slow, drawn out, and hot. Wide, openmouthed artistry that curled my toes and made me dizzy before he descended into nibbles and nips, licking at my lips before trailing down my neck and moving south.
I got lost in shaky sighs as he worshipped every bit of me with his mouth and hands. The darkness heightened my other senses and I felt everything more. His lips on my skin, his breath on my flesh, the warmth of his strong fingers as they made me pant for him. He worked his slow magic again and again, building over and over, until I thought his thorough madness was going to kill me.
“Colin.” I wasn’t one to beg, but I would if I had to. “Come on.”
“So impatient,” he growled, moving back up my body. And when he hovered over me, I felt light-headed just looking at him. Through the darkness I could see the heavy-lidded desire on his smirking face and it took my breath away.
Because beautiful Colin Beck, with the perfect everything, looked like he’d never wanted anything more than he wanted me at that moment. His hair was sticking up from my hands, his nostrils were flared, his eyes were on fire, and in that moment I knew I was wholly his.
His fingers threaded through mine and he pushed them down, so our adjoined hands were lying on the pillow, one on each side of my head. He lowered his mouth and kissed me, a long, deep kiss that spoke of things more potent than passion.
“Colin.” I exhaled his name and wanted to tell him, but then he slid inside me, clenching his fingers around mine as he moved and destroyed my ability to form coherent words. My fingers grasped his, squeezing, as he proceeded to completely obliterate any remaining doubts I had that I was madly in love with him.
* * *
? ? ?
FIVE A.M.
It was a ridiculous time of day to be awake. Colin wasn’t even stirring yet and he ran at five thirty every day like a psychopath, so it was absurd that I was up. But I was so stoked to start my first day at the magazine that I couldn’t sleep another second.
And I was glad to have a few minutes alone without him.
Every time I’d picked up my phone to text Mr. Wrong Number since our dinner at Fleming’s, I hadn’t really known what to say, and I’d blown it off. We hadn’t been dating or anything, so it seemed oddly egomaniacal to send a bizarre type of breakup text, especially when he’d sort of done that by ghosting me more times than I could count.
But I needed to do it.