The Fastest Way to Fall(79)

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I mean, I’m surprised, obviously, but you’re getting to write just like you always wanted.” I hadn’t expected the smile, or for his voice to sound proud. If anything, he’d pressed closer. “Britta, that’s amazing.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m actually excited it’s you writing about the company. You get what we’re trying to do. You get me, and you’re doing what you always wanted.” His thumb grazed my cheek, but his expression shifted from concerned to contemplative. “There’s something I need to tell you, too.”

“That you own FitMi?” I rested my palm on his chest, still amazed I could do that, to touch him after so long. I registered his shock as he stiffened, eyes going wide. “I figured it out when your mom called you Chris at the hospital. Your real name is listed as one of the company’s founders.”

“You should be an investigative journalist.” His eyes fell closed, and he touched his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I missed coaching after having stepped away from it, so I took on a client.” He met my eyes. “I planned to find my mojo and go back to running the business, but then I found you. I should have told you sooner; I just didn’t want it to change how you acted around me.”

Wes dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose before meeting my eyes again. “I am sorry I lied. I should have been up-front with you, and I don’t want us to start anything like that. I never want you to doubt what I tell you.”

I rested my palms against his chest. “We both messed up. I only want the truth with you.”

“We can go slow,” he hummed into my neck, and I rolled my head to the side to give him better access to my sensitive skin. “If you want to, I mean. We don’t have to jump into anything tonight. If you want to wait until the story is done, I get that. I want us to be for a long time.”

We were still fully clothed, standing in the living room of his apartment, but we were bare. Our secrets were out, and even though nothing was solved or figured out, I loved how Wes held me. We were in this together. I arched into him, pulling his face to mine. “I want us, and I don’t want slow.” The room was quiet except for our heavy breathing.

“Can we talk about work later, then? Because I need to kiss you again.” Wes’s fingers threaded into my hair. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice husky. His lips and tongue were playing over mine, insistent. Wes kissed me like I was the only woman in the world.

“More,” I moaned, then added with a smile, “A little further. Dig deep. Keep breathing.”

His laugh against my neck somehow intensified the heat and tension that were coursing through me. “Such a demanding coach.” His kisses were making the sensitive area along the side of my neck vibrate with need. I’d never known I needed to be kissed there. This is going to happen.

“You’ll thank me later.” I pressed my own hands against the hard plane of his chest, roaming the way I’d wanted to for so long. We stumbled down the hall, pulling his shirt from his pants and tangling with the buttons.

“Pretty sure I’ll thank you now.” As we made our way into the bedroom, he fumbled with the zipper to my dress. We gave up trying to claw at each other, and he pulled off his shirt, baring his chest. I dragged my fingertips down his abs, stroking the ridges. His muscles rippled under my touch, and I admired the defined cut of his body disappearing into his pants, the fine smattering of hair below his belly button.

He watched my fingers trace over his muscles before pushing my dress down my shoulders, the material falling to the floor. His hands traveled down my body, and back and forth over my ass, then up my spine and sides, fingers searching. He pressed his lips to my neck. “How do I get this off you?”

My Spanx. I would never second-guess myself again.

“Oh, God,” I muttered, pulling back. “I forgot I was wearing this. Just—um—give me a minute.” I stepped back, turning away and attempting to peel it over my hips with even a tiny modicum of grace. I felt like I was uncasing sausage, and I rethought my earlier girl-power stance on this body shaper slip, because as sexy as it made me feel in that dress, taking it off was another story.

Wes stepped forward, his hands sweeping over my hips from behind as he dropped kisses on my shoulder.

“What are you . . . doing?” I huffed, still trying to get the thick fabric over my belly.

“Helping.” He stroked the indentations left by the garment on my thighs and took over the pulling. He spoke against my neck, the breath caressing my skin. “Why are you wearing this, anyway?”

“To look hot in my dress,” I said with a huff, still pulling and wiggling.

“You look hot in everything you wear. You didn’t need this.” Wes’s lips grazed my neck. “Do you know how much torture it was to hear you say you wanted to look good naked when I was positive you already did?” He helped me pull the shaper over my boobs, where it got stuck for a moment, leaving my arms raised over my head, the shaper clinging to them.

From inside my cocoon of spandex, I worried I might have to cut the thing off and wondered whether it was too early to suggest bringing scissors into the bedroom.

“It’s stuck.”

“Let me just . . .” We pulled and twisted, and I was laughing again when it slid over my head, probably leaving my hair a wild mess.