Shopping for a CEO (Page 61)

And it is damn fine.

What I feel, as the doors close and his fingers unlace from mine, his body closing the distance, mouth finding my own as his hands skim up my spine, is the wholly unfamiliar sense of familiarity. I do know what this is like. The fact that I get more is what is so startling.

I’m sleeping with him again.

I’m spending the night again.

His tongue is lush and ripe and doing that again.

And again.

Oh, God, please.

Again.

He pushes me forward, using his thighs and hips, his hardness making me lose my breath.

And my sense of control.

Yet I have to know.

“What about you?” My words come out in a rush, as if I can cram them in between passion, as if they have to be hurried and said before this all goes away.

But he takes his time as he thinks about his answer. He is in no rush.

And then:

“I spend long stretches away,” he murmurs against my mouth, “sitting in stupid business meetings with people from around the world who think a merger is more important than anything else, or that a change in online branding will change the world. I fly in planes at crazy hours of the night and do whirlwind tours in countries that changed names during my lifetime. And lately, Amanda, I spend every waking hour away from you wondering what the hell I’m doing.”

Something in me breaks and blossoms at the same time, illogical and breathtaking, like cracking open an egg and finding a beautiful rainbow inside that takes over the sky.

“I’m good at what I do. Top of my game,” he continues as I splay my palm flat against his abs. He’s talking, and he needs to, and the words wash over me like the warm sea, welcoming and eternal, ancient and true.

“But not one bit of it matters. I have everything. Everything I could possibly want. Or, at least, I did. Until I realized I didn’t have you.”

“Is that why you really kissed me that night after the marina?” I ask.

“I already told you why I kissed you that night.”

“Tell me again.”

“How about I show you?”

My back is against the wall, my body craving all of this, every second of his attention, every commanding movement as he pulls me closer, pinning me between him and the moving elevator, and all I can think about is this.

Him.

Us.

What if I just stopped trying to fix problems in life and, instead, starting living?

One kiss, one lick, one groan, one cry at a time.

The elevator doors open and we lurch, Andrew’s steady hold keeping me upright. But his hands are under my shirt as he walks me backwards into his hallway. He punches the door code and it opens. I lose my footing and tumble backwards, a mass of heat and giggles as I look up at him, standing in the doorway, smiling down on me.

“That’s the view I love. Except you’re wearing too many clothes.”

He shuts the door.

“How many is too many?” I ask.

“Any.”

We’re playful and in pleasure mode now, the relief of just being together making us move fast suddenly, as if we have to capture the moment and pin it down, enjoy it first and savor it later.

There will be a next time, our bodies tell each other. There will. But let’s make sure there is a now.

Our clothes in a puddle of discarded propriety at the edge of his front door, we kiss our way to the bedroom. His bed is unmade, a surprising display of messiness that makes me smile. I’m currently kissing him as the grin trips over my lips, so he stops and bites my earlobe. The hard warmth of his ticklish skin, scattered with hair that makes my hands rake across his skin with delight as he rubs against me, makes me heady.

“What’s so funny?” he asks just as my hand reaches for his hardness, fingers wrapping around his thickness.

I can’t answer because I’m laughing. I halt in the doorway to his bedroom and, because he’s attached to the part of him I’m holding, he has to stop, too.

“I know you’re not laughing at that!” he adds, clearing his throat meaningfully.

I descend into giggles that take minutes to recover from, my whoops of uncontrolled devolution breaking down slowly, like a music box whose key is finally unwinding down to the last few notes.

“No,” I finally gasp. I’m still holding him. “I’m laughing because your bed is unmade.”

“So? We’re just going to mess it even more.” His abs slide against mine and a shiver runs through me.

“Also, you’re tickling me. On your skin. The hair on your legs.” I reach down to touch the tops of his thighs. “Your belly.” I reach up. “Your happy trail.”

I slide my palm down.

“My habitrail? I know I have some body hair, but did you just refer to that patch as a habitrail? Like a hamster?”

With great flourish, he takes a step back and points both sets of fingers, palms facing in, at his navel and below, and declares, “This does not involve furry monsters.”

Cue more giggling for the next seven minutes.

“I said Happy Trail. Two different words. No hamsters.” I can’t stop gasping.

A look of confusion, relief, and amusement fills his face. “Well, that’s an improvement, but what the hell is a ‘happy trail?’”

I point with my index finger at the thickening hair below his navel, tracing it down for him on his torso until he inhales sharply.

And then I drop to my knees.

“That, Mr. McCormick, is a happy trail. And while I see no furry monsters, I am discovering definite signs of a male animal here.”

His growl of satisfaction confirms it, in fact.