matter what they’d done, Bree was definitely an innocent. Ah. Okay. Bree reminded him of Amy. Nothing to panic about. His breathing should return to normal soon. Last night had been a rerun of a great night. That’s all. His reaction had nothing to do with the nice woman in his bed. He would give her coffee and cab fare, and that would be the end of it.
The sooner the better. She had to get to work, and so did he.
He stilled as she turned over and they touched. His hand, her thigh. It was warm, the place where they came together, and all the progress he’d made in the breathing department went to hell.
Why was he getting hard again? Shit.
He pictured her in that pose, her hands gripping the headboard, her nipples hard as little rocks and those heels. Jesus. She’d smelled like honey and tasted like the ocean, and he hadn’t been that hard in years. He bit back a moan as he pictured her face when she’d come. And there was the problem in a nutshell. Or should he say in his nuts.
Forcing his mind to focus, he refused to acknowledge anything below the waist. If he’d been thinking with anything but his dick he would’ve sent her home last night. As soon as she’d asked for tea. Tea? Seriously? Then he’d made everything worse by getting down the goddamn silver. What was that about?
Screw his hard-on. This was ridiculous. He had work. Last night had been a favor for Rebecca, a nice surprise for him. No denying Bree was fantastic in bed, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a great lay, he needed A-listers, women who would draw readers to the blogs, gossip fodder. He needed Mia Cavendish and her counterparts, the more photogenic and controversial, the better. He wanted to trend on Twitter, make the headlines on the New York Post’s Page Six. He needed ad revenue and infamy.
Bree could get him exactly none of that.
GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, she was in so much trouble.
How was it possible that the best thing about her night as Cinderella had been a one-night stand with the King of Manhattan?
Not the limo, not Charlie’s fame, not the stars or the dresses or meeting her design heroes. No. The best thing, the thing that would cripple her if she didn’t get a grip right this minute was making … sex with Charlie.
She was no blushing virgin and she knew what happened between the sheets. She’d had bad sex and she’d had amazing sex and what had happened with Charlie wasn’t even on the same scale.
Falling for Charlie was not acceptable.
She really needed to get out of bed because if he moved the hand against her thigh even a little bit, she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.
Where was her dress? By the window. Somehow, the room wasn’t filled with light, which it should have been because the last time she’d looked, there’d been nothing but glass between them and Central Park. Yet, it wasn’t dark, either. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was some kind of pale gold thing happening behind her lids, so …
The lamp that had been on while they’d been …
She inhaled quietly, regrouping. It didn’t matter what Charlie was doing. She was in control of her actions and her thoughts. She’d throw back the covers, get out of bed, pull up her dress, slip on her heels and go to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have to look at him at all.
Crap. The back of his fingers brushed against her thigh. Just that quickly, her resolve vanished and her body tensed. Things were happening against her will. Nipples hardened. Kegel muscles contracted. Not to mention the thunder of her heart.
It was one time, Kingston. One night. You had champagne. It was like being in a fairy tale. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. It’s over. Stop being a moron and get out.
After a silent count to three, she did it. Tossed covers, pulled up dress, screw the zipper, picked up shoes, darted to the bathroom, slammed the door, breathed.
Cursed herself from here to Sunday because while she was in the nice, safe bathroom, her purse with all her stuff was in the living room.
She sighed and leaned on the door, barely restraining herself from banging her head against the wood until she passed out. Her makeup was already a disaster so crying wasn’t out of the question.
What were the odds he had a spare toothbrush in this humongous room? The shower alone was bigger than what she laughingly called a bedroom.
She could wash her face with whatever soap he had, and rinse her mouth with something that would at least hide the morning breath for a while. All she had to do was be somewhat presentable for a cab ride home, then she could start forgetting about Charlie as she hustled to get ready for work.
Coffee. Coffee would help everything. No, aspirin and coffee. That’s what she needed, and her world would fit neatly back into place.
A knock on the bathroom door made her jump so hard her dress nearly slipped all the way down to the floor. “Um, busy,” she said, yanking it up again.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and God, his voice rippled through her like a slow fire. “I thought you might want your pocketbook.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yes.” She turned, holding up her dress with one arm as she opened the door an inch. It wasn’t quite enough. Another inch, then another, and finally her purse was inside. She snatched it as if it were connected to a mousetrap. “Thanks. Be out in a minute. Don’t mind me.”
Silence followed. Bree didn’t know if he was there or not, but she didn’t move. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Okay,” he said, making her jump again. “I’ll go make coffee.”
“Great. Thanks. Sounds great.” She winced at her stupid mouth, and reconsidered the whole banging her head against the door thing.
Finally, she turned around, resigned that there wasn’t enough aspirin and coffee in the world.
“WHAT’S THIS?” BREE ASKED.
Charlie looked down at the hundred-dollar bill he was holding out to Bree. “Cab fare.”
“A hundred? You think I live in Connecticut?”
“Wasn’t sure. Look, I’m sorry I can’t take you myself, but the blog …”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ve got it,” she said as she held up her to-go cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re not going to be late for work?”
“Nope. Not if I get a move on.”
She hadn’t looked at him. Not once. At least, he didn’t think so. He’d been avoiding looking at her, so there was no certainty, but it felt like she hadn’t.
If nothing else had told him the night had been a colossal mistake, this morning’s awkwardness would have. It was epic. Both of them stumbling, mumbling, embarrassed and basically acting like idiots. The problem was he couldn’t tell why she was behaving like he had the plague. He’d thought the night had been great, and the sex had been fantastic. Too good.
Maybe
