“No.”
“Still want to help me?”
“Do I even have a choice?” I ask, wondering where this questioning is coming from.
He flashes his eyes to me. “Even if I don’t want to admit it, you always have a choice.” He rubs his length along my aroused clit. Oh God, that feels too freaking good. My hand trembles against his neck as he reaches up to my breast and teases it with his fingers. Looking me in the eyes, he says, “If you told me, tomorrow, you want out, I’d destroy the contract.”
He thrusts against me.
“What?” I gasp as he pushes again, and again, and again. “Oh God,” I moan, his pace stirring pleasure deep within me. “Wh-why?”
“Because,” he says, thrusting again. I catch the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding back. From the thick veins in his neck and the tight clench of his jaw, he could give more, wants to give more. “Even though you might not believe it, I want you to be happy.” He thrusts again, and my back arches as my body pulses. Begs. “I don’t want to trap you.” Another thrust. Two more, that’s all it’s going to take. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.” Thrust.
“Yes, God, yes, Huxley.” I grip him and meet his thrusts with my own. I’m right there, on the edge. Pleasure pools at the base of my spine, this euphoric feeling amplifying with every push of his erection against my clit.
So close.
God, I’m so close.
“I just want you happy,” he says, and I hear him.
I’m listening to everything he’s saying to me, but it’s not quite registering in my head.
His words aren’t making sense, because all I can focus on is teetering on the edge of my orgasm and wanting to fall over. I want to fall over with him.
“How close are you?” I ask him.
“Right . . . there,” he groans.
“Then take it, take me. Harder, Huxley.”
He smooths his hand down to my ass, where he grips me tightly and pulls me all the way against him, intensifying the connection. That’s all it takes.
One thrust and I’m done.
Every last ounce of pleasure gathers, coils, into the center of my body, only to be ripped into millions of joyous pieces as my body combusts underneath him.
“Oh, fuck,” I yell. “Yes, Huxley.”
“Jesus,” he mutters as he drives harder and harder until he stills, groans loudly, and then collapses on top of me.
He props his weight up with one arm on the ground, but his head tilts down, our foreheads connecting. It’s as close as our mouths have been this entire time, making me realize that the man might have just dry-humped me to completion, but he never once laid his lips on mine.
Why?
My eyes search out his and I catch him taking a few large breaths before making eye contact with me. Rain continues to fall on us, and in the distance, I hear the rumble of thunder for the first time since we’ve been out here.
Huxley wipes the water off his face before blinking a few times. “We should, uh . . . get back inside.”
“Yeah,” I say, breathless, still staring up at him. The pull between us is so damn strong that I want nothing more than to cling to him and be carried to his bed.
But when he stands and offers me his hand to help me up, I notice a change in him. Hesitation. Uneasiness.
And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
Huxley tugs me quickly toward the door, opens it, and hurries me inside. Then he snags my garments and guides me down the stairs carefully, making sure we don’t slip. When we reach the hallway, he takes my hand and maneuvers me toward our bedrooms. I’m curious which way he’ll take me—maybe to his shower so we can warm up?
But then he stops in front of my bedroom door and lets go of my hand. Our time is up. With a step back, he grips his neck and scans my naked body. “You should take a shower, get warmed up.”
“Yeah,” I answer awkwardly.
“Do you need anything?”
You.
A conversation.
Some understanding of what the hell we’re doing.
Maybe a brief recap of the things you said up on the roof.
“Um, I don’t think so,” I answer.
He nods. “Okay. If you want, I can order something for dinner.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m not very hungry.”
“Sure.” He takes another step back, and my hope plummets as I see him retreat once again.
Why?
Why does he do this?
Why does he take one giant leap forward only to take two steps back?
And why do I even care?
Yeah, I know . . . I know.
Everyone knows. Because somehow, someway, I’ve started to care about him.
Chapter Seventeen
LOTTIE
“Where are you?” Kelsey asks over the phone as I lean against the white brick of the breast pump store.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Okay, I’m at a breast pump store, waiting for Ellie to show up so we can shop together.”
“You were right, I don’t want to know.”
“Told you.”
“Aren’t you a little worried you’re leading this girl on? She seems to be getting attached to you—I mean, you’re going breast pump shopping.”
“I know.” I nibble on the corner of my mouth. “I actually feel kind of bad, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t like faking this pregnancy since so many people try so hard to get pregnant, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever act as if I’d miscarried to end all of this pregnancy stuff. Remember Aunt Rina? She had five miscarriages and holding her hand through them with Mom was devastating. The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I feel.”
“So maybe . . . tell her the truth.”
“Are you insane? Huxley would lose the deal for sure.”
“What are you going to do when you’re supposed to start showing and you don’t?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t start showing until around thirteen weeks or so with your first baby, right?” At least, that’s what I read when I looked it up last night. I press my hand to my forehead. “God, I’m in such a mess.”
“Has more happened?”
I bite down on my index finger. Yesterday, Kelsey was gone most of the day running errands and interviewing another supplier since the one we contacted hasn’t gotten back to us yet. Therefore, I haven’t talked to her much.
Actually, I haven’t spoken to her at all.
She has no idea what happened this past weekend with Huxley.
Hell, I barely have a grasp on what happened, but this is something I’d normally tell my sister right away. But after the rooftop, I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt . . . weird.
As if something wasn’t right.
And I know it wasn’t what I did, but more so what happened after. I wanted more, so much more with him, but, for the life of me, didn’t know how to express it. He’s been so hot and cold with me, so inconsistent with how he treats me, that I’m scared. I like him, a lot, and I’m unsure what that means for us, for me. I’m not sure if I can make a move, if I can tell him. If he even wants more with me.
He didn’t kiss me on Sunday when he had the perfect opportunity to do so. We were drenched from the rain, and there was nothing around us but nature. If he was going to kiss me at any point in time, it would’ve been then, but he didn’t, which leads me to believe that he has no desire to shift this relationship in any way. He’s told me he’s not wanting to blur the lines. He’s also told me he wants me to be happy. But why? Why does that matter to him, if I don’t really matter to him?
I joked about our agreement replicating that of Pretty Woman, me being the less whore-y version of Vivian, but instead of Vivian being the one who doesn’t kiss on the lips . . . it’s Huxley.
And if I learned anything from that movie, it’s that kissing means so much more. It carries weight. Kissing connects you on an intimate level and Huxley doesn’t want that. It’s evident. He might want my body, but he doesn’t want me.
Which, in return, makes me feel weird. But does that mean I want him?
“Lottie, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I clear my throat. God, why am I getting emotional? I shouldn’t be getting emotional.