I give myself a final glance in the mirror. The pale pink gown hits just barely below my ass and dips dangerously low into a V in the front. Edie insisted I get it. Presley suggested wearing it with heels, but now’s not the time for that. I’d fall on my face for sure considering my legs still feel like gelatin.
With a deep breath, I swing open the door. A soft light glows from the top of a bureau on the far side of the room. This bedroom is expansive, bigger than the living room in my house. The furnishings are a dark wood, offset by white walls and linens. A king-sized bed faces me. Crimson sheets and blankets drape the mattress and Fenton is stretched out, looking at his phone. His strong arms, the ones that were wrapped around me only minutes before, flex in the light as he moves one to grasp the headboard above his head.
The sheets are draped around his waist, highlighting his rock solid abs. He looks casual and ridiculously hot, like it’s a Sunday evening and we’re going to cuddle and watch a movie before having mind-blowing sex.
Dear Lord.
Even having my world just rocked, my body still feeling the aftershocks of the work-over he gave me, I’m ready to go again. I feel the burn in my core, the tingling between my legs.
I’ll never have enough.
When he hears the ensuite door shut behind me, he looks up. His eyes glued to me, he places his phone on the bedside table. “Wow, Brynne.” He scoots up in bed to get a better look. “That’s my favorite thing on you yet.”
I stand, frozen to the spot. I don’t know if I’m supposed to climb in bed with him or find the guest room. He would never be rude, that much I’m sure. But I feel so awkward that I want to disappear.
“What’s the matter?” His eyebrows pull together.
“Everything is fine. Great, actually. I just . . . You know, I don’t know what I’m supposed to . . .”
I try to pull my gaze from his, but he has it locked. Shaking his head, he pulls back the sheets. “Come. Get in bed with me.”
“Are you sure?”
His laugh dances through the room like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. “Didn’t I tell you I was bringing you to Vegas to spend time with you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then get your fine ass over here.”
I pad across the room, my cheeks the color of the sheets, and climb in. I settle myself against the pillows, leaving a little room between us.
My teeth work over my bottom lip. Fenton’s thumb catches my lip and pops it away. He drags his fingertips down my neck, across my clavicle, and gently strokes my arm as he withdraws.
“Everything okay?” he asks. The timbre is back to cashmere, soft and caressing, and I instantly feel more at ease.
“Yes.”
He searches my face, looking for the truth. I hide it as best as I can, not wanting a silly conversation about how I feel inadequate. He just gave me the most erotic orgasm of my entire life. He just outdid every man I’ve ever been with and he didn’t even actually fuck me. And yet, somehow, I feel like I wasn’t enough for him.
“You’re thinking and I want to know what about,” he says.
Yawning, because even though I’m confused, I’m also utterly satisfied. My muscles ache, my mind feels heavy with a fog that only comes after being wound up and let loose. “Everything is fine, Fenton. I just want to go to sleep.”
“If there’s one thing I dislike more than any other, it’s dishonesty. And you’re lying to me.”
I watch his features, gauging his temperament. He doesn’t seem angry, not off-the-wall angry, anyway. Annoyed? Sure.
“I’m not lying to you,” I protest. “It’s just late and I’m tired.”
“I don’t give a shit what time it is. If something is troubling you, I want to know what it is.”
“I—”
“And something’s bothering you. Did I make you uncomfortable?”
“Oh, no,” I insist, rolling onto my side so I’m looking straight at him. “Everything you did was amazing. Completely amazing.”
“So what is it then?”
He’s genuine, sincere, and it makes my walls crack. I guess if I’m going to be here for a few more days with him anyway, we may as well get it out in the open. “I’m just worried that you didn’t enjoy that.”
He roars with laughter, his hand finding the side of my face. “How could you ever think I didn’t enjoy that?”
“You didn’t . . . you know . . .”
“I didn’t get off?”
I flush. “Exactly.”
He nods, understanding. “Brynne, how many men have you been with?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m not judging you.” He ponders a way around the question. “How old are you?”
I consider arguing him on this point too, but the warning look in his eye makes me reconsider. “Twenty-four. How old are you?” Not that I care, but if I have to answer, so does he.
“Twenty-nine.”
We just watch each other. I’m not sure what our ages prove, but he seems to think he won a battle.