After the Kiss
Page 24

Her fingers fumbled with each and every button until she was able to shove his shirt off his shoulders. “That shirt’s all wrong for you, you know,” she said, running her tongue over his nipple.
He grunted. “I bought it based on the pictures of your various gigolos.”
She smiled at that, for in spite of it all, he’d tried to please her, tried to be what he thought she wanted. Her fingers found his belt. “None of them wear their jeans quite like this.”
He ground against her. “Liar. We both know that half the chumps you date are pretty-boy models.”
She gave a husky laugh and tilted her head back to give him access to her neck. “And they screw like them too.”
He paused for half a beat, processing what she had said. Then he pulled back and stared at her, looking oddly pleased by her statement. “Well then, let’s get you properly f**ked.”
And then she was on her back on the middle of her bed, Mitchell’s hard body on top of her. Two fingers snaked inside before she’d even realized that he’d removed her thong, and she let out a low, keening cry as he rubbed her with his thumb.
She let him tease and play but pushed him away before she got too close. If she was going to die from sexual exhaustion, she’d take him with her. His hands reached for his belt buckle and she ran her hands over his chest, scraping lightly with her nails. But Mitchell was done with teasing, and as soon as he’d gotten the pants past his hips, he grabbed her wrists in one hand and shoved her back onto the bed, pinning her arms above her head.
She shook her head slightly, trying to reconcile the fierce, pagan lover on top of her with the calm, bespectacled suit of that first night. “Wall Street?”
In response he shoved inside her, setting a fast and furious pace as she met him thrust for thrust. It had never been like this. Never been so rough and hard and right. She relished the animalistic sound of two sweaty bodies slamming together over and over, his fierce rhythm driving her up into the headboard.
“Come,” he ordered, his mouth wet against her breast.
But she was already exploding, her nails digging into his back as she shuddered around him. His own release followed, and he shouted her name as he came in long, shuddering jerks.
Neither moved for several minutes, the air filled with the smell of sex and sweat and the sounds of their gasping breath. It took him longer than usual to lift his weight off her, and the delay was reassuring. She wasn’t the only one who couldn’t fathom the idea of moving.
When he finally lifted his body off hers, Julie quickly rolled to her side, facing away from him. She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh, scream, or cry, but she was leaning toward the last of those.
Mitchell moved behind her, and she expected him to begin gathering his clothes. They were both angry. That had been evident from the way they’d just set the sheets on fire. He probably needed space just as much as she did. Especially after what she’d told him: I’m tired of being the short-term girl.
Julie jumped in surprise when she felt a hand stroke her waist. The touch was gentle, not at all resembling the way he’d just ravaged her moments before.
“Julie,” he whispered.
She turned to face him, and for several minutes they did nothing but look.
“What now?” she asked, feeling tired and broken.
In response he reached for her hand, uncurling her fingers and planting a warm, sweet kiss on her palm. After the ferocity of their lovemaking, the gesture was gentle. Unexpected. Too much.
She felt a suspicious tickle behind her eyelids and she rolled away. His hand found her waist again, and then his arm wrapped around her, pulling her against him.
Julie didn’t know how long they lay there, not speaking. But when she finally heard his breath ease into the slow rhythm of sleep, she let the first tears fall.
It was never supposed to be like this.
Chapter Eleven
As if Mitchell needed another reminder that Julie wasn’t the woman for him, fate delivered.
Julie snored.
Not a cute little snuffle either, but snorts worthy of an overweight truck driver named Bubba.
Neither was she a cuddler. They’d fallen asleep tangled together. But at some point during the night, the indelicate little tank had rolled onto her back and splayed all limbs as far as she could reach.
Mitchell reached out and toyed with a silky strand of mussed hair. He couldn’t help it. He was charmed.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was completely bare-ass naked and that she had love bites on the side of her breast. A naked sleeper could snore in bed any old time she wanted.
As long as the naked sleeper was Julie.
Mitchell frowned at the sentimental thought, rolling over and planting his feet on the bed as he tried to orient himself to Julie’s dark bedroom. He hadn’t meant to sleep over. He should be back on the Upper East Side, halfway through his Saturday morning run by now, after which he’d tackle personal email while watching whatever sports game he’d recorded last night. A sports game he would have missed because he would have been doing whatever Evelyn had scheduled for them. A fund-raiser, the latest dreary Broadway drama . . . movie night.
Instead he’d been decked out like a gigolo at a nightclub where he’d simultaneously tried to impress and push away a woman who was getting far too deep under his skin. Not to mention the way he’d gone all caveman on her, grunting at her playboy friend and then rutting all over her on the dance floor.
He’d hurt her. It had been written all over her perfectly made-up face, and it showed now in her puffy eyes.
His heart twisted with regret. He’d made a mistake. A big one. He’d realized it the second that guy Cam had put a hand on her.
Nobody put a hand on Mitchell’s woman.
And Julie Greene was definitely his.
Mitchell quietly wandered around the dark apartment until he found his discarded black shirt, lip curling in disgust. He hadn’t liked the shirt even when it had been freshly pressed. Now that it was wrinkled, it might as well have “walk of shame” scrawled across the front in large neon letters.
Stepping into his jeans, he surveyed the contents of Julie’s fridge. Nothing that could have passed as breakfast. Not that he would have been much help if there were. His cooking skills tapped out at cereal, and her milk was four days past its sell-by date.
But his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten last night, and the stale box of Triscuits on her shelf wasn’t going to cut it. He crept back into the bedroom to retrieve his shoes and socks, amused to see that Julie had flung herself onto her stomach, kicking the covers off and displaying one very fine ass to his admiring eyes. Reluctantly he tugged the sheet up to her waist. The sight of two perfectly round butt cheeks had made him hard again, and after the way he’d used her body last night, he at least owed her a lazy morning.
She stirred slightly and began snoring again, and Mitchell shook his head. He’d have to make a concentrated effort to beat her to sleep if they were going to spend the night together again.
And he wanted to spend the night together again.
The question was whether she’d give him the chance.
Mitchell backed out of the bedroom and, after putting his shoes on, pulled out his cell to search for breakfast. There was a bagel place around the corner, and with any luck they’d have decent coffee, since Julie had a pot but no actual coffee.
Reluctantly he picked up the clutch Julie had dropped by her front door and rummaged among half a dozen lip products before finding her keys and dropping them into his pocket.
Most of the city didn’t rise until ten on weekends, especially in this part of town, so there was virtually no line. Fifteen minutes later, he was creeping back into Julie’s apartment, armed with two toasted sesame bagels and large coffees.
He set Julie’s cup and bagel on the nightstand, planning to eat his in the kitchen so as not to wake her. But the scent of coffee snuck under the veil of sleep and had her blinking at him in groggy surprise.
“You’re still here,” she said, looking adorably baffled.
“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. The surprise on her face wounded him, even though he knew it was justified. Last night he’d all but told her that she was a booty call and then f**ked her five ways to Sunday before passing out in her bed.