It's not a good idea.
After another hour, I don't care.
I close my eyes, ditch my boxers, try to push my thoughts to my last fuck.
Someone.
Anyone.
As long as it's not the woman sleeping in the other room—
For a second, I have it. The blonde from the TV show. Her long hair falling over her perky tits. Her fire engine nails on my chest.
Then they're Briar's wine red nails.
Her short purple hair.
Her lips parting with a groan.
I'm hard in an instant.
I give in to the mental image.
Briar's thighs against my cheeks, her hands in my hair, my name rolling off her lips again and again.
It can't happen.
It's fucked up.
But it's so fucking beautiful to picture it.
Chapter Eleven
Briar
Warm sun. Soft sheets. The gentle hum of the air conditioner.
The smell of leather and wood.
I roll to my side. Open my eyes. Take in the view.
The deep blue Hudson. The bright sky. The sun bouncing off steel and glass. Raising the temperature of my skin.
It's beautiful, and comfortable, but it's not my room.
It's Liam's spare room.
Not mine. Nothing like my room.
For one, it's a bedroom, with plenty of space to spare, not a cramped studio apartment.
And it's masculine. Old school. Perfect for Liam's brother, but nothing like me.
For a second, I soak in the warmth of the sun on my skin. No complicated plan. No kissing my boss. No wondering if he really wants to invite me to his bed.
Only the beautiful blue sky and the buildings surrounding us.
Simple pleasures.
Then I rise, I use the bathroom in the hallway, wash my hands, brush my teeth, find Liam in the kitchen.
In a towel.
Only a towel.
He's at the counter, pouring water into the French Press, his back to me.
And he's dripping wet, his hair sticking to his forehead, the cerulean cotton slung low around his hips.
It's barely hanging on.
If that cinch fails and he turns—
I swallow hard. "Good morning."
"Hey." He turns to me and gives me a quick once-over. "You sleep in that?"
Right. I'm in a tank top and boxers. A very thin tank top. I do run hot. Only in here, with the air-conditioning on high—
Shit.
"What should I sleep in?" I ask.
"Nothing." He smiles that charming smile of his, but there's something off, the way there was after the party.
"Are you okay?"
"Bree didn't send you home with pajamas?"
"I didn't look." I was exhausted last night. Not that it helped me fall asleep. I kept thinking about the taste of Liam's lips. The feel of his hands on my skin. How badly I want to feel his hands on my skin again.
"She has a set she likes."
"How do you know?"
He shrugs and turns to his coffee. "I had a phase."
"A phase of dressing women you fucked?"
"Longer arrangements."
"Two nights instead of one?" I try to say it with my usual tone, but there's judgment in my voice.
Liam pauses. He notices, but he shrugs it off, stays that easy-going, impossible to ruffle version of himself. "An entire week once."
"That's an eternity for you." There. Normal voice. Teasing. Fun teasing. Not I'm judging you for being a slut teasing. He is a slut. Or he was. But that's his business. As long as he's safe, why should I judge?
When I started college, I—
Well, I certainly didn't compete with Liam's numbers, but I had my moments. Hookups at parties. Friends with benefits. A fling with an older man even.
I wanted to prove I wasn't a sucker like my mom. I wanted to prove I wouldn't give up my freedom or my self-respect and commit to a man.
But I over-corrected. I didn't like meaningless hookups. They were, well, meaningless. Even when they were good—and some were really good—they were empty.
Then I over-corrected again. Started dating John because he was stable and committed. He was an asshole sometimes, but usually he was an asshole for me.
Did I love him? I thought so, at the time. Now, I don't know.
He never made my heart race or my stomach flutter. Not the way Liam does.
I didn't trust him the way I trust Liam.
Not that I trust Liam.
It's just—
It's complicated.
"Weeks sometimes," he says. "Months even."
"Really?"
"Six months, once."
"You were with the same woman for six months?"
"I'm capable." He reaches for something in the cabinet. "London Fog?"
"You know how to make one?"
He nods. "Looked it up last night."
"Last night?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"You either?" Shit. I bite my tongue. I might as well add oh, were you thinking about fucking me the way I was thinking about fucking you? That's a good idea. Totally a good idea.
"Yeah."
I couldn't stop thinking about your lips. Was it the same for you? "What time is brunch?"
"In an hour."
"Shouldn't we wait?"
"I've seen what happens when you don't have your tea."
"Because you've woken me up."
"You overslept."
"Only once," I say.
"And when you found out they didn't have coffee or tea at the meeting…" He turns to me with a smile. "The scowl on your face put Simon to shame."