“And give him the satisfaction?” I shake my head. “He loves this place—it was his first seven-figure purchase. But he claimed to love me too.”
“Don’t you want to be free of him?”
“Of course. It’s more complicated than that, though. He’s an investor in avec. My PR firm. He dumped a large sum into it. I thought it was a blessing at the time, but now I know it was a power play to control me.”
“Control you how?”
“He owns a larger share than I do.”
“Shit,” Andrew mutters. “That’s not good.”
“I was financially able to buy him out a while ago, but he always made up excuses to deny me. Then came the divorce, and he continues to fight me on it. Until he agrees to give up avec, I won’t leave.”
“Why do you like it here so much?”
“I don’t,” I say. “This isn’t the neighborhood I’d choose, and this place has a lot of bad memories. But I don’t want him to have it, either.”
“You’re angry,” he says, “and you have every right to be.”
“Of course I do,” I say.
“Anger is a strong emotion. It stems from love. Like hate.”
“I don’t love him,” I say. “I don’t even feel sad about the divorce. For me, our relationship ended a while ago. Why does that mean I can’t be angry?”
“It doesn’t. I don’t even completely understand anger, and I’ve been dealing with it for almost four years. You assume it’s there, that it’ll never go away, until the day you stop to wonder if you still feel it. At some point, it starts to fade. Whether or not you want it to.” He shrugs beneath me. “Some people can’t accept that, so they convince themselves it still exists.”
I hesitate, not sure if I’m offended by the insinuation. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“No. You’re early in the process. I think you’re still entitled to be mad. I’m mad for you.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “I’m mad enough for two people.”
“First you were telling me what not to talk about. Now you’re telling me how to feel?”
“Is that a problem?” I tease.
“Ah, I see how it is,” he says. “The boss is back. Trying to tell me what to do,” he slips his hand down my stomach, between my thighs, “again.”
I inhale sharply as he slides a fingertip along me, grazing my clit. I close my legs around him, capturing his hand, then move against it.
He pushes my thighs apart. “Keep them open.”
“It feels too good.” I struggle against his strength. “Let go.”
“No. You’re not in charge.”
“I should be,” I say. “I’m a good boss. Give me a chance to prove it.”
“Why should I?”
I inch back just enough to move my ass against his groin, and he rumbles. “I’m used to being the woman on top,” I say. “I like to give orders.”
Without warning, he pushes a finger inside me. I bite down on my lip. “What kind of orders?”
I have to concentrate harder than I should as he begins to fuck me with his finger. “Get me coffee. Deliver this contract. Make me come.”
His cock twitches against my lower back. He drops his mouth to my ear, nipping the shell. “That shouldn’t be a problem, boss. Consider me for the position?”
“Which position?”
“Any. But I’d love to learn more about ‘woman on top.’”
I turn my head sideways to give him my mouth for a kiss. He adds another finger as I meet his thrusts, grinding against his palm. It’s a heady feeling, him hardening against my back when I’ve barely even touched him. I want to make him feel good too, so I reach back between us.
He catches my forearm. He slows but doesn’t stop pleasuring me as he places one of my hands along the edge of the tub, then the other. “You told me to make you come,” he whispers in my ear. “That’s what I’m doing.”
“What about you?”
“It’s enough for me to watch you.” He pulls his fingers out and circles them over me. I buck my hips and moan louder than I mean to. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Just let me touch you.”
I’m not used to this kind of attention, to sitting still. I like to act. To touch and feel and return the favor. But spread open and positioned how he wants me, Andrew has complete control over my orgasm. I curl my hands into fists, frustrated at being both trapped and aroused, but Andrew’s too good to fight against. He fucks me with his fingers while gyrating his hips against my backside. I’m all his, and the only thing he asks is that I let myself feel it. It’s harder than it looks, but each time I get the urge to take control, Andrew brings me back to the moment with a kiss on my neck, under my ear.
He keeps a steady pace as my orgasm builds slower than before. Reaching along the lip of the tub, he locks his other hand over mine, interlacing our fingers.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Relax. Let me make you feel good.”
I don’t know how he senses my unrest. In an attempt to give him what he wants, what I want, I place my head against his chest and shut my eyes. Still, behind my lids, the visual of our intertwined hands remains. I’m warm, inside and out, and Andrew’s breath on my skin tickles. He flicks his fingers in just the right spot as he palms me.
“That’s it,” he says when I gasp, ramping up his assault on my clit. “Come on, babe.”
I climb and climb, trying to mount my orgasm. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and with a small nip, I reach the top, bracing myself against the tub as pleasure churns through me. I hold on and make love to his hand for the seconds it takes my climax to work through me, and then I release my muscles, breathlessly falling back against Andrew’s chest.
When I open my eyes again, we’re still holding hands, my fingers the only tense part of me. I loosen my grip.
“Bubble bath doesn’t seem so girly now, does it?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over mine
“I’m glad I thought of it,” I say on an exhale.
He laughs, leaning his head into the crook of my neck. Some of his black hair, glossy from the water, falls over his forehead. I push it off, running my hand backward through his hair.
He nearly moans, his long lashes brushing my cheek as he closes his eyes. “It’s too long,” he murmurs. “Cut it for me?”
I twist my neck to try to look at him. “What?”
“Cut my hair. I took care of you, now take care of me.”
I raise one corner of my mouth. I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I’m not a hairdresser.”
“So? It’s not hard.”
“Are you kidding? You don’t just start snipping away. It’s an art.”
“Who am I trying to impress? No one. I need it cut. You have scissors, don’t you?”
“Yes, but they aren’t the r
ight kind.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Do they have blades?”
“Yes . . .”
“Can they cut things?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then they’re the right kind. Come on. You’ll save me twenty bucks.”
I lurch forward, turn back, and gape at him. “Twenty dollars? That’s how much you spend to cut your hair?”
“Unless I can get someone to do it free, yeah.”
“Oh my God.” I slap a hand over my eyes. “Andrew.”
“Amelia.”
“I run a fashion and beauty PR firm in arguably the chicest city in the world. I cannot be hearing this right now.”
He chuckles, but I’m dead serious. I don’t lower my hand to look at him. If I do, I know I’ll give in to his adorable but misguided idea. “Let me make an appointment for you at my favorite barber tomorrow. If they know you’re with me, they’ll hook you up. You can even get a shave. It’ll look and feel amazing.”
He takes my wrist and removes my hand from my face. In the dim light of the bathroom, dimples shadow his cheeks as he smiles. “I am not a prissy city girl,” he states. “Therefore, I will not be caught dead at a salon while I’m alive and conscious. Have you ever cut a piece of paper?”
I give him an incredulous look. “Of course.”
“Then you’re qualified to give me a trim. I cut Bell’s hair all the time.”
“That poor child. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Laughing, he stands, pulling me up with him. “You’re all sudsy,” he says, plucking a towel off a rack and scrubbing it through my damp hair. He wraps it around me and climbs out to dry himself.
“We could skip the haircut,” I say, nodding at his hard-on.
“What, this?” He tucks the towel around his waist. “We’ll get to it.”