45. Olivier

Ishriek when I open my eyes and find Elodie in a tiny little nightie at the foot of my bed. With my hand over my pounding heart, I fight to regain my breath. "What are you doing up here?"

"I need to talk to you about something."

"Put some clothes on. What time is it?" AKA, where's Drew?

"Six forty-five. I couldn't sleep. I need to talk about this—it might be a big deal."

"Fine. Can I get some coffee first, and you cover yourself up?"

She sighs heavily. "God, you're such a prude."

Yeah. I'm a prude. My asshole would beg to differ.

I groan as I sit up, but as sore as I am, I love it. Drew's unhinged lust last night was the perfect antidote to the phone call with my mother. My legs ache, too, from all the walking. Also, I'm starving.

Once I'm dressed and on my way downstairs, I've got several bagel sandwiches on the way.

Elodie has added a robe to her ensemble, and while it's hanging open and showing way too much skin, she technically complied with my request. She's popping a pod in the espresso machine and lights up when she sees me.

"So, this might sound kind of crazy, and it's up to you if you want to be involved, but if you decide you do, this could be the thing that fixes everything."

I set down another mug to signify I want caffeine, too. "You found out about the lottery, didn't you?"

"It feels a little like the lottery, but no. Remember Drew's girlfriend Jericho?"

"Ex-girlfriend," I snap.

"Jeez, all right. But you remember her, right? The bitchy book editor?"

I stare longingly at the slow-filling coffee mug and also at the clock on the stove. 6:54. "I absolutely remember her, yes."

"So, she reached out to me last night with this idea for a book."

I frown. "Why you? Did you tell her you were a writer and a potter?"

"No, but I guess Drew told her about you and him and…" she points at the beat-up part of her face. "Me."

"He what?"

"It's okay, I'm not mad. I trust her. And anyway, she was saying our story would make a good book."

"Our story?"

"Yeah, like how we wound up in the modern world being forced into a marriage to save our family's reputation. Supposedly that doesn't happen all that much in America. Crazy, right?" She lets out a fake laugh.

I narrow my eyes at her. "So you're suggesting we write some kind of Upper East Side tell-all?"

"It would be ghostwritten, but yeah."

"I don't know," I say, my entire upbringing recoiling at the thought.

"It's money, Ollie."

"How much money?" I ask.

"She said it would depend. If it's just my story, it would be less, but if it's both of us, she said maybe seven figures."

This is where my having no concept of money whatsoever is a burden, not a blessing. "That's a pretty big range," I say, because I do know at least that much.

"Are you interested, though?" Elodie asks, and I can tell by the unabashed hope on her face that she needs me to say yes.

"I'm not saying I'll do it, and I need way more details than ‘seven figures,' but sure. Yeah. I'm interested in what she thinks she has to offer." I'm not saying she owes me—honestly, I should probably be the one making reparations to her for what I took, but still—to sell out my family? I'm not sure what the price tag for that should be. Maybe Drew will know.

The door to the apartment opens, and a thrill skates through me. I turn to see the man himself approaching, heading straight for me. He grabs me by the front of the t-shirt, pulls me toward him, and plants a kiss on my waiting mouth.

Seeing Elodie, he stops with a quick smooch, and lets my shirt go. "You talked to Jericho?" he asks her.

Elodie gives him an excited nod.

He looks at me. "What do you think?"

"I don't know." I sigh heavily. "Can we put this whole book deal thing on pause so I can have some coffee, food, and maybe some dick first?

"Oh my god. I cannot live with you two."

Drew, however, gives my ass a squeeze. "Your coffee's ready."

So it is. I grab it, take Drew by the hand, and lead him up the stairs, telling Elodie that bagels are coming, and we'll talk about the Jericho thing in a little while. I need to talk to Drew first. I feel in no way capable of making a decision like this on my own.

"How was your night with Matthew?" I ask him first when we reach my bedroom.

He tosses his jacket on the bench at the foot of the bed while I sit on the mattress. "Matthew's nice. Might wanna watch him around your fiancée, though."

I arch a brow as I sip my coffee. "Why?"

"She came down when Jericho was trying to get in touch with her, and they had kind of a thing."

"Kind of a thing?"

He shrugs. "Just saying. I liked him. Talking to him helped put a few things into perspective for me."

"Yeah? Such as?" I ask this as Drew is crawling onto the bed toward me in his underwear, and I'm smiling but trying really hard to look unimpressed.

"Like I would have been much happier last night taking a walk with you, or up here making you scream."

"I don't scream."

"It's a goal, then."

"Would you really be happy, though?" I ask him, because it's not like we don't have sex all the time, and he told me more than once yesterday how not okay he is.

He takes my coffee, puts it on the nightstand, and plows over me until I'm on my back and his face hovers an inch from mine. "I feel better already."

"Everything's happening really fast all of a sudden," I say, breathless.

He grinds his crotch over mine, letting me feel his very stiff erection. Mine is rapidly catching up. Christ, have I ever wanted anyone like this? Anything?

"You said you weren't very patient. This should be the best-case scenario for you."

"Except I don't know what's happening," I tell him.

He shoves a hand underneath my shirt and finds my nipple. "I'm saying you can either pay my rent for March, and I can spend my days there and nights in the lobby here, or…"

Hope lurches so hard in my chest, I almost throw up. "You don't belong in that lobby. You're much better in bed than you are as a doorman."

"You sure about that?" he asks. "I'm not that bad of a doorman."

"You're sour and you're always nodding off on the job?—"

"Hey—" He twists my nipple hard.

I hiss, arching up. "I just think you'd do better working for free up here. I don't mind when you take naps."

"What about my apartment?"

I grab his ass and we give each other another long, slow grind. "We can keep it—until I've got you completely convinced about where you belong."

"You're lucky I've been up all night. I'm very persuadable right now."

My smile is uncontainable. He growls at the sight of it.

Drew kisses my neck, and I groan, my sharp intake of breath quick and ragged. He sucks at his favorite spot, darkening my semi-permanent mark. He grinds, and I grind back, insatiable and verging on desperate. "Drew…fuck… I needed to talk to you, too."

He ignores me, working the already tender flesh between his teeth and lips. I grab his ass and roll my hips to meet his, seeking all the friction he has to offer. "Give me another one," I say when he lifts his head to examine his work.

He immediately dives to the other side of my throat, and I try to talk while we dry hump each other. "I called my mom last night. It was awful. Do you know I almost died when I was a baby?"

That gets his attention, although now that he's stopped kissing my neck and is looking down at me with concern, I wish I hadn't opened with that. "How? What happened?"

"Apparently it was like SIDS. I just stopped breathing in the night and the night nurse saved me."

He frowns at me in disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah…but like—somehow my mom made this all about her?"

"So, you like—need to talk talk."

"Yeah," I say, guilty.

He rolls to my side and turns me to face him. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I rest a hand on his chest. Our cocks manage to stay married to each other.

"The take-home message was that the family reputation is more important than anything. Basically, they're happy to have me as long as I behave myself."

Drew's brow furrows. "So…breaking off the engagement and announcing I'm moving in with you would be…"

"The end," I say.

"Did you think she'd feel differently?"

I nod, the nausea I felt during the call returning. I feel so fucking stupid.

"What about your father?" Drew asks, his thumb stroking my cheek, brushing back a wayward curl.

"I haven't talked to him since the party."

"So…what's happening is you're questioning whether they love you or not."

I bite my lip and turn my head to face the pillow.

He goes on. "Before this, you knew they'd publicly cut ties with you and stop supporting you, but you accepted that as part of the deal. The dark side of high society or whatever, yeah?"

I nod again.

"But it's worse than that, huh?"

"Feels like it."

"It's all still pretty fresh, baby. They could just be really, really pissed."

"She was like a different person, though. Cold—like a stranger. Like the person I grew up with was a lie. When I asked her what if I'd OD'd during high school, she said she would have done everything possible to keep it quiet—not send me to rehab. Not get me the best care money could buy—she'd cover it up. Which is exactly what she's doing now. My whole life's just been smoke and mirrors."

"Not your whole life," Drew whispers.

"Would you still love me if I didn't live in a penthouse? If I worked at a job and came home smelling like fried chicken every night?"

Drew's eyes are the definition of "lit up." "Yes, I think it would be hilarious. I'd love every second of that."

I give his chest a shove. "I'm serious."

"I'd even love you if you got paid an absurd amount of money for a book you didn't have to write."

"But where would we live?"

"Who cares?" he asks.

"I care," I say. "I love this place."

"This place is nice, but you don't need anything close to all this space. It's a little ridiculous."

"So, like I could just move downstairs or something?"

"Sure. Whatever." Drew chuckles, but for whatever reason that's the thought that makes the tears come. I swear he kisses my cheeks once for every tear that falls, and it's a lot.

I love him so much it's gonna change my entire life.

If I choose him.

"Why does this all have to be on me?" I whimper into the pillow. "Why can't they just forgive me?"

His mouth lands on mine like he's heard enough. His kiss is deep and overwhelming. His tongue rolls through my mouth like he wants to erase the words. His body overtakes mine like it's his to use. And I want it to be. I want someone to want it. That Drew wants it means everything. He hated me so much, and he changed his mind. Or I did. We changed each other, and that's so fucking beautiful. It's terrifying, but it's a miracle, too.

"Are you sore?" he asks.

"I'm okay."

"I wanna be inside you."

"I want that, too."

He runs his hand down my side, and I break out in chills. "I'm not leaving you. Do you understand that? Not for as long as you'll have me."

"I'll have you," I say as he slides my underwear down my thighs. "I need you so much."

A moment or two later, I squirm in delicious discomfort as he slides lube into my hole on two fingers. He watches me closely for my reaction. "What did I tell you the first time we did this?" he asks.

"That you don't want to hurt me," I gasp.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No, I like it. I really like it, Drew."

"Even last night."

I nod, too eager. "I really fucking like it."

Satisfied with my enthusiasm, he crooks his fingers, putting extra pressure on the overly sensitive bundle of nerves inside, and I press into his hand. He repeats the motion, and I do, too, until my cock is pouring precum, and I'm panting like a sprinter in summer.

"I love the way you ride my fingers, baby. So fucking hot… Wish you could feel how turned on I am. I'm so fucking hard for you."

One thing I'll miss about morning-after-work Drew is the way he loses all his filters. Words flow, and he's horny as fuck. When the words are dirty—he reduces me to a series of nerve endings barely attached to a consciousness. "Please—fuck…please…"

"Please what? Fuck you? Drill you deep with this big, hard cock?" He rubs my prostate again, and I cry out, yet still I seek the wicked tease again, rolling my hips and begging him with my needy body for more. My dick is straining for a touch—friction. I bite my lip so hard I taste copper. Jesus. The sweat on my brow feels drenching. If I brushed it back, my hair would be damp.

"Yes," I whine. "Fuck me… I need it. I need you."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"Say my name."

"I love you, Drew."

He slides his fingers out of me and pins me to the bed, face up. I part my legs for him, and he's there in a heartbeat, filling the emptiness with one, slick, gut-twisting slide of his cock.

His hands take mine and hold them above my head. He kisses me hard, fucking both my holes so thoroughly I barely feel like a person anymore.

With my calves around his thighs, I meet his thrusts with my own, clenching around his length because it feels good to fight it. The amount of bearing down I do makes me light-headed. My kiss is sloppy and wet—ravenous. A mess. My cock is finally getting what it wants, the grinding pressure of his six-pack as we grunt and fuck like mating beasts. It's rough and romantic—burns so fucking good.

Do I feel loved?

Absolutely. More than loved. Vital.

Do I love him?

There's more to it than that.

I choose him.

He's more important to me than high ceilings and a park view. He makes me feel safer than money ever has. He'd be devastated if I stopped breathing in my sleep. He'd never take his eyes off me again, and I wouldn't mind.

A whole new image of my future clicks into place as he drives me closer and closer to the edge of insanity with his pounding cock and his searching mouth, but one thing becomes crystal clear. In this image filled with so much fuzzy uncertainty, the one thing standing with perfect clarity at the center is Drew, demanding to know if I love him.

It's a fuck yes from me.