New York Billionaires Series

I smooth my thumb over her cheek, over the lightly smudged mascara. “You’re okay,” I murmur.

Her smile is small but true. Traces of amusement play in her eyes. “This is really not how I wanted you to think of me.”

“I can think of you anyway I want,” I say. “Not for you to decide.”

Her faint laughter is breathless. “Right.”

“And your fear of heights hasn’t made me think less of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” My fingers shift to her ear, tracing the smooth edge of her jaw. Her skin is like silk beneath my fingers. No, this has only made her more human to me, real and fallible and sweet and nuanced, with frailty to counter the ambitious fire.

And it just makes me want her more.

Freddie leans into my hand and closes her eyes. “How did you know what to do?”

“What to do?”

“To calm me down,” she says. “Have you talked people away from a panic attack before?”

My hand slips from her cheek. “My sister used to have them.”

“Oh, I see.” Giving me an apologetic smile, Freddie gets up from the bed and gets a tissue to wipe her eyes and nose. She kicks off her shoes and shrugs out of her beige coat. A turtleneck and dark jeans cling to her body, to the shapely thighs and hips, the dip of her waist.

I close my eyes, but it’s no use, because she settles against me on the bed. Her hand on my chest, her leg over mine, as if we lie like this all the time.

“Used to?” she asks. “How did she get them to stop?”

I look up at the ceiling. “She died a few years ago.”

“Oh. Tristan, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say. My coat is unbuttoned and there’s nothing but the fabric of my shirt between her fingers and my skin. I close my eyes. “I’ve never kissed anyone to stop them from having a panic attack, though.”

“I can’t believe that worked,” she says. The warmth of her exhale against my neck makes my body tighten. Awareness of her is everywhere, from the pads of my fingers to the tingling in my lips. My fingers brush over a strip of bare skin where her sweater has ridden up. “It worked pretty well, I’d say.”

“If you’re looking for flattery, you won’t get it from me,” she says. But she tucks her face against my neck in a gesture that feels more flattering than words ever could.

My hand slides clean under her sweater, palm against her lower back. Once, twice, I run my fingers over her skin. Freddie presses a soft kiss to my neck.

I graze the clasp of her bra and trace the length of her spine. “Freddie…”

Her lips continue to move, tracing the edge of my jaw, finding my lips with her own. She tastes like sweetness and comfort, like sincere thank-yous and I-want-yous. I kiss her back, our mouths meeting. What starts soft takes no time at all to ignite. My hand tangles in the length of her dark hair.

Freddie moans into my mouth, surrendering to the kiss in a way that is so trusting it threatens to shatter me. It’s too precious. I shift, stretching her out beneath me. Her dark hair is a beautiful wilderness on the comforter beneath us, but it’s her eyes I can’t look away from.

They hold desire and trust, tentative and wonderful.

Her hands pull me back down and I kiss her like I need her more than air, more than life itself, because that’s how it feels. After yesterday’s close call, the jealousy, the elevator, holding her trembling in my arms-the desire to make her mine is damn near all-consuming. I want her skin against mine and her moans in my ear.

And that’s exactly why I can’t. Not while there are dried tears on her cheeks, not when adrenaline and fear are still pulsing through her system. I shift my kisses from her lips to her neck, smoothing her sweater back down over the taut expanse of her stomach.

She turns into me with a frustrated sigh and I hold her, kissing her forehead. We lie like that for a long time.

“What are we going to do, Tristan?” she finally asks.

I’m wondering the same thing myself. “I don’t know.”

“We can’t have anyone finding out about this.”

“I know.” I shut my eyes tight, fighting with the arousal still alive in my veins.

Freddie takes a deep breath. “I’ve worked so hard to be where I am. And I have so much work still to do. I can’t be the trainee who sleeps with the CEO to get ahead.”

The perfectly reasonable words cut. It’s what I’ve known for weeks. She has so much left to experience that doesn’t include someone like me.

“And I need to have control, Freddie, but with you I have none.”

There’s a resigned smile in her voice when she speaks again. “So what are we going to do with ourselves, then?”

“We’re going to be friends,” I say, smoothing my hand over her hair and hating the word. “Outside of work. Perhaps just from afar… but we’ll be friends.”

“Friends,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the word.

I wonder if she finds it as bitter as I do.

I know my weaknesses well, know where I fracture and break. Sharing them with Tristan had never been my plan. But in the span of one evening, I’d given him all of it. My panic attacks, my fear of heights, even my fear of dating, the way I clung to him more than I needed to for the simple pleasure of holding him close. He’d seen it all.

What we are now doesn’t exist, a word that can’t be found in the dictionary. Two people who met as strangers. Who enjoyed one another as strangers, but who have gotten to know one another as friends.

Two people who live very different lives and have to abide by workplace rules.

And yet, yesterday had happened. I’d given him all of my fragility, and he’d held it in the palm of his hand until I was strong enough to take it back.

There’s no way I can forget that. No way I want to forget that.

I rest my head in my hands, turning away from the painful thoughts and the numbers on my screen. We’d been wise in stopping yesterday, in establishing rules and boundaries. I’m only two months into a one-year internship. He’s a single dad with a company to run.

The world would only see one thing.

But why, then, does it feel like we made a mistake?Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“Frederica.”

I look up. “Yes?”

“I need you for a client meeting. We’re meeting with Nicour in-” Eleanor glances at her watch-“less than thirty minutes, and Clive couldn’t make it. I just love it when he cancels last minute.”