Page 68 of Well, Actually
Regards,
Landry
I read the email over and over, Landry’s voice starting as a shrill buzz in my ear and growing to a roar. I return to the start again but can’t get the words to focus, and I realize how badly my hands are shaking, tears welling in my eyes. I toss my phone to the side, covering my face and trying to breathe past the hornets’ nest in my throat.
Fuck, fuck,fuck.
I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking? What did I expect, playing this hide-and-seek game with my eagle-eyed boss? Hearing I’m as grossly a fuck-up as I’ve always feared I am makes me want to shrivel up and die.
“You’re okay,” I whisper into my palms, not believing it for a second. “Everything will be okay.”
I need to fix this. I can’t lose this chance at a promotion, at actually making something of this stupid dream of mine. I fish my laptop out of my bag on the ground, then let out a growl of frustration when I realize it’s dead. I have the sudden and irrational instinct to blame this all on Rylie and his frivolous crewnecks and ridiculous car and dick so good it’s made me prioritize sex over my literal job, but the thought snuffs out before it can fully spark.
This is no one’s fault but my own. Stupid me and my stupid job and my stupid desire to actually try to make it into something meaningful when it’s obvious I’m not up to the challenge.
I bring my knees to my chest and try to think of how to respond, how to get back in her good graces, but my thoughts dip into self-pity instead. I either have to keep parading my interactions with Rylie around for public consumption or say goodbye to the promotion that will get me the job I’ve always wanted. There’s no winning here.
Rylie walks in, coffees in hand, and I work to rearrange my features into something other than panic and defeat. His smile drops. The bastard can read me like a book.
“You okay, Kitten?” he asks, setting down the mugs and then climbing into bed. I hate that question. Nothing makesme panic more than that question. No, I’m not okay and admitting as much will only make me even more not okay.
“Fine,” I squeak out.
“You sure? You look—”
I spring on him, throwing my leg over his hips and wrapping my arms around his neck while I kiss him—messy and deep and desperate to escape the anxiety clawing through me, the questions I don’t want to have to ask myself. Rylie pulls back for a second, giving me a bemused frown, but I force my sexiest smile, letting him see it for only a second before sliding his glasses down his nose and setting them on the bedside table. I kiss him again.
Rylie melts under my touch, his hands slipping under my shirt and gliding to my ribs, thumbs grazing the sensitive skin at the sides of my breasts. I let out an exaggerated groan against his mouth, pressing myself closer to him, closer to the man who can make me feel so good I almost forget feeling terrible is possible.
It isn’t long until Rylie is hard, our hips and chests rubbing together in tight movements, the friction from our pajamas maddening. He shifts us, rolling me beneath him, his hands making quick work removing my shirt then his own.
“Stunning,” he whispers, expression dazed as he soaks me in like it’s the first time he’s seeing me. A pang of affection slices through my chest, and I pull him down to me again.
I want to escape from it all.
Rylie kisses my neck, traces my collarbones with his tongue. He touches me in all the ways he knows I like while whispering words of encouragement into my ear. And I work to lose myselfin it. But emotions are tight in my chest, sealing up my throat, making it feel impossible to breathe. My skull fills with a heavy tension, a cloud of gas that has the room spinning in a way that’s far from enjoyable. I cover my face with my arm, moaning into the crux of my elbow in a way I hope fools him.
Rylie’s fingers play between my legs, and he feels the growing wetness, bringing it to his lips with a luxurious pull. He positions himself at my entrance, forgoing the condom like we have since we confirmed recent tests were negative.
He presses into me with a smooth glide, and I wrap my legs around his hips like I can keep him there forever. Rylie sets a slow, lazy rhythm, savoring the drag of every inch against me.
I’m whimpering, nearly crying from the combination of how good he feels, how tenderly he’s loving me, and how terrified I am that I’ve ruined everything I’ve worked for. My movements are sharp and jerky, every nerve too on edge to fully enjoy the thrill of his touch and instead flinching with each caress.
Rylie clocks the tension in my muscles, and it makes him pause, lifting himself above me. He stares at me for a moment, cheeks stained with a blush and breath coming in short bursts. The fog of desire starts to clear from his eyes, his slack jaw tightening into a worried frown.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he whispers, cupping my face. He’s so gentle, so caring, it makes me want to bawl like a baby. Which in turn makes me want to run away. I bury my head in his chest.
“Just fuck me, Cooper,” I urge, fingernails scoring down his back. I feel him shiver, his body grinding involuntarilyagainst me before he regains control. I try to take matters into my own hands, thrusting up into him in frantic movements like I can screw my problems away.
“No,” he says with force, unwrapping my arms from his body and pinning my wrists to the mattress. My breath catches in my throat at the intensity of his stare, and I try to look away. Try to stop myself from crying as tears slip from the corners of my eyes and drag across my temples.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he coaxes softly, brushing away my tears.
“I’mfine,” I say through gritted teeth, jerking out of his touch. “Would you stop fucking worrying and just have sex with me? Because this conversation is getting tedious and I’m easily bored.”
Rylie stills, his expression shifting in surprise and then settling into something close to anger. In a deliberately slow movement, he grips my jaw, forcing my gaze up until I’m staring into the dark wild of his blown pupils. His touch is firm but not harsh, just enough pressure to let me know he’s not interested in playing games.
“Listen here, you little demon,” he says, voice threaded with tenderness. “You can be as tough and guarded as you need out there, but in here”—he emphasizes the bed with a brutal pump of his hips—“you’ll show me the real you. What happens between us isn’t a distraction, Eva. It’s too important for that.”
