Page 78 of Duplicity

I want you naked and waiting for me in that bed

Fucking excellent.

Holy crap, this suite isgorgeous.Not to mention vast. I can’t even imagine how much it costs. Thousands and thousands, probably. What a waste of money to use it for an hour. Usually, I’d be drawn to the incredible west-facing terrace that looks out over the iconic chrome-and-glass skyline of Canary Wharf to the Shard and beyond, but today there’s only one siren’s call in this room, and it’s the bed.

The huge, white bed with its fluffy-looking duvet and its mountains of plump pillows.

Oh my dear Lord. I may not be religious, but someone up there is answering my prayers.

I undress as swiftly as my poor, dulled motor skills will allow, draping my clothes over the back of a nearbychaise longueand chucking several pillows off the bed so I can get access. As my exhausted body slides between the cool sheets I let out an actual moan of appreciation. What is this sorcery? Did angels pluck feathers from magical geese to stuff this mattress topper? I have never in my life been in a bed quite as comfortable, as cosseting, as this. After the tribulations of last night, it’s like going back to the womb.

A very soft, very expensive womb.

I snuggle further down into the bed, one perfect pillow cradling my cheek, and I close my eyes.

BRENDAN

I feel like the king of the fucking world. This building, a mixed-use skyscraper encompassing retail, residential and some office space, is set to be the fucking bomb. It’s green, it’s glamorous, and has Sullivan written all over it. (Literally. Our hoardings are heavily branded.) I’m obsessed with momentum. Each project we undertake needs to build on the ones before. To push the envelope in terms of aesthetics and construction expertise. To show the world—and our shareholders—that Sullivan Construction will never rest on its laurels.

I grab a key card from the very attractive, very interested brunette at The Kingsley’s check-in desk and take myself up to the tenth floor where my suite is. I feel like a rockstar, and Iwant to fuck like one. I’ve been thinking all morning about how I’m going to take Marlowe. Maybe pressed up against the shower tiles first—a scorching hot quickie to take the edge off—before tying her up and edging the fuck out of her.

Yeah.

That’s what I’ll do.

If this morning’s site visit was foreplay for my ego, having the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on restrained and writhing and begging for my cock will have my self-confidence going stratospheric. I know she loves it when I’m in alpha mode. I know submitting to me gets her off like nothing else.

Except that when I swagger into our suite, the very same beautiful woman is not lying back for me, legs spread and smile teasing, like I’d demanded. Instead, she appears to be out cold.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

‘Hey, love,’ I say quietly. I don’t want to scare the bejesus out of her, as my parents would say.

Nothing.

I tiptoe closer. She’s snoring very softly and very prettily. One arm is folded over the covers, its hand under her cheek, its shoulder temptingly golden. The rest of her is concealed. Her gorgeous hair is splayed over the pillow.

‘Marls?’ I whisper.

Still nothing.

Fuck.

I debate heading into the bathroom and getting myself off in the shower, but I’d like to think I’m not that weak-willed. I cast my mind back to first thing this morning, when I saw her briefly, and begrudgingly admit that she didn’t look great. Stunning, obviously, but not too well. She looked bloody exhausted, come to think of it, and I recall too late that she went home early yesterday because she was feeling sick. I sigh.

Fuck’s sake. Looks like I’m sleeping with my executive assistant today without actuallysleepingwith her. I strip off my clothes and lay them next to Marlowe’s, noting with interest that her lacy bra and thong are on top of her pile. So she’s naked under there, is she?

This should be fun.

Carefully, I turn back the covers and lose a pillow or two before sliding in next to Marlowe. The sheets are cool, but my skin picks up the warmth of hers even without touching it. She has her back to me, but as I pull the duvet over myself, she stirs with a whimper and rolls over.

I freeze for a second. She’s still fast asleep, and, honestly? It’s a captivating sight. I never,everspend the night with women, so I never get to see women sleeping up close. Her face is so peaceful, it tugs at my heartstrings. The little crease she so often has between her eyebrows is gone, smoothed out by sleep. Her long lashes, black with mascara today, fan across her cheeks.

She looks like an angel. An actual seraph, in the most literal sense of the word. And, as I watch her sleep, something akin to awe floods my body like warm treacle. If she’d ever stop bolting for the doors at 6 pm every day and agree to go out with me one evening, I’d gladly let her sleep over, if just for this.

I know this: my dick may be hardening appreciatively at her scent, at the proximity of all her soft, golden skin. But the rest of me has no intention of waking her. If she needs a nap this badly, I won’t be the one to deprive her of it.

Besides—and this is pretty creepy, to be honest—I can do without sex this once if I get to watch her sleep instead. I thought both our walls were coming down after that amazing sex at my place, but she’s still so bloody boundaried in many ways. I still don’t feel like I know her properly—like I’ve earned the right to know her properly. In this moment, she’s giving me somethingwithout knowing it. A piece of the side of her she keeps so carefully hidden away.

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