Page 47 of Hate Mate

WILLOW

There's something lying across my chest.

For some reason, that's the first conscious thought that crosses my mind before I open my eyes, blinking away the harsh sunlight coming from the window beside the bed. Somehow, we made it to the bed last night—and the sheets tangled around my damp body reflect what took place once we got here.

It's Sawyer's arm on my chest, and he's beside me, lying on his stomach with his face turned away from mine. He's just as spent as I am after three rounds—or was it 4? I sort of lost track. There's only one thing I know for sure: I have never felt so free to say and do exactly what I wanted, needed. I have never come so hard, either, to the point where I was afraid something broke inside me. I just couldn't stop. It was almost too intense, even scary.

But I was in his arms. And I trusted him. I trust this man, finally.

Now, it's me I'm concerned with. It's me I can't trust.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away my worries. I am not going to ruin this moment by second guessing everything. Instead, I take a deep breath, savoring the lingering scent of Sawyer's cologne. It's all over me, on my skin and in my hair. I'm limp with exhaustion, but the best kind. The kind that makes me smile while my cheeks flush and my heart races.

Even though he's my client.

There I go again, and this time there's a pit in my stomach that begins to grow. This is the least professional thing I could have done, no matter how much I wanted it. No matter how good it feels to know I finally conquered Sawyer Cargill, that he apologized for everything he did and even opened himself up to me and explained why, that doesn't erase the fact that I broke the one cardinal rule of business. You don't sleep with a client, a partner, anybody you're doing business with.

My pleasure is fading, replaced by massive, crushing guilt much heavier than the tanned arm rising and falling with my every breath. How am I supposed to enjoy this when I can't stop berating myself for giving in? It doesn't matter how much I wanted it. I want a lot of things. And the fresh batteries I bought last week should have been enough to satisfy my constant craving for him.

No, a vibrator is no replacement for the man lying beside me, I know that for sure now. But it should have been enough. I should have made it enough.

Even if he feels like what's been missing from my life all this time. The missing piece of my puzzle. This isn't just a matter of afterglow screwing with my head. There's so much more to us than the sex alone, which is what makes the sex as good as it is. He gets me. I get him. Even when we’re at each other’s throats, there’s something undeniable that sprang up the second we set eyes on each other in his office.

And when I turn my head to look at him again, I find him smiling at me. He's drowsy, but there's no mistaking the satisfaction in his grin. My entire body shouldn’t go warm the way it does. My heart shouldn’t swell. Yet here I am.

“Hi.” His voice is still thick with sleep, but it’s warm. I might even say happy.

“Hi,” I whisper back as I begin stroking his forearm. “Good morning.”

“It's Monday.”

“I know.”

“I guess that means we should get up?”

I pretend to think about it, but there's no denying that getting out of this bed and going back to Manhattan is the last thing I want to do. “First, we should get a shower,” I reason, pretending to be serious. “Then, we should eat breakfast. I'm famished thanks to all the exertion you put me through.”

“Don't expect me to apologize.”

“I wouldn't.” I pause, grinning. “Then, I think we should go for Round Two. Or is it Round Five?”

His sly, knowing grin makes my stomach flip flop. “I've lost count, but that sounds like a good idea to me. I'll make coffee while you get in the shower. What do you want to eat?” He rolls away from me to pick up the phone on his side of the bed.

“I can eat just about anything. Eggs, pancakes, waffles—whatever you think the kitchen does best.” I would really rather he join me in the shower, but let's face it, we won't get very far without any food in our stomachs.

It's like all the contention that used to exist between us has turned to warmth, intimacy, and I can't help but sneak glimpses of him while we eat, both of us sitting cross legged in the bed, wearing plush robes provided by the hotel. They really did think of everything, and the luxury surrounding us only adds to the sense of existing in some special world that belongs only to the two of us.

He decided to go with a little bit of everything, and I’m glad of that when I polish off my half of a waffle paired with scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. “This is heaven. What’s the thread count on these sheets?”

His lips stir while he lifts his coffee cup. “I don’t have the first clue. You like them?”

“They’re the softest sheets I’ve ever slept on.”

“What about other activities?” Before I know it, he's setting our plates on the tray and placing it on the nightstand.

Then he lunges for me. “I just ate!” I squeal.

“We need to work off some of those calories.” He's already tugging at the belt of my robe, opening it, exploring me with hands, and lips, and tongue.

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