Would I be a good fit? It’s a question I won’t ask, a door I can’t open—not when I’m with Stephen.

It’s as simple as that. But nothing is ever simple, not when it involves the two of us.

Him

She falls asleep on the couch, her bare feet stretched out on the rug, her beaded dress bunched and twisted. I carry her to the bed, and she wakes enough to undress, my hand careful as I help her with the zipper, my eyes looking away as she peels the evening gown away, the barest of peeks revealing her choices for the evening—our Haviar shelf bra and matching eyelet panties, both pale lavender. I pull back the duvet and she rolls underneath it.

“Goodnight, Kate.” I pull the blanket up and softly kiss her forehead. Moving toward the second bedroom, I stop in the doorway, looking back at her, dark hair spread over the pillowcase, arm limp over the top of the duvet.

Sometimes, I love her so much it hurts.

Chapter 15

Her

“Please focus," I laugh, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my eyes. "We're going to be here all night if you keep getting distracted."

"Just try on the white one." He pulls a bathing suit out of the box and holds it up with one hand, the other hand wrapping around his beer, the bottle lifted to his lips as he grins at me. "Then we can go back to your comparison charts.”

The box before him is an order from Fredrick’s of Hollywood, and contains their entire summer lineup. We have ridiculed their products while finishing off an entire platter of tacos and … I eye the empty bottles littering the conference table ... two six-packs of Mexican beer. He shakes the flimsy white fabric at me and I snatch it from him, holding the ridiculous ensemble up by the straps. Its first downfall is the color—the type of cheap white that will turn dingy by the second wash. The second downfall—and the sadder of the two—the style. It has a poufy neckline, one that matches the little skirt that hugs the hips of the suit. I turn the suit around and am dismayed to see a tail of sorts, the skirt continuing in a manner the fashion designer had probably pitched as “seductive.” It’s a disaster. I toss it at his face and he tilts his head away, the swimsuit catching on his beer and hanging there for a moment.

He laughs and pulls it off. "Come on, Kate. We've been working too hard. I need some comic relief."

I snort, and lean back in the seat, kicking my bare feet up on the closest empty chair. "Nope."

"Try it on, and I’ll let you have full control over the November catalog.”

That bit of negotiation lifts my head. "Seriously?"

"Swear to God." He sets down his beer and leans forward, reaching out and sliding the garment toward me. "Come on. Show a drunk man how the competition looks."

I stand. "Don't test me. I'll do it."

He lifts his eyebrows in a challenge, and that's all I need, snatching the bathing suit off the table and walking toward the bathroom. "The November catalog. Full control?"

"You gotta sell it,” he calls out. “Make me want to buy that thing!"

I don't bother looking in the mirror. I can feel the pooching of the material on my hips. My breasts are firmly supported by its stiff underwire, and the neckline is one that my Sunday school teacher would have approved of. I make sure that the tail of it isn't stuck somewhere it shouldn't be, then step out into the hall and head toward the conference room. Trey’s dress shoes are up on the table and he turns at my approach, the chair swiveling under his weight, his eyebrows lifting as he sets down a fresh beer. "Well?"

I set my hands on my hips. "What do you think? Super sexy?"

He stands. "Super sexy." He nods to the window. "Go check yourself out."

At night, the sky outside dark, I can easily see myself, the way the fabric bloats around my curves in the most unattractive way possible—as if the designer had set out with the sole focus of making a woman look horrible. "Oh God." I cup a hand over my mouth and giggle, the combination of beer and exhaustion making the image hilarious.

I watch in the reflection as he comes closer, stopping behind me, his finger trailing up the side of my arm, his head dropping as he examines the shoulder of the suit. "Is this polyester?"

"It's a blend, I think. The tag's there, on the back." I reach back for it, and he bats away my hand, his fingers confidently dipping underneath the edge of it, his neck tilting back as he reads the tag. "You're right. Twenty lycra, twenty cotton. Though I'd bet..." He turns me toward him and looks down at the suit, his forehead wrinkling, deep in thought. When his gaze flips up to me, there is a twinkle in it. "Do you trust me?"

"Hardly," I snort out a laugh. "But yeah. Go ahead."

I jump when his hands settle on my hips, his body bending forward, his eyes on mine, and it is almost as if he is going to kiss me. I go to step back, and his fingers tighten. "Easy, Kate." he whispers. "Close your eyes. This is purely for research, I swear."

I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. It’s one of those senseless responses to a man I would trust with my life. I inhale when I feel heat against my right nipple, and I open my eyes and look down to see his mouth on the outside of the suit, his lips against the cheap fabric, his eyes closed. He suckles the fabric, and my eyelids drop from the sheer pleasure of it. Has a man ever kissed that part of me like this? His grip on my waist gets tighter, and I exhale as his mouth lifts off me. "What are you—?” The question falls away when he lowers his mouth to the other side, and I am unable to look away as his tongue swirls around the bead of my nipple, hard against the thin fabric. He covers the entire area with his mouth, and I almost groan with the sensation.

We can't do this. Trey’s mouth on me, the bite of his fingers into my hips, my mind going crazy—pulled between lust and possibilities—he lifts away from me, and I struggle to open my eyes.

"Look at your reflection." There is a rough catch in his voice that is unfamiliar, and I look up into his face, unsure if I’ve ever heard it before. The heat in his eyes ... that I recognize, a look I always pretend to ignore, the connection between us that I always run from with a flippant comment, phone call, or eye roll. Now, I don’t run. I stand, my heart wild in my chest, my nipples crying for more attention, and meet his eyes.

"Kate, look." His hands move to my shoulders, and he turns me to the window, his chest against my back, our eyes meeting in the glass reflection. When his gaze drops, so does mine, my cheeks heating when I see the dark stain of my nipples, clear as day through the wet fabric. "If I was at a party," he whispers, “and you stepped out of the pool wearing this..." His hands slide down the outside of my arms. "You'd ruin every man there for life." He tugs on the back of the suit’s skirt, and the jerk of fabric pulls across my most sensitive places. "Even with a tail."

"Trey.” I can't think of a distraction, can't think of a way to stop this. His eyes flick up, catching mine in the reflection.

“Is the crotch lined? I’m curious if it—”

“It’s lined,” I interrupt him, my cheeks heating, the thought of him continuing the test in between my legs … my knees almost buckle at the thought. “I should change.” I want to grip the neck of his suit, just to keep myself upright. I want to rub the tips of my breasts against his suit, just to feel the friction. I need the friction. I almost lean into him, my hand reaching out, stopping myself just in time. I push gently on his suit and force myself to step back.

His eyes are on fire. I can feel the heat of his stare, it eats at my resolve and this is the closest we have ever been to breaking. “Be right back,” I whisper.

His hand wraps around my wrist, tying me to him. “Don’t stop for that pretty boy, Kate. He doesn’t—”

“Don’t.” I flick my gaze up to his and all but beg him with my eyes. “You’re drunk.”

He says nothing, his eyes on me, as steady as the day he showed me his father’s grave, as strong as when he gave me control of his company. Between our eyes, we fight and lose fifty wars. Then his lids fall over those dark eyes, and he carefully lets go of my wrist. “You’re right. I am drunk.” He turns away from me, ambling by the table and snagging his keys off the polished wood. “See you tomorrow, Kate,” he calls, an exaggerated slur in his words. “I’m out for the night.”