The Summer I Saved You (The Summer #2)(43)

“Oh, it’s you who’s been bullied?” I ask. “Are you sure? We’ll see what the press thinks.”

His mouth opens, ready to spout off another threat...and I stare him down. I will tell the whole fucking world who I am and thus, who you are. And we both know you don’t want that.

Two tense, silent seconds pass before my father looks away. “He’s not worth it,” he says to the group with him. “Let’s go.”

“If there’s any fallout from this,” I add to his back, “any fallout whatsoever, we’ll be providing our own very detailed account.”

He stiffens, then continues walking. It’s only when I turn to Caleb and see the frown on his face that I realize I’m shaking. I feel like I might pass out.

He places a firm hand on my hip. “I’m not attending the luncheon,” he tells Mark, guiding me away.

“Caleb, you’re getting an award,” Mark calls from behind us.

“They should have thought about that before they cancelled Lucie’s session,” Caleb replies, leading me to the elevator doors.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from the crowd,” he says. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

We squeeze into the crowded elevator, and I stare at our reflections in the gold-plated doors—Caleb, tall and handsome and certain; me in front of him, small and safe with my back to his chest, his hand resting gently on my hip to make sure no one bumps me.

Jeremy used to promise he’d do anything for me, but they were mere words—he never defended me once—while Caleb not only defended me today but put everything at risk to do it. If word gets out that he hit Robert Underwood, it could definitely mess up the merger.

He says he doesn’t want a commitment, that he doesn’t want the responsibility...but he behaves like a man who already has them. And the longer I stare at the two of us in the elevator doors, the less it matters to me that he refuses to be the prince in my fairy tale, that we want different things. Because this is already more than I’ve had with anyone else, more than I will ever have with anyone else.

The bell for the fourteenth floor pings and he leads me off, using his keycard to open a spacious suite. “I’m so sorry, Lucie,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about what happened at work. I am going to make Mark your supervisor because I’m clearly in way over my—”

I grab his lapels, go onto my toes, and press my lips to his.

He’s stiff, shocked, frozen.

It’s the world’s least romantic, most mortifying kiss. I let him go, an apology ready. “I’m—”

The next words die on my lips as his hands wrap around my waist.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “I always knew this dress would do me in.” And then he kisses me, hard. With intent. As if he’s waited a very, very long time to do exactly this. As if he’s waited most of his life, the way I have.

There is so much of him and not enough all at the same time. His tongue is in my mouth, his scruff rough on my skin, his erection digging into my stomach. More, more, more. My arms circle his neck, clinging for support, making sure he stays close. His tongue moves over my neck as his thumb slides over my rib cage, climbing higher. I gasp as the tip of his index finger brushes the underside of my breast.

“If you’re going to stop me,” he growls, “do it now.”

As if I could. There’s no version of me strong enough to tell Caleb to stop at this point. “I’m not.”

Beneath his palm, my nipple draws tight and he grunts low in his throat. “You’re sure?”

I reach for his belt. “Very.”

I always imagined this as some slow, romantic unfolding; our clothes removed one by one. Now I see how ridiculous that was. I don’t want to watch him slowly undress. I want to grab a pair of scissors and cut his clothes away to make them disappear faster. I want my bare skin glued to his, to have him so embedded in me we can’t be drawn apart.

I want it to happen as fast as we can possibly get there.

He pulls me to the bed. His weight presses me into the mattress. My dress is around my hips and I’m arching against him seeking friction, making him groan in my mouth as his hands slide beneath me to grab my ass. He lost the jacket and tie at some point and my fingers tug at the buttons of his oxford, unable to move fast enough.

He reaches to the neck and pulls it and the undershirt overhead, losing a button in the process and not appearing to care as he throws it behind him.

I place my hands on his chest and twenty years of past Lucies are just as amazed as the present one that this is happening. It’s even better than the past me fantasized about—his skin is smoother, his stomach harder, his nostrils flaring as if his self-restraint has already been pushed too far.

“I’ve thought about fucking you in this goddamn dress more times than I can count,” he growls, pushing it farther up my hips, looking me over like a feast he’s about to devour, “and now I just want it off.”

He undoes the zipper, his fingers trailing over my spine as he pulls the dress down past my hips and lower, tossing it behind him to join his shirt somewhere on the floor. His mouth covers the lace of my bra, sucking hard until it draws into a tight point, while his hand slips beneath my panties. “God, you’re so wet already.”