Please, I beg silently. Please fall into me.
But also: Please, don’t ever finish.
A familiar sharp groan tells me he’s about to come, but he pulls back, gasping “No,” stroking the madness between my legs, tapping me with his impossibly hard cock, and I’m on the very cusp, feel my orgasm climbing inevitably, rising like the moon—
I can’t help the sob that rips free and it’s a tide of emotion swelling, spilling everywhere. I’ve tipped over: whether or not he pushes fully into me I’m coming—just from the teasing strokes, the anticipation, my body has reached the breaking point. I welcome the hard clench of it, want it, want it so bad, and as Alec shifts forward, giving me just enough to set me off, he watches and his own restraint snaps. He shoves in deep, letting out a sharp cry of surrender as I fall. With him thrusting with everything he has, pleasure hits me like a train, spotting everything black at the edge of my vision.
* * *
I miss the moment he tumbles after me, but I hear the force of it in his heavy gasping some unknown handful of seconds later. Collapsing to the side, Alec pulls me into his chest, kissing my wet cheeks, my neck. “Gigi.” He stills, stroking my cheek again. “Are you crying?”
“Too wrecked,” I manage. “Can’t speak.” My arms feel like concrete when I try to lift them around his shoulders. I give up. “I can’t.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Give me a second and I’ll get us into the shower.”
“Just bring the shower here.” My voice comes from underwater. “Am I saying this out loud?”
He drags his hand up my stomach, between my breasts. I’m sweaty, or he is. Realistically, we both are. “You think you don’t like to be teased, but you come so hard when I make you wait.”
“That was mean.”
He laughs again and then wipes a hand over his face. “I almost passed out.”
“I think I did pass out.”
He kisses my chin. “Yeah, I think you did.”
Alec stands and disappears. I hear the water running in the tub, the splash of his hand in the water. Tendrils of steam seep into the bedroom, and he comes back, carefully sliding his arms under me, picking me up.
“I can walk,” I say without much conviction, and turn my face into his neck. “You’re going to make me love you, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t even falter, in step or breath. He says only, “I’m sure going to try.”
Seventeen
It’s either a miracle or a sixth sense that coaxes my eyes open just after two in the morning, because I would have assumed I’d be wrecked for at least forty-eight hours after what Alec did to me. But even though it’s pitch-black in the room, I’m suddenly wide awake.
Alec is curled around me, his cheek pressed against the back of my neck. Deep, steady breaths glide over my skin. When he leaves, I want to capture this feeling and wear it in a locket around my neck. But the thought doesn’t send me spiraling into sadness. I feel confident that we’ll try to make this work, and that we might even succeed.
A pulse of residual adrenaline kicks to life in my bloodstream when I remember that we can publish the story today. Without a doubt, no matter what else comes in my lifetime, the hunt of this story will remain one of the most satisfying of my career. But the deeper my feelings for Alec become, the more conflicted I am about remaining involved; I am as excited about getting it out into the world as I am about passing the entire thing over to Ian and Billy to handle from here on out. Journalism is a field plagued by the increasing assumption that morality is dead. In school, we are taught a very large number of things journalists shouldn’t do, but rarely are we told there are things we absolutely don’t do. Sleeping with Alec always fell in that deeply gray area.
That’s it, I think. I’ll finish this, hand it off, tell Billy about me and Alec today. I’ll be free. The conflict of interest is an ever-intensifying sour tang at the back of my throat.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it: I pull my work phone off the nightstand to peek. I’m not at all surprised to see that Billy has texted me just after 1:30 a.m. Did we get the OK to go ahead?
As soon as I read these words, it feels like a new shadow passes overhead, clearing my thoughts from the harsh glare of yesterday’s excitement. Alec probably has a text from his manager, Melissa, with the answer. I could wake him up and ask. We could hit publish on this in time to get it up for the morning social media rush.
But I’ve worked too hard on this; I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize this story, and our relationship does that. The last thing I want—the last thing any journalist wants—is to become the story that overshadows the real story. Taking Jupiter down is too important.