Chapter 22
Alyse
“What the fuck, Asher!” I scream, scrambling to sit up. I pull my ear buds out and climb to my feet, but my legs are wobbly, both from my recent orgasm and the anger now coursing wildly through my bloodstream. “How the hell did you get in here?”
A slow smile eats his face. He proudly holds up something gold and shiny between two deft fingers, waving it idly back and forth. “Extra key.”
I am completely mortified at the thought that he just sat there and watched me masturbate. And the fact that I practically yelled his name?
Oh.
My.
God.
How dare he.
“Get out.” I stab my finger toward the door. I wish to hell I was wearing something that covered more. I’m also wishing I hadn’t played Enigma on my Pandora app, which caused me to get so goddamn worked up I had no choice but to relieve the building pressure or I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Asher has gotten my body so attuned to sex every damn day that, even through my hurt and anger, all I can think of is how much I miss the press of his perfectly honed, masculine body against mine.
“No.”
“No?”
“That would be correct.”
Like a petulant child, I huff angrily and make my way to my bedroom, trying to slam and lock the door, but a well-placed foot thwarts that idea. I sigh and keep heading toward the bathroom, so I can at least grab a robe to cover up. But he’s on my heels and grabs it out of my hand as I go to put it on.
“Asher, stop. Just leave. Please.” The last word comes out soft and weak. I’m a little buzzed, emotionally drained, and I’m just not up for a verbal sparring match tonight.
After he crushed me with his three little words, I couldn’t concentrate. I tried to work, but finally gave up at four and left for the day. For about half a second, I briefly considered calling Al and swapping jobs with him, but I’m no quitter. I took this job, I committed to it, and no matter what happens with Asher and me personally, I will not shirk my professional responsibilities. I can’t do that to myself, my employees, or my business.
So I came home, took a bath, had a bottle of wine, and shed just a few tears. My anger has mostly dissipated, but the hurt lingers. Words are powerful. Too easily thrown around. I have to believe that Asher didn’t really mean them, but it doesn’t remove the sting they left behind either.
Playing his dominance card, he frames my face in his hands. “When I saw his hands on you, I lost my mind. I do trust you. I’m so sorry, Alyse.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just okay?”
I shrug. “What do you want me to say, Asher?”
“Yell, scream, hit me. Do whatever you need to do. I deserve it. I was an ass. I overreacted. I’m so sorry. But I want you to tell me you forgive me.”
“All right. I forgive you,” I tell him, my voice monotone. And I do. Mostly.
He drops his hands and takes a step back, staring at me for an eternity. Then he does something unexpected. He walks to the shower and turns it on. When he draws his shirt over his head, my mouth waters against my will.
Asher has just a smattering of dark hair over his toned pecs. His abs are so damn cut, you could hold water in the grooves for later consumption. And the “V” that disappears under the waistband of his jeans? Jesus H. Don’t even get me started.
“What—what are you doing?”
“I need a shower,” he replies, shoving his unbuckled jeans down his trim hips. Roped muscles ripple enticingly with every movement, making my sex throb in anticipation. His grey boxer briefs, which frame his fine package perfectly, quickly follow. Christ, he’s so thick and long and hard I have to lock my knees to stop from dropping and sucking him until he’s mindless with pleasure.
I’m trying hard to remember why I was mad.
“Uh, you have a shower in your apartment,” I manage to say, after I peel the tongue from the roof of my mouth.
“But you’re here.”
“Asher—” He sets a finger to my lips, silencing me. He quietly strips me of my skimpy clothes and leads me under the hot spray, remorseful eyes never leaving mine.
I let him.
Against my better judgment, I let him wet and shampoo my hair, while I close my eyes and silently relish his gentle touch.
I let him tenderly wash my body, even though this is the third time I’ve been cleaned today and my skin will be as dry as the Sahara.
I let him trail his lips over every part of me while his sincerely and earnestly mumbled sorrys sink through my skin and into my battered soul, healing the tiny wounds he inflicted earlier.
And then I beg him to take me as he slowly slips into my impossibly wet sex and spends long, languid minutes making sweet love to me against the cool glass wall, solidifying our connection once again.
As he usually does when he’s inside me, his eyes lock with mine. I’ve never known anyone who likes eye contact more than Asher. It’s like he needs that connection so he can bore past my defenses, which are at their weakest when he’s taking everything I physically have to give.
We are so attuned to each other already, words aren’t necessary.
I feel his sincerity.
I feel his relief.
I feel his love.
And when we drop into bed, sated and happy, I curl my naked form around his and feel the day melt away like it never happened.
Only it did. And I may no longer be angry, but I still need to know why.