Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend
: Chapter 32

I woke up shirtless, with chapped lips, and alone in bed.

Rubbing my forehead, I pushed back the mess my hair had become and peered around the room. It was also empty. My stomach dropped and I squeezed my eyes shut, frustrated with myself for being disappointed. See? This was why I shouldn’t allow myself to believe the fantasy of last night or assume that everything would be wonderful this morning. I should’ve asked if he was okay. I knew Byron left when he felt overwhelmed and I—

“You’re up.”

My eyes flew open and my head whipped toward the sound of his voice. Every muscle in my body tensed at the glorious sight of him smiling softly, standing just inside the room, hands in his pockets, dressed for the day in a black suit, white shirt, and blue tie, and not looking overwhelmed. He looked. . . happy.

The threatening disappointment made a U-turn, leaving me with stars in my eyes and a sweet, hopeful kind of joy making everything feel and seem brighter and better.

And scarier.

Choking around the odd mixture of hope and terror, I tried to form the words to greet him.

He stopped me with a raised finger. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” Byron disappeared through the door.

Clutching the sheet to my chest, I sat upright. A second later, before I could even begin to wonder where he’d gone, he returned, holding a tray of food.

“What’s this?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep.

“Your breakfast.” Leaning over me, he set it down on the bed and captured my mouth for a quick kiss. And then another, and another.

I didn’t miss how his hand covered my shoulder and then caressed down my arm. His thumb hooked into the sheet I held loosely to my chest and tugged it down. Smoothly lowering himself to his knees beside the bed, he trailed kisses from my jaw to my neck to my chest, his hand now sliding around my torso as he revealed my breasts.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he said around a groan and closed his hot, wet mouth over one of my nipples, making me instantly hot and wet.

“So are—oh God—” My lungs were on fire. I glanced down to watch his tongue sweep out and circle the center of my breast, loving my skin. The fingers of one hand flexed and massaged my back while the other continued pushing down the sheet, revealing the rest of my body, and quite suddenly all my thoughts of terror simply evaporated.

Without speaking, or asking, or checking in, or requesting a status update, Byron cupped me over my underwear, the firm pressure of his hand a wonderful, terrible torture. Flopping back to the mattress, I stretched my too tight muscles and angled my hips. Grabbing his hand, I guided his long fingers inside my underwear, my skin shivery as I felt him smile against my breast.

He lifted his head to look at me, at my neck and arms, chest and stomach, thighs and calves, his irises growing impossibly dark as he watched his hand, hidden by my underwear, move inside me. My breasts bounced with my labored breaths and his gaze seemed riveted by my skin.

“I had a dream like this once,” he mumbled, sounding distracted, his eyebrows pulling together thoughtfully. “Except you were tied to the bed.”

A laugh burst out of me, a sheen of sweat misting my skin. I let go of his wrist and lifted my hands over my head, gripping the headboard mounted to the wall. “Like this?” I asked breathlessly, his fingers between my legs driving all reason from my mind.

“Exactly like that.” His gaze, hooded and interested, looked approving. “And after, you tie me up.”

I moaned at the image flashing behind my eyes and shut them, fighting the crisis, wanting to prolong the moment.

“You are so good at this.” The words spilled out of me. “I—I’ve never—” I bit my lip to keep from admitting he was the first guy who’d ever made me orgasm. I’d been told—though I’d doubted—a man could bring a woman to such an intense peak with just his fingers.

Byron bent to my ear, his hot breath fanning against my neck, and whispered, “You’ve never what?”

I shook my head instead of answering. I didn’t want him to know how inexperienced I was, not when he was clearly so freaking capable in the bedroom department.

“What have you never done, Winnie?” he said, his voice deep and masterful and coaxing. “Tell me so I can do it to you.”

“Oh. Fuck,” I said through gritted teeth, my back arching reflexively as I came, my center spasming and clenching his finger as wave after wave pierced me, my hands gripping the headboard, a single anchor in the tempest of this disorienting half pleasure, half pain.

Eventually, his strokes slowed to teasing, his tongue and teeth catching my earlobe, making me shiver and shake. As reality sharpened around me, I struggled to catch my breath and to comprehend the last few moments. Byron walking into a hotel bedroom with breakfast on a tray, removing the sheet covering me, and bringing me to orgasm with his fingers while licking and kissing my bare skin were now things he just simply did. This was apparently how things would be between us for the foreseeable future.

The pragmatic part of my brain told me to enjoy it while it lasted, and the anxious part of my brain grabbed me in a choke hold and demanded I not say or do anything to mess it up.

“I love your body. I love how sexy you are,” he said, sounding a little grumpy. I understood why when he added, “I also hate it.”

I laughed with amusement, but also as a way to dissipate a sense of lingering vulnerability. Pushing my fingers into his hair as he drifted lower to place more kisses on my bare body, I struggled to find comfort in my own skin and in this moment. “Why do you hate it?”

“You’re distracting. And you wear too many clothes.”

I laughed again, more genuine this time, dispelling some of the nervousness gathering in my stomach. I could relate to his frustrations. I felt the same way about him, and—now that my brain had caught up—it was quite nice to hear him say that he loved my body and thought I was sexy.

His kisses on my chest and stomach felt amazing, but a lingering twinge of vulnerability made me want to pull him closer. I needed him pressed against me, holding me. I thought about asking for what I wanted, but he was in a suit, his shirt perfectly ironed, his tie perfectly straight. I didn’t want to mess him up.

But he said I should tell him what I want . . .

“What?” he asked, interrupting my debate.

I blinked, bringing him back into focus. He was still kneeling next to me beside the bed, hovering above me now, one hand between my back and the mattress, the other tracing my bare skin with his fingertips.

“You look fancy,” I said, touching his tie. “And handsome in this suit.”

“I know. That’s why I wore it.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing in earnest. I loved that he never—or hardly ever—said thank you, but instead accepted compliments by agreeing with them.

“You have someone to impress today?” I lightly tugged on the bottom of the tie, delighted to find he hadn’t secured it with a tie clip.

He gave me a quizzical look. “You’re the only person I ever want to impress. Are you impressed?”

“I am.” I slid my hand back up the tie and wrapped my fingers around it just below the knot, careful not to crush the blue silk. “You always impress me.”

He grinned, his hand veering to my naked thigh, his palm smoothing over my knee. “I plan to keep impressing you, just so you know.”

“Oh? For how long?”

“Forever,” he said solemnly but with a smile, moving his hand to my opposite leg, sliding it upward to my hip and then pulling me toward him so I lay on my side. “But first, you need to eat.” His fingers slipped inside my underwear again, but this time from the back, palming my bottom as he added dryly, “You need energy for the gauntlet.”

Releasing his tie, I lifted an eyebrow. “Gauntlet?”

“The interviews,” he said flatly. “They start in an hour.”

“Ah . . .” I nodded, giving him a commiserating smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be your buffer.”

“I’m not worried.” Giving my butt a rough squeeze, he closed his eyes and seemed to be gritting his teeth. “But I have to let you get dressed and stop touching you, otherwise we’ll never leave this room.” I got the sense he was talking to himself, issuing orders he didn’t particularly like, but which made me grin like a maniac.

Byron released me then. He stood and stepped away. Eyes still closed, he tested the knot of his tie.

I smiled at his reluctance to let me go, feeling giddy and joyful again, his words and actions soothing my post orgasm apprehension. I also felt loose and relaxed, my body humming after his attentions, and my eyes reflexively dropped to the front of his pants.

Yikes.

“Do you want me to—”

“Yes. And no,” he said tightly, walking away and to the bathroom door. A moment later, he called from within, “Can I take a rain check?”

I laughed at the strangled quality to his question and sat up, calling back, “Absolutely. Anytime.”

Byron popped his head back in the room, his eyes dancing, a happy smile on his face. “Glad to hear it.” He lifted his chin toward the tray of food. “Eat if you’re hungry. And don’t worry, I know the chef and saw the kitchen. It’s safe.”

The interviews took place in another hotel suite, only this one was massive. The sitting area was easily three times the size of Byron’s entire suite, accommodating studio lights and cameras, two big couches, four chairs, a buffet table where drinks and food had been placed, and a dining table that sat twelve. The windows overlooked Central Park, just like our suite, but since the room was so large, it also had three times the view.

But as soon as Byron entered, two people broke away from the crowd of people milling about and pulled the drapes, covering the view and blocking the room from sunlight. This seemed counterintuitive to me. Wouldn’t the cameras need the extra light?

Byron introduced me to his manager, agent, and the team responsible for editing and marketing his books at the publisher, distracting me from the newly concealed view. I made chitchat with them while he held my hand. Once again, similar to our dinner with Amelia and Elijah, he seemed content to listen and only speak when asked direct questions.

The first of the interviewers arrived right on time and quickly introduced herself to everyone gathered, taking her seat across from Byron without offering to shake hands, and then got right down to business without making any overtures or pleasantries. I was surprised by this. Based on my research, Jes Ekker was somewhat famous for developing a rapport with celebrities before launching into questions. She was one of the few I was looking forward to meeting as she had the ability to turn profile interviews into dynamic stories rather than just puff pieces. Ms. Ekker also seemed to be avoiding eye contact with Byron.

When she asked Byron her fourth question as though reading from a script, I leaned over to Byron’s manager and whispered, “Does she not like Byron?”

She glanced at me, looking confused, and whispered back, “What do you mean?”

“It’s just, this lady usually jokes around first, right? But she didn’t even offer to shake Byron’s hand or ask how he was.”

“Oh.” Byron’s manager nodded in understanding. “It’s all in Mr. Visser’s rider. No chitchat, no conversation, only preapproved questions.”

“I see.” I rocked back on my heels, returning my attention to the scene before me, studying Ms. Ekker’s posture. She seemed . . . bored, just as anxious to get this interview over with as Byron was, and that felt like a real shame, a loss of an opportunity for two talented people to form a connection and help each other.

Disheartened, but not sure what to do about it, I hovered at the edge of the room with the rest of the spectators and listened to the efficient, tedious interview until it reached its conclusion, at which point Ms. Ekker stood, said her polite thanks, and left.

The next interviewer was already waiting in the wings and the morning progressed in much the same fashion: dull exchanges; unimaginative questions; pragmatic, unsurprising answers. The longer I stood and listened the more dissatisfied I became with this lifeless version of Byron and the uninspiring interviews. It was all process, about as interesting and surprising as watching a wheel rotate on an axel over and over.

Tuning out, my mind drifted, debating this present situation and how at odds it seemed to be with Byron’s request that he not be coddled. Every detail—from how they’d covered the view and blocked the sunlight to the list of preapproved questions—seemed to be specifically tailored to coddle him.

But there was a difference. He didn’t know these interviewers. He worked well with his manager, agent, and the publishing team, but he didn’t consider them close friends. They were colleagues, placed in their defined boxes and expectations of behavior. This wasn’t a safe space for him.

But I was a safe place and person for him. Amelia was. He obviously didn’t trust easily, but he trusted us. And maybe that was why he didn’t want or need me to coddle him.

And you know what? I could relate to his perspective, though I—and I suspected, most people—approached the world so much differently.

Byron spelled out and enforced external boundaries to protect himself from untrustworthy people. This, his honesty, made most people uncomfortable around him, call him strange and eccentric; I’d witnessed this peculiarity firsthand and I’d done it myself, labeling his honesty as rudeness.

While I—and most people—approached the world with internal caution but with a mask of outward openness. Like Byron, we assumed most other people were untrustworthy, but our walls were inside our heads and around our hearts, not communicated openly for the world to see.

We all had just as many boundaries as Byron, but ours were internal. We didn’t share them as he did, we pretended they didn’t exist. The walls we built and the stipulations we clung to were hidden, and we expected other people to . . . read our minds?

I smirked at the thought, giving my head a little shake. Byron was honest and up-front with every person he encountered, and this made him eccentric. Whereas most people expected the world to read their minds, and that was perfectly normal. How ironic.

A gasp from Byron’s manager cut through my reflections. I glanced at her and her stunned profile.

A second later, she charged forward. “Okay. This interview is over.”

Byron’s hands seemed to lay relaxed on his lap, but his eyes shot daggers at the man across from him on the other couch. He stared at Byron, affecting an innocent look, like he couldn’t imagine what he’d done wrong. Unlike the other interviewers, he sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, almost crowding Byron’s space.

“I thought we were allowed to ask about Dr. Visser.” The interviewer glanced between Byron and Byron’s manager. “No one told me his mother was off-limits.”

“You didn’t submit any questions related to Mr. Visser’s mother. Any non-approved questions are off-limits, Harry. You know this.”

Byron’s eyes darted to mine, then fell away to his hands. He studied his fingertips as his manager and the interviewer named Harry debated about journalistic integrity and “entitled, spoiled creatives.”

“All I asked is if Mr. Visser deleted all his social media accounts due to his mother’s callous comments. That’s it. It’s a simple yes or no question. I’m on his side here.”

Byron’s manager lifted her hand and waved toward the publishing team I’d met earlier. “If you can’t stick to the script, you leave.”

“That video of her calling you a mistake, saying she didn’t have a son. What went through your mind when she said that?” Harry was relentless, leaning around Byron’s manager to keep questioning him. “Do you think she still feels that way now that you’re so successful? Is the character of Subrah based on you? Has your mother read your—”

“Enough. Enough.” The publishing team was there, tugging at Harry’s jacket and placing insistent hands on his shoulders, and they pushed him out of the room.

All the while, Byron sat stone faced, still as a statue, eyes on his hands. I was already halfway to him before I realized I’d moved, and when I reached him, I impulsively sat on his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.

I’d never heard any of that about Byron’s mother. If it was true, I couldn’t imagine what he must be feeling right now.

Even if he wasn’t Byron, even if he wasn’t a reclusive, taciturn, lovable grumpy pants, even if he was a random person on the street, those words would hurt deeply.

“Are you—” I cut myself off from asking if he was okay. Based on our discussions last night, I wasn’t sure he wanted me asking him that.

“I will be okay. It’s fine for you to ask,” he mumbled quietly, the words monotone. He placed a kiss on my neck, holding me tight. “Thank you. I need . . .” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I waited for him to finish the thought. When he didn’t, I prompted, “What do you need?”

“You.”

My heart pinged, liking his response entirely too much. I leaned away as far as I could while he still held my waist. “You have me,” I whispered to him even as that persistent, disobedient voice in my head screamed, LIAR!

Taking advantage of the scant distance I’d created, he turned his face and pressed it against my breasts, like he wanted to suffocate in their softness. “Thank God,” came his muffled response.

I laughed, feeling my cheeks redden and trailing my fingers through his hair. He snuggled closer, turning his cheek to lay against my bosom.

“You feel like what I imagine bliss would if I could manifest the word as a tangible, touchable thing.”

The cage around my heart cracked, the feeling stealing the air from my lungs, and I rested my chin on the top of his head while working to breathe past it. Cupping the side of his jaw not snuggled against my body, I held him while he listened to my heart. We sat in near silence for several moments—I sensed he needed the quiet, and honestly so did I—while my mind drifted again, this time to the statements made and the questions posed by the last interviewer.

Biting my lip to keep from asking about his mother—it was clear he didn’t wish to discuss her, otherwise Harry would still be sitting on the other couch—I debated whether or when to raise the issue. Had she really said Byron wasn’t her son? Had actually called him a mistake?

I think I hated her. No, Win. You can’t hate someone you’ve never met.

In this case, I decided to make an exception.

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