Page 123 of Bridesmaid By Chance
Stacey: Night.
Ugh. What good is having a twin if you can’t tell them about your orgasms? I grab my coffee from the half wall I set it on and then start toward the elevators only to stop when I see Hudson waiting by them, arms crossed, waiting for me.
Dear God in heaven.
Is it possible to have an orgasm just from the sight of someone?
Wearing a pair of expertly ironed black dress pants and a matching button-up shirt, he looks dark and dangerous, like a CIA operative ready to take down anyone who comes in his path.
Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, I walk up to him and say, “What are you doing down here?”
“Looking for you,” he says as he presses his hand to the nape of my neck and guides me toward an open elevator.
“Oh?”
When the doors shut, he closes in on me, pressing me against the wall.
“Was there anything in particular you were looking to talk about? Anything that you felt needed to be discussed?”
“I don’t like it when you leave and don’t tell me where you’re going.”
“Ah, I see, the whole possessive thing is still carrying over from last night, and I guess…the day before that and the day before that.” I hold up my coffee cup between us. “Just getting some coffee. Not running away or being taken.”
“I could have had them bring the coffee up to you. That’s why we have a staff for our every need.” His hand strokes my cheek, and it’s such an intimate touch that I nearly melt right here in the elevator.
“I wanted to give my legs some time to loosen up. Cramping is never a good thing.”
The elevator dings and we step off it and into our room, which he opens with his key card. When we’re inside, he asks, “Who were you texting? Is that why you went downstairs? You wanted privacy away from me?”
“No,” I say with a shake of my head.
“Then who were you texting?”
“That’s, uh…that’s private information.”
His brows narrow as he moves in closer to me. “Sloane, who the hell were you texting?”
I take a step back. “If you think it’s Devin, then you are mistaken.”
“Then who was it?”
“Do you really not trust me?”
“I don’t trust him,” he says, closing the space between us again.
I press my hand against his chest. “You don’t have to trust him, but you can trust me and the fact that I know who my husband is.”
His jaw ticks as he thinks about it. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask, surprised he’s dropping it like that.
“Okay,” he answers as he takes a seat on the couch. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He blows out a heavy breath, and I can see just how complicated his thoughts are by the way his brows bounce around, ranging from concern to passiveness, to a more relaxed state. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man war with himself as much as Hudson does.
I sit next to him and curl my legs under me. “It was my sister. I was texting her.”
“Why did you need privacy for that?” he asks, his hand landing on my thigh.
“Because I was telling her how huge your dick is and how I got to dry hump it last night, and it felt amazing. And if it felt that amazing with clothes on, I can only imagine what it would be like with clothes off, you know, stuff like that.”
