Page 83 of Tripped Up

She takes my hand, as natural as breathing, and I lead her to the elevator.

“I know we have different jobs, and our incomes aren’t the same,” I start as I hit the button for the penthouse. “When you’re ready, and I’m absolutely not rushing you, I’d love for you to live here. With me.”

Elsy gapes at me. “You want me to move in?”

“When you’re ready. I know you just moved into your apartment, so you probably have a lease. And we’re so new.” I squeeze her hand. “But that’s my goal. I’m okay if it doesn’t happen anytime soon.”

She cocks her head. “Wait. So you don’t want me to move in?”

“I want us to figure out a timeline that works for us, that doesn’t adhere to any arbitrary schedule.”

We reach the fifteenth floor, and I swipe my fob at the door.

“I just want to be with you. However you’ll let me.”

twenty-nine

Elsy

Wyatt’s condo is fucking gorgeous. He flips a switch, and warm, bright lights bathe the room. Everything is sleek chrome and marble with top-of-the-line finishes. The kitchen is beautiful, all black cabinets with a professional-grade range.

Dumbstruck, I follow him into the main living area. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto the Austin cityscape. A leather sectional sits in front of a massive TV and what looks like every gaming console known to man.

He sticks his hands in his pockets, nerves clear on his face. “So? What do you think?”

“Why are you slumming it in my tiny little apartment every night when you could be here?” I can’t stop staring.

He pulls me into him. “Because you’re there. I want to be wherever you are.”

Melting, I sway into him. He’s strong and steady, the familiar scent of his cologne doing funny things to my heart rate.

“Take me to your bed.” Winding my arms around his waist, I gaze up at him. “Show me how you love me.”

Before I can so much as blink, he scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder.

“Wyatt! You’re going to hurt yourself.” I try to wiggle free, but he sets his hand on my back, holding me steady.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice calm. “I won’t let you fall.”

He walks me through the apartment, kicking open a door. Then deposits me in a giant bed, nestling me among the world’s softest pillows.

At the foot of the bed, Wyatt strips off his suit jacket, then rolls his shirtsleeves up his forearms. I shiver, greedily drinking him in.

“You like this?” He taunts me by flexing, the veins in his forearms standing in stark relief.

And that’s not the only thing standing. His pants are tented over the thick length of his erection, drawing my attention. My mouth waters, remembering his addictive, salty taste, how powerful I feel when I bring him to his knees.

Can I do this? Am I ready for this?

He distracts me by reaching for me, pulling me toward the edge of the bed. He takes off my sneakers and socks, then runs his thumb up the arch of my tender foot. I wear heels when I have to for work, but most of the time, I’d rather be in my Keds.

Impatiently, I shove my leggings off my hips, and he helps pull my legs free from the stretchy fabric. I move to take off the jersey—his jersey—but his hand lands on mine.

“Leave it,” he says roughly.

He teased me earlier; it’s only fair I return the favor.

My eyebrows lift as I raise the hem a few inches. “Or what?”