Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton Page 0,35
covered him, rocking against him as the waves tightened and came faster. His body was all lean muscle and soft skin, warm and musky-scented from sleep. My fingers interlaced with his, up near his shoulders, giving me leverage to push.
Our interlocked hands felt like such an intimate hold—his fingers intertwined with mine, palms joined. It felt more intimate than his cock thrusting alongside mine. I stared down into those clear brown eyes and studied the way his breath caught in tiny, almost inaudible sobs, the way his lower lip trembled, the way his gaze held mine. When his tongue darted out to lick his lips, I had to taste it. And, tasting it, I came. I held him as he shook and moaned.
I’d just gotten my breath back when he sat up. His naked back was tan and smooth. Not a mark on him. I ghosted my hand over the perfect skin.
“Okay, now I really need to get to work,” he said. “Need to mow today.”
“Mowing can wait.”
He gave me a dirty look.
I raised my hands in surrender. “Because I have something else I need your help with.”
“What’s that?”
“Something I’ve been putting off for ages. There are a bunch of boxes in the attic. My dad stored things here when we bought the place. And then after my accident, Emmanuel—he’s a family friend—he packed up my condo in Santa Monica and moved everything here for me. Most of it got stuck up there too.”
“You want to clean out the attic?” Billy said, his eyes lighting up. “Is it all creepy with a low ceiling and spider webs and old trunks and stuff? Tell me there’s a least one mannequin!”
I snorted. “It’s just a regular old attic full of cardboard boxes, I’m afraid.”
His expression fell, but then lit up again. “But old photos of you? I’m game. You’d better have some embarrassing ones in there.”
It struck me that this probably wasn’t the best idea. Emmanuel’s warnings rang in my head. The less Billy knew, the less he could spread, even innocently. But he had signed the NDA. And an old photo or two wouldn’t tell him much.
I suddenly felt sad that I couldn’t tell Billy everything. Could I?
“Can we do it now?” he prompted eagerly, when I didn’t immediately move.
I laughed. “You know, if you could bottle that can-do attitude, you’d make a fortune. I can’t believe all the things you’ve done around here.”
He shrugged. “I’m restless by nature. I like to be doing things. And learning how to fix things is fun. It’s kind of like a puzzle, you know?”
In answer, I gave him a kiss.
We ate a quick breakfast downstairs—toast and eggs. Billy kept looking around, and I realized it was the first time he’d been inside. Well, other than in my bedroom last night. It was strange for him to be there, in my kitchen, sitting at the table with me, instead of out in the garden, where I would no doubt be watching him. It was a big shift in my life. A welcome one.
I sipped my coffee and tried not to stare at him. I waited for panic to set in. But it didn’t. I only had to look up into those clear brown eyes, so open and intelligent and warm, to feel an ache in my chest that was getting more and more insistent.
Yes. I liked having Billy at my kitchen table. I smiled at him. He winked back.
The attic ran half the length of the house and felt vast. It had a ceiling high enough to stand under, and the side walls were open, showing pink insulation. The wooden floor was old, with the occasional board that threatened to buckle under your foot.
“Be careful,” I told Billy as he moved straight for the wall of boxes.
“If this floor can hold these boxes, and you, it can hold me.” He coughed. The air was gritty and stale. I hurried to open the windows on the far wall to let in some fresh air.
“If it’s too dusty up here—” I began.
He gave me a challenging look, flipped out a knife like he was in West Side Story, and slit open the nearest box with a flourish.
We spent hours cutting open boxes. I’d look over the contents briefly and then direct Billy to put the box in a designated stack. Box upon box contained clothing, shoes, and coats. The excess of expensive designer wear, things only suited to clubbing or other pursuits I’d never indulge in again,