Page 19 of Beg For Me (Morally Gray #3)

SOPHIA

C arter tosses me down onto the bed and climbs on all fours on top of me. Staring down at me, he grins.

“You didn’t even try to win.”

“I did!”

“I’ve never seen someone move that slowly who wasn’t ninety years old.”

“Maybe I have bad knees, you ever think of that?”

His grin grows wider. “You don’t have bad knees, beautiful woman, but you are a bad liar.”

Reaching up to slide my fingers into his hair, I whisper, “I don’t surrender. You should kiss me now.”

“You say that like you actually think you’re the one in charge.”

“And you say that like we both don’t already know you’d do anything I asked you to.”

His grin slowly fades. He stares down at me in unwavering intensity, swallowing hard. “I would. So please be careful with me.”

My heart swells with tenderness. He’s so sweet like this, when he’s not being king of Earth. His vulnerability never fails to move me.

“I’ll be careful with you, sweet boy. I promise. Will you promise me something too?”

“Yes. Anything. You know I will.”

I cradle his face for a moment, burning his earnest expression into my mind’s eye, then slide my hands down to his chest. “Honesty. I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth between us, no matter what.”

“That almost sounded like you’re thinking about our future. Like maybe you want to have a future with me.”

His voice is tentative. Unsure. I dodge the intrusive memory of Val telling me about her hairdresser, how Carter broke it off with her when she said she wanted to be exclusive, and let my smile be my answer instead.

Then I push him onto his back and straddle him.

His eyes flare with excitement. He grips my hips in his big hands and gazes up at me with parted lips, his breathing shallow.

Something about his ardent expression makes me feel liberated. Confident in my body and my femininity. He’s looking at me as if I’m his favorite gift. Meanwhile, I’m barefaced in ratty sweats and a ponytail. Nick would’ve turned his nose up at me if he could see me now.

Leisurely moving my hands down his chest, I tease, “Mr. McCord, is that your wallet poking me again? You really should find a better spot to store it.”

His chuckle is throaty. “Oh, I know of a much better spot to store it.”

“I bet you do.”

I pull my sweatshirt over my head and drop it on the bed next to us. I’m not wearing anything underneath. He sucks in a breath, then slowly exhales, devouring me with his eyes.

“When you told me to put on these sweats, you neglected to mention anything about underwear, so I assumed you meant you’d like me to not wear any.”

“That was a good assumption. Jesus. Your breasts are perfect.”

“Thank you. Why aren’t you touching them?”

“You didn’t give me permission yet.”

I take his hands and guide them up my hips to my waist, then up my ribcage to my bare breasts. He cups them, engulfing them in his hands, feeling their weight, then rubs his thumbs back and forth over my hardening nipples.

Between us, his erection is trapped and throbbing. I flex my hips, and he emits a soft moan.

When I lean down, he takes my mouth in a rough, possessive kiss, then flips me onto my back again.

I wrap my legs around his waist. “Do you want to be in charge? Or would you like to see what I had in mind instead?”

“Yes. Both. All of it.”

“Choose.”

Braced on either side of my head, his arms tremble. His breath has grown ragged. His eyes are wild.

He swallows, then whispers, “You choose for me.”

“Good answer. Roll over.”

He flops onto his back. I brace myself up on one elbow, looking down at him and smiling. Resting my hand over the center of his chest, I take a moment to feel his pounding heartbeat, then I slowly trail my hand down his belly.

Belly is the wrong word. It suggests softness, but there isn’t any. His abs are hard as a rock, as is his dick, which I gently squeeze through his jeans.

“Wait.” He grabs my wrist. “Wait, I—I have to tell you something.”

For some reason, he’s suddenly tense. Confused, I furrow my brow. “Now?”

“Yes.”

He sits up and stares at his legs. I sit up, too, wondering what’s happening.

“Are you okay?”

“You said you wanted honesty. The truth.”

His voice is low. I wait, watching him struggle to find words.

“I don’t want to do this without being truthful about something that you might…you might be angry about.”

He’s still gazing down at his legs, avoiding my eyes. Meanwhile, I’m starting to feel ridiculous sitting here with my breasts exposed.

I reach for my sweatshirt, but he grasps my wrist and stops me. He blurts, “I moved into this neighborhood so I could be closer to you. So I could meet you accidentally, only it wouldn’t be an accident.”

Surprised, I sit with that for a moment.

Am I horrified by his admission? No. Am I afraid he’s an obsessed crazy person who’ll eventually murder me? Also no. I’m not turned off or disgusted either. But I am aware that it’s deeply strange.

“I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

Miserable, he turns and looks at me. “It’s fucked up. I know. I’m sorry. I told my brother I was dying to meet you, and he said I should stop being such a pussy and buy the house next door.”

That makes me laugh. “Nobody in your family believes in making a simple phone call, do they?”

“Callum always gets what he wants. He just takes it. So I thought maybe I’d try to take the initiative. I thought if we met organically, like at the coffee shop like we did, it would be better than if I randomly knocked on your front door one day and asked you out.”

“Yes, I agree it would have been better, except for the part about how you orchestrated it.”

He covers his face with his hands and groans. “I’m so sorry. It sounds so bad out loud. I’m an asshole.”

I watch him for a moment, taking an inventory of my emotions. When I discover I’m more intrigued than disturbed, I lie back and say, “Hey.”

He turns and looks down at me. I hold out my arms.

“Come here.”

He falls on top of me, wraps me in his arms, and presses his cheek against my breasts.

Threading my fingers through his hair, I murmur, “Are you hiding?”

“Yes.”

“We need to talk about this.”

“I know. Can we do it while I’m hiding?”

“Do you promise to tell me the truth?”

“Absolutely. I swear on my mother’s life.”

“Then we can do it while you’re hiding.”

He snuggles closer to me and heaves out a breath. Gazing up at the ceiling, I gently stroke his hair and his back until some of the tension leaves his body.

“First, thank you for telling me. I know it would have been easier not to.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“Would you have your face pressed on my naked boobs if I did?”

“I don’t know. Maybe this is the calm before the storm. Or maybe you’re planning on torturing me by giving me this amazing memory, then throwing me out on my ass.”

“Interesting idea, but I’m not that vindictive.”

He exhales slowly, squeezing me tight. “I’m sorry.”

“I believe you. But I’d like to hear all the ugly details, please. How long ago did you move to Santa Monica?”

“Last month.”

That aligns with what he told me at the coffee shop. “From?”

“Malibu.”

“Do you still have a home there?”

“No. I hated it there. Everybody lives behind gates. Rich people are so fucking paranoid.” His voice hardens. “It’s not like a gate can keep someone determined enough out, anyway.”

There’s an obvious history in that comment. I wonder who or what got inside his gates, but leave that for another time.

“So you bought a house north of Montana. That’s not exactly right next door.”

“I didn’t want it to be creepy.”

I stifle a laugh at his indignant tone. “And then what? You just randomly started visiting grocery stores and coffee shops, hoping you’d bump into me one day?”

“Basically, yeah. And gyms.”

I recall the day I met him on the treadmill and freeze. “Was that boy in the wheelchair a setup? Did you do that to impress me?”

“No!” He lifts his head and stares at me, his expression fraught. “I swear, that just happened. I was trying to charm the pants off you, but I felt bad for the kid, so I went over. You left before I could come back.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “Okay.”

He rests his head on my chest again. After a short pause, he says quietly, “How are you so calm about this? I mean, I’m glad, but I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again.”

“I don’t really know. What made you confess?”

“You said you wanted honesty, no matter what.”

“I guess I’m lucky I said it early on. Isn’t that a given?”

“I’ve never had a woman ask me for that before.”

“What kind of women are you dating that don’t value honesty?”

“The kind that only value money.”

The sadness in his voice stirs a protective instinct in me. I quash it when I remember Val’s hairdresser. It sounded like she wanted a relationship, not his wallet.

I’m getting that second hand, however. There’s no way to know what really goes on between two people, even when one of them is telling their side.

“What else do I need to know about this? And think about it before you answer, because if I find out later on that you’ve been secretly recording me going to the toilet, I’ll kill you.”

He sounds indignant again. “I’m not a pervert.”

“No, you’re just a stalker.”

“It’s not technically stalking, though, is it?”

When I don’t reply, he says sheepishly, “Okay, it probably is.”

“I don’t know what to call it, but don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I swear.” After a short pause, he adds, “Would it make you feel better if I cut off my pinkie finger to show loyalty and make amends like they do in the mafia?”

“No. And I don’t even want to know how you know that.”

“I love mafia movies.”

“I love Jane Austen movies.”

He thinks for a moment. “Somebody should do a movie where Mr. Darcy is like secretly the head of the Irish mob and Elizabeth is a spy for the British crown and all that house visiting and ball dancing they do is just a cover for their covert operations.”

“I just read a book like that. But it had vampires.”