Page 26 of Catch Me (Townsend Legacy #4)

Andreas Townsend on his knees, his mouth on my pussy, bringing me to heights I’d only ever read about in books and making me forget all of the reasons why we shouldn’t be together.

“Please, please, please,” I hear someone begging. Eventually, I come to recognize the begging voice is my own.

“Please what, baby?” Andreas asks, briefly separating that magical mouth of his from my core. “Ask me nicely, and I might give it to you,” he taunts.

“Come … I need to come,” I pant. By now I’ve lost all shame and good sense.

A wicked grin spreads over Andreas’ face making him even more devastatingly handsome. My entire body lights on fire as he works to finish what he started.

I clamp both hands over my mouth to keep the entire studio from hearing my moans of pleasure. The orgasm rushes over me, reaching into every part of my body.

Totally spent, I feel myself starting to slide to the floor, before strong hands catch me. Andreas presses his body against mine, keeping me upright and pinned to the wall.

“You taste as good in the middle of the day as you do at night. We definitely need to do this more often,” he says before he latches onto my earlobe with his teeth.

I tremble as the aftershocks of my orgasm continue to course through me, but my brain starts to clear enough for me to realize the mistake I just made.

It takes way too much effort, but I manage to push Andreas away and dramatically search for my panties and jeans.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” I say without looking at him as I redress.

“Seeing as how you were moaning my name less than a minute ago, I’m going to assume that’s your fear speaking and not your actual thoughts.”

I spin on him with narrowed eyes. “How the hell do you know what I’m thinking?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, Andreas does an achingly slow perusal of my body with his gaze, pausing once when he gets to my breasts and again when his eyes meet the apex of my thighs. Although I’m fully dressed again, it’s as if he can see right through my clothes.

I don’t have to wonder if he knows how hard my nipples are beneath my bra. The glint in his eyes tells me he absolutely knows.

“Tell me I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about then, Ivy.” The challenge in his tone has my nipples straining against my bra even more.

I close my eyes to block out the intensity of his stare.

“We’re at work.”

“So, you don’t like me eating you out at work?”

Fuck. The question has my knees going weak. I do my best to push past the heat he’s reigniting in my body.

“I told you before that if we’re going to do this, we need to be discreet.”

“There is no if , Ivy.”

My eyes pop open to find Andreas standing directly in front of me.

“We’re doing this. The only question is, why have you been avoiding me for the past week? And don’t even give me that bullshit about schedule conflicts. I made time to call you, to speak with you. Where the hell have you been?”

My first instinct is to react with anger, defensiveness. But I know that would just be a bratty defense mechanism. I have to fight hard against that instinct when my palms grow sweaty from the anxiousness building inside of me.

“Ivy, what?—”

“I had a panic attack,” I finally say.

Andreas’ brows wrinkle. “When?”

“That morning after we … I had to go back to my apartment and my mother was there.” I clear my throat. “She’s, uh, she’s what you might call a trigger for me.” It’s taken me a long time to admit that. I don’t even think I’ve said it out loud to Dr. King.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, sincerity and regret dripping from his tone.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I lie. The truth is I didn’t want him to see me like that. I always feel the most vulnerable in the hours and even days after a panic attack.

It’s one thing to tell someone I get panic attacks. It’s another for them to be a witness to it, even in the immediate aftermath.

Thankfully, that morning by the time Spencer dropped me off, my attack had passed and I was able to compose myself enough to work. But I’ve been avoiding Andreas since that day.

“You’re lying,” he says, cupping my face.

“Look at me, Ivy.”

I allow my eyes to meet his.

There’s an unwavering quality in his voice when he tells me, “You don’t ever have to be ashamed or embarrassed in front of me.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head. His words penetrate my brain, but they mix in with those of my parents, of the taunts I received in the months after my public humiliation.

Oh God, those taunts.

Emails and messages from strangers, laughing at me, telling me I was useless and should kill myself all because I had a panic attack in public. Or maybe it was because I was a woman in public.

And now this very public figure is standing in front of me, asking me to be a part of his world like it’s not a big deal.

“Why are you shaking your head?” Andreas asks.

“It’s a bigger deal than you’re making it seem.”

“I know,” he agrees. It feels like a slap, as if he’s confirming my biggest fear, until he follows up with, “You thinking you can’t talk to me about this is a big damn deal. I?—”

“Andreas!” The knock on his trailer door cuts him off.

A pissed off expression passes over Andreas’ face. “Who is it?”

Was that a growl in his voice?

“Uh, Amy. Michael needs to meet with you in the next five minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

Yeah, there was definitely a growl in his tone.

“You have to go,” I whisper when he doesn’t move.

I’m not an expert or anything, but when one of the biggest directors in Hollywood says he needs to meet with you in the next five minutes, it’s not a good idea to keep him waiting.

Andreas brushes his lips against mine.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of anything. Not with me. Not ever.” He kisses me again, then takes a step back. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I don’t say anything as he leaves.