The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

“Sit.” Arrick pushes me down on the long mink colored fabric couch and then scoops down to unbuckle my shoes. I sink down obediently, lifting cold aching legs as warm hands encircle my ankles, and he slides down to rest himself on his own thighs. Lifting one foot at a time onto his knee, he unlatches me from my self-inflicted restraints and sets my burning feet free. I swear I love my shoes, but sometimes they just kill me. Whoever said fashion isn’t pain is a liar. He takes my shoes and moves off to lay them on the floor, pulling his jacket from my shoulders and throws it towards one of the armchairs.

“Thanks.” I grin at him sleepily, more than aware he is only doing it as I moaned every step of the way from his car to the elevator about the agony I was enduring, my tiredness, my inability to stand to be upright anymore, and then used him as a crutch while waiting in the slow ass thing. I did ask him to piggyback me to the couch, but he just dragged me ungracefully by the hand instead and told me I was going to suffer for being dumb enough to get so drunk.

“I’ll get you something to change into. You can take your hooker look off while we talk.” He throws me that mildly sarcastic smile and walks off towards his room with a backward smirk. I scowl after him, not amused that he’s insulting Dior and Jimmy Choo in one breath, which is sacrilege according to the fashion gods, and I hope a serious fashion ‘no-no’ infects his overly precise wardrobe choices. Like maybe a red flannel lumberjack shirt with mustard corduroys.

Leaving me to slide onto my back on his long comfy couch, I spread out lazily. So glad to finally be in a calm and quiet setting with a soft, safe place to lie down. I sigh in relief and lift my hands in the air to stretch out my limbs, very much like a cat who has been allowed back into its favorite sleeping spot to languish contentedly. I feel so much better than I have been, quiet internally, and stone-cold sober now.

Arrick reappears in seconds carrying a t-shirt and a pair of shorts for me, both will probably drown me, but I can’t resist the thought of comfy baggy clothes to lounge around. It’s not exactly comfortable being in my clubbing attire, confined in sexy tightness, where I must watch every movement for fear of exposing something he doesn’t want to see. I take them from him, still lying down, and watch him walk off to the kitchen until I lose sight of him due to the backrest of the chair obscuring the view.

“Don’t look, I’m stripping here.” I call out, hearing the clanging of mugs as he starts rifling around to make coffee and turns on his stupidly expensive machine.

up to double check, seeing only the back of his dark t-shirt clad shoulders as he leans in to fill the coffee maker. The strong neck and short hair that just makes

laid down, and pull the others on quickly. I pick up my discarded clothes and toss them towards the nearby armchair where his jacket already sits. It feels better to be loosely dressed, although without the tight confines of the top and being braless it feels a little too loose and breezy. I roll onto my stomach, pulling one of his suede cushions below me and stretch out, lying my head down on the side of my face and sink in contentedly. I sigh heavily and

I yell out and get no response, another stretch up, and a peek from my strained position, I spot him crouching down with his head in a cupboard looking for something. I flop back down to leave him to it. I can hear more noise as he does whatever he’s doing, clattering, banging and such, and finally

overstuffed, aged leather armchairs. The whole wall between his

yet it’s spacious and has a lot of room to spread out. Arrick tends to like the simpler things in life. Less inflated than his father and brother and tends to go for low key, understated. Although this place probably still costs him an arm and leg to rent or even if he has

work in his life again if he chose not to, he could afford to never do anything except party or relax. I like the fact that he chooses to though, chooses to be a mere

can sit down and pulls them back on top of his lap, automatically massaging my sore feet for me with strong warm hands that are divine. Arrick gives the best foot rubs in the history of all that is holy; he always did. He has the magic hands of a sorcerer when it comes to all kinds of rubs. His shoulder rub is about the only thing in the world that can send me to sleep in under a minute. If it didn’t weird him out so much, I would happily strip naked and let him massage every square inch of me until I was out cold and snoring. He has those strong man hands that are made for either manual labor or really good

trained manipulation of muscles that feels insanely good. Every nerve ending

get a flinch, as though to wake me up. “Turn over; I want to see you when I’m talking to you.” He commands and I do so obediently, rolling over to flop onto my back instead, using the cushion under my head so I can regard him lazily, and nudge