I hate the thought that she might regret this, though, so I curl a strand of her hair around my finger, and she murmurs. Yeah, she likes when I touch her hair as much as I do. “Don’t second guess yourself. And let’s not stop kissing each other senseless.”
Breath rushes over her lips, and her tiny nod is my cue to take the wheel.
I sweep my lips across hers. Her sweet, delicious mouth. She tastes so sinful, so sexy, so fucking warm. Her kiss is like fire and chocolate. It’s hot and it’s sweet and I can’t fucking resist. I spin her around and back her to the wall, her spine hitting the brick of the hallway. I press my body to hers, and we fit like long-lost puzzle pieces. My chest is against her breasts, my hard-on wedged against her hip. I suck on her bottom lip, tugging it between my teeth, and she makes a throaty moan. Then an anguished oh.
What I love most about this kiss?
It’s all brand new.
It’s not the way we kissed in college. It’s not a prelude to a screw. It’s not an I-know-how-you-like-it kiss. It’s a little rougher, a bit harder, and a lot needier.
It’s a first kiss that rocks my world and blows my mind. It’s like lightning, and when it crashes through the sky, I’m lit up, hot and electric. She moans and murmurs and rubs against me, and her passion turns me on ten thousand times more. Her eagerness is an endorphin, and pleasure from it crackles across my whole body. My skin sizzles, my blood heats, and I want to drown in this hot, wild, passionate kiss.
I can’t stop.
Teeth click, and tongues tangle, and lips tug and pull. We don’t stop. We devour. The more I have of her mouth, the more I want all of her.
My hands drop from her hair, traveling down her sides then around to that absolutely fantastic ass. “It worked. Your distraction ploy,” I mutter as I squeeze. A surprised but sexy moan lands in my ears as I knead that delicious flesh, soft, but firm. “The only trouble is, your sweet ass is far too covered in clothes.”
She rubs her pelvis against me. “And you’re ridiculously aroused,” she says, giggling softly.
I growl a yes as I dive in for another kiss. Her laughter is swallowed whole as I crush my lips to hers. It’s replaced by a needy whimper, and the way she grinds against me becomes more frantic. I can’t get enough of this woman. Especially when she rocks her hips against me, like her body’s taking over, like she’s saying how much she wants this kiss to become down and dirty, hot and heavy.
Hell yeah. I tug her closer, squeeze her ass tighter.
If we were anyplace else, I have no doubt we could fall into a fast and frenzied kind of hallway screw where you can’t even be bothered to undress all the way. The kind of fuck where you need the other person so badly all you manage is to hike up her skirt, unzip your pants, and that’s it.
I want that more than air right now.
And maybe, just maybe, she does, too. As she digs her nails into my neck, I break the kiss for one brief second, raise a hand, and drag my finger along her cheek. She turns into my touch. Softly, with longing in her eyes. An electric charge runs through me. “I want to take you home, strip these clothes off your beautiful body, and have my way with you,” I say. Then, because some things change but some things stay the same, I brush my lips against the column of her throat and kiss a hot trail to her ear, like she used to crave. She moans and her knees start to give. My hand darts out to her waist, holding her as I kiss her neck. I reach her ear. “You look like a sexy angel in those shoes.”
That’s what I should have said earlier. That’s how I should have begun the date, instead of with my awkward small talk that led to dumb pretzel-eating bravado that led to stupid hiccups.
But then, the hiccups led to this.
A kiss.
The real reboot of this first date. “And you should leave on the shoes.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Just wanted to put that out there. You in nothing but these red heels . . .” My voice trails off as my eyes rake over her lovely frame, taking in the luscious sight of her once more.
She smiles, seeming to enjoy my stare, then she presses a hand to my chest. “I want that. You know I want that.”
“Me, too.” My voice is rough with need.
“But I was really enjoying our awkward first date banter, too,” she says with a twitch of her lips, that makes me grin as well.
“We were rocking the I-have-no-clue-what-to-say chitchat, weren’t we?”
“Like nobody’s business.” She raises her hand, so we can smack palms.
We high-five like old friends rather than old lovers. It isn’t so weird. We were friends once upon a time, as well as lovers.
“Let’s do it. Let’s have more awkward conversation.”
“Or,” she says, taking her time, like she’s going to present a revolutionary idea. “Now, hear me out. But we could try for un-awkward.”
I laugh again. “Our new challenge. Let’s go for it.”
“I’m game. Also, I’m glad your hiccups are gone.” She runs her hands over the collar of my shirt, adjusting it.
“Can you use that trick on me every time?”
She taps my shoulder. “I can. And, by the way, if I were president, I’d abolish litter, hiccups, and bad hair days.”
I drape an arm over her shoulder. “I can honestly say I’ve never had a bad hair day, but you’ve got my vote for the two other points of your platform.”
She ruffles my hair. “Glad I can count on your support.”
I flash a smile. “Though, to offer a counter argument—if I can get your hiccup remedy every time, I don’t know that I want them abolished.”
“I guess we’ll see about that, then.”
I guess we will indeed.
We leave the hall and make our way back to the table.
10
Tyler
It’s funny how some things change on a dime.
When Delaney and I were together in college, I was certain I’d be a trial lawyer. King of the courtroom, arguing points and persuading juries. Twelve Angry Men, Presumed Innocent, A Few Good Men, anything by John Grisham . . . those were just some of my inspirations. Not to mention To Kill a Mockingbird, but I wasn’t so high-minded that I thought I’d be the next Atticus Finch. I didn’t think I could save the world through my oratory. Even I’m not that cocky.
Still, I felt the call of the courtroom, the thrill of the debate, the opportunity to make an impassioned plea before twelve men and women.
Besides, I’d decided when I was six and fell in love with L.A. Law reruns that I had to be an attorney.
Perhaps that’s why following Professor Blair’s advice my senior year of college was, all things considered, relatively easy to do.
He called me into his office the Monday morning after the dinner at his home. With his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he peered at me with wise green eyes. Cleared his throat. Took off his glasses. Grabbed a cloth. Began cleaning them.
Like he was in a goddamn movie. The Wise Old Mentor. “Tyler, I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Call this unsolicited,” he said, his voice gravelly with the years.
“Unsolicited works for me, sir.”
Leaning back in his chair, he started wiping the other lens. “You want to be the best attorney you can be?”
“Absolutely.”
He tossed the orange cloth on his desk, put his glasses back on, and steepled his fingers. “Do you know what a good lawyer needs more than anything?”
“A good lawyer?” I joked.
The corner of his lips lifted in a small smile, but then it disappeared. “He needs an ironclad focus.”
I nodded again. “That’s me. I’m one hundred percent focused.”
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Are you, though?”
How could he think I was anything but focused? In addition to serving as my advisor, he was also prepping me for an upcoming debate tournament. The Elite was one of the most prestigious debate competitions for pre-law students. Delaney and I had been working together a
s debate partners. “Absolutely, sir. I’m already practicing for the Elite with Delaney. My LSATs are done, and I should hear from law schools any day. And I’ve mapped out my plans post-law school, too.”
“With Ms. Stewart?”
Ever formal, he never called Delaney by her first name only. At the time I thought it was politeness. Looking back, I see he was putting distance already between her and me.
“Yes,” I said, feeling oddly defensive, like I needed to justify our plans. “We definitely want to be together.” Delaney and I had planned to go to schools near each other then find work in the same city. But to his ears, I’m sure I sounded weak.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” I pressed.
He leaned forward, set his hands on his thighs, and leveled me with his stare. “You want to be successful in law, yes?”
“Of course I do, sir.”
“And you know I only have your best interests at heart?”
“Absolutely,” I said, as my stomach churned with nerves.
“Then, you need to remember that, at your young age, the key to success lies in the elimination of distractions. If you want to be the best, you can’t let anything or anyone slow you down.” He paused, taking a beat to let that sink in. “You get my meaning?”
Ms. Stewart.
Distraction.
Elimination.
He didn’t have to make a closing argument. His meaning was crystal clear—being in love was ill-advised. Making plans together was a no-go. Commitment at my age was a mistake.
Slowly, I nodded. “I do, sir,” I said, my tone heavy. “I do understand your meaning.”
He handed me the paper I’d worked on for his graduate-level seminar, and across the top he’d scrawled a D in bright red ink. I flinched. I’d never received that kind of grade before.
He tapped the paper. “I don’t like to see this sort of score from my top student. See what you can do to improve it.”
I’d been dismissed. A wave of embarrassment flooded me, followed by self-loathing. How the hell could I have slipped like that? As I left his office, I scratched my head, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong with the assignment.
I didn’t break up with Delaney that day, or the next, or the next.
But over the days that followed, an insidious doubt crept through me, making me question whether I could have the career I’d always wanted and the girl, too.
Could I balance a serious relationship and law school? Was it possible to have that kind of love and that kind of devotion to the law?
I didn’t have the answer, and I was cold and distant with her. Her father had even phoned her, something he rarely did, but I was so focused on myself that I barely pressed her to find out about the call. Instead, I asked myself a whole slew of questions. What if I couldn’t manage both? What kind of lawyer would I be? Would I even become an attorney?
I wanted my career more than anything in the world.
I’d wanted it my whole life.
I couldn’t take the risk, so I jettisoned the girl.
Now, she’s here with me enjoying a glass of wine, and I’m struck with the realization that Clay was right. I didn’t just want to see her again because I was curious what she was up to.
There’s something else driving me, too.
11
Delaney
I can’t stop thinking about our kiss.
Yes, I kissed him to get rid of his hiccups because I know how much he hates them and how much they embarrass him.
Funny, in a way, that this fearless, cocky, confident man is brought to his knees by something so . . . pedestrian and annoying. But we all have our Achilles’ heel. I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. I care about him, and I had to do everything I could to help.
But let’s be honest here, too.
I wasn’t merely a do-gooder. I didn’t exactly throw myself in front of the bus. I wanted to kiss him. Hell, I’ve been dying to touch him since he juggled his way back into my life. Desire for this man has camped out in me for far too long.
And now I know there’s a damn good reason he’s been the starring act in countless late night fantasies.
Because he kisses me like it’s the only thing on earth he wants to do. Like I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. He makes me believe that no man has ever kissed a woman with such intensity, such passion, such desire.
It makes me woozy.
It makes me heady.
It makes me giddy.
Maybe all these floaty, blissful feelings are simply the illusion of chemistry.
Or maybe it’s the power of chemistry. But how can chemistry grow even more intense over time when it was already mind-blowing back then?
If I were a scientist, I’d apply for a grant and study the subject. For now, my only conclusion is that with some people, chemistry never fades. Perhaps for some, it intensifies.
The real question, though, is whether it extends beyond the physical.
That’s why I had to stop the kiss.
And that’s why I’ve soaked up every detail of our conversation since we returned to the booth post-hallway kiss.
We’ve been talking for the last two hours, getting to know each other again.
I’ve learned he spends as much time with his niece as he can, taking her on excursions around the city to zoos and parks, pottery-making studios, and M&M stores, indulging nearly every whim simply because he can. Naturally, I find this part of him ridiculously adorable. I learn, too, that in addition to his work in entertainment law, he takes on a few civil rights cases pro bono every year. This doesn’t just warm my heart. It makes me feel a tiny bit better about the state of the world.
He asks me about Nirvana and whether I named it for the band. I laugh, then explain the name represents the state of mind. I tell him I opened my spa three years ago, and that while I practice all kinds of massage, I’ve become known for helping those suffering from a range of ailments—from headaches to nerve pain to arthritis, and even fatigue from cancer treatments.
We move on from the subject of work when he gestures to my necklace, inquiring about the turtle charm.
“It comes from the Cayman Islands,” I say, running my finger over the smooth silver. “I picked it up during a scuba and rock climbing trip last year with my two closest friends—Nicole and Penny. They’re the ones I was running with the other day.”
“Your pack,” he says with a smile and a note of appreciation in his voice. “You’re close with them, I take it?”
I cross my index finger with the middle one. “Like family. I’m going out with them tomorrow night.”
“Speaking of family, how’s your mom?”
We chat about my mom and brother, but only briefly, and I don’t mention I hired a private detective to find out what my dad has been up to after all these years. Tyler knows better than anyone that family is a tough topic for me, and he doesn’t push. Nor do I want to get into the why of my pursuit. It’s too much, too personal. I haven’t even told Penny or Nicole. Besides, when your parents spend the better part of your childhood making up and breaking up, fighting and cursing until the day your dad walks out the door and never looks back, it’s hard for the subject of family to be anything but sandpaper in the mouth.
We keep the rest of the conversation simpler, lubricated by talk of music and books, TV and film. He wants to know if I’m still a fan of “skinny boy rockers with eye makeup.”
Oh yeah.
I show him my latest playlist, so he knows some loves never die. “And don’t try to pretend you don’t like Poison. You were just as hooked on the band as I was when we played Guitar Hero’s ‘Talk Dirty to Me.’” I give him my best I’m-cross-examining-you stare. “I heard you sing that one under your breath when we played the video game.”
“I was hooked on the directive of that one song title, and I believe you, as well, enjoyed the dirty talk.”
A hint of heat floods my cheeks. He’s right. I sure did love his naughty
mouth.
While we catch up, I drink another glass of wine, and he finishes his beer. This Riesling tastes delicious, and maybe it’s the alcohol warming me up and breaking me down at once, but this buzzy feeling inside makes me want to flirt.
We were so damn good at flirting, and I just can’t resist.
I twirl a strand of hair and bite the corner of my lip. My go-to move and it always worked on Tyler. If I wanted him to grab a book from my shelf, pick up some snacks, turn up the thermostat, I’d do the move.
He joked that he was silly putty, and that one touch, one look, one press of my teeth into a little nibble, and he’d groan sexily, then give me the moon with some sprinkles on top.
I brush my fingers along his forearm then drag one over the top of his hand. His eyes darken with heat, and I like knowing I still affect him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you were going to tell me about the cat with superpowers. Spill the beans, Nichols.”
“Ah, yes,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Seems I have something you want.” He moves in closer, and the temperature in me rises. “You really want to know about the pussycat on the TV show?”
“I do want to know,” I say, breathily.
He brushes the hair from my neck, and I shiver from his touch. “You won’t tell a soul?”
“I promise.” My voice is feathery soft, and maybe I’m the one who’s putty. Because he melts me. He just fucking melts me with every little touch.
“Swear?”
I make an X over my chest, and he follows the path of my fingers, lingering on the tops of my breasts. The weight of his stare makes my nipples hard. My God, this man. I want him to touch me. It’s so damn difficult to last more than a few minutes with him without longing for contact, for the intensity of the physical. He bends his neck, brings his mouth near my ear. I draw a quick breath as he whispers, “Mind control.”
I swat his chest. “Get out of here.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says with a believe-me grin. “Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist, has sick powers of mind control. His paws also are like suction cups so that he can climb the sides of tall buildings. He uses them to vanquish the forces of evil.”
The One Love Collection Page 25