Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4)

by Elise Faber

  I nodded.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  An exhale. Maybe she hadn’t realized that a lot of the paintings were of her? I hadn’t painted her entire face, just silhouettes and profiles and close-ups of different body parts. “Thanks,” I said again, relaxing marginally.

  She drifted back, her gaze dragging along the canvases. “Is there a reason that a vast majority of them are of me?”

  I froze, that respite of calm disappearing.

  Of course, she’d noticed, and she was prepared to run if my answer wasn’t up to snuff, if the expression on her face was any indication.

  “Yes,” I said, knowing I could lie or tell the truth.

  Knew that, really, I only had one choice.

  I had to tell her the truth.

  Inhaling deeply and releasing it slowly, I said, “They’re all of you because I’ve spent the last month dreaming of you, reliving our night together, remembering the way your lips, your skin, your body felt.” Moving toward her, I cupped her cheek. “I’ve spent nearly every waking moment trying to recapture that magic. But no reproduction can even begin to compete with the reality.”

  I felt her throat spasm as she swallowed. “You realize how that all sounds,” she murmured, “don’t you?”

  “I do.” I let my hand fall to my side. “Why do you think I haven’t been back to your place, sweetheart? I knew if I even allowed myself to consider the possibility that I might see you again, I’d approach stalker level.”

  “More so than painting my likeness in no less than several dozen different forms?”

  That was a fair point.

  “Yes.”

  Her lips turned up at the corners.

  “I like you, Niki,” I said. “More than I should, and I want to fall in, want to dive deep and learn everything about you. I also know that me telling you that is going to send you running for the door.” I blew out a breath. “Which is why I didn’t go to your house, why I didn’t ask Anabelle to get your number from Hayden. Instead, I painted.” I moved toward one of the canvases, picked it up, holding it out. “And this is why I painted.”

  She took the canvas, colorful splashes of me attempting to capture the rich browns of her irises, and studied it for several long moments.

  Then she set it down.

  A heartbeat later she was out of the room.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, waiting for her to get dressed, to then hear the front door open and close, but when long minutes passed and I didn’t, I let my chin fall to my chest, knowing she’d gone, but I just hadn’t heard her leave.

  It was the logical conclusion.

  I’d told her the reason her features were plastered on every scrap of canvas in my studio, and logically, she’d gone. Because the draw I felt toward Dominque was intense, and it didn’t make sense, and . . . she’d made it clear that she didn’t do connection.

  Why would she be tempted into furthering a fledging link with a man she didn’t know?

  I flicked off the light, slipped out of the room, and closed the door behind me. I’d finish cleaning, go to bed, and in the morning, I’d try to excise her from my head. I’d paint however many fucking canvases it took.

  And then I’d move on.

  I sprayed down the table, rinsed the coffee pot and mugs, grabbed my stack of clothes. Then checked that the front door was locked, the lights were off, before going into the bedroom . . . and stopping in my tracks.

  My bed wasn’t empty.

  Instead, there was a beautiful woman tucked under the sheets, her bare shoulders gilded in the moonlight, her hair down and tumbling around her like a shining brown cape.

  “What are you doing?”

  She held up the remote. “Getting ready to watch a movie.”

  “I—uh—”

  She patted the bed. “You going to get in?”

  “You didn’t go?”

  “You’re making me want to.” Her mouth curved.

  Since I didn’t want that, I hustled across the room and crawled under the blankets, feeling strangely out of sorts, considering it was my bed. As it was, I held my breath when I wrapped my arm around her, half-expected my hand to pass right through, as though she were an apparition and not a real woman.

  “What do you want to watch?”

  Her eyes sparkled and she cuddled up next to me, her palm on my chest. “Porn.”

  I choked on my tongue, first from the cuddling then again from her matter-of-fact declaration.

  She laughed, the sound filling my blood with helium. Without the heft of the blankets, without the weight of her body curling up on me, I might have just floated up to the ceiling.

  She shifted, resting her head against my chest, her gaze on the TV as she flicked through the menu of a streaming service.

  “Did I break you?” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  More laughter. A pat on my chest. “You’ll be fine.”

  Quiet fell as she put on an action flick, and we watched in silence for several minutes, but then I found myself breaking it, finding a question bubbling in my throat and escaping. “Why did you stay?”

  She went still then paused the movie, studied my face.

  I held her gaze.

  Eventually, Niki relaxed. “Because I wanted to,” she said, poking me. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No.”

  A narrowed-eye glare. “You going to use my blood to make new paintings?”

  “No.” A beat. “However, I was planning on creating new canvases with your skin.”

  She settled back down. “Well, if it’s just that.” Then promptly lifted back up, hitting me with the glare again. “This doesn’t mean anything, and I’m only staying for the movie, and maybe some more sex.”

  I lifted my hands in surrender, feeling like I’d won a battle I hadn’t even fought in. “Duly noted.” She hit play; the sound of gunshots and explosions, curse words and tires squealing filled the room.

  But I didn’t watch the movie.

  Instead, I watched her.

  And it was infinitely more enjoyable than the film.

  I woke to empty arms and sunlight slanting through the windows.

  I inhaled, smelled the sweet spice of Niki on the air, on my pillows, my skin. The bed next to me was still warm, meaning that she’d been with me at least part of the night.

  Progress.

  Of a sort.

  Because I still woke up alone.

  Sighing, I pushed out of bed, wandered into the front room, was drawn into the kitchen, where the smell of coffee filled the air.

  I saw the cup steaming on the counter the same time I heard the door click closed.

  Bypassing the tempting brew, I hurried to the door, opened it, and saw the top of Dominque’s head disappearing down the stairs.

  “Coward!” I called.

  “Put some pants on, Archer,” she called back.

  I glanced down, realized that I, indeed, wasn’t wearing pants, and as tempted as I was to chase after her, getting arrested for indecent exposure wasn’t on my list of things to do.

  “I’ll see you soon, Niki!”

  “No, you won’t.” A beat. “Also, my name is Dominque!”

  My lips curved. “Soon, sweetheart!”

  “Not that either!”

  “I’ll—”

  His neighbor poked his head out. “Will you shut the fuck up? It’s too goddamned early.”

  “Sorry,” I said, nodding my head in apology.

  “Assholes,” the neighbor muttered, slamming the door.

  Niki’s head popped up the stairwell, mouth curved into a smirk. “Bye, Archer.”

  I lifted my hand, watched her disappear.

  Only then did I go back into my apartment and close the door.

  For the record, the woman made a hell of a cup of coffee.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dominque, or apparently Niki

  I was smiling as I strode down the street, my walk of shame more like a walk of
a hell of a good lay.

  But the glow faded as I walked to my car a block away.

  Because I’d spent the night.

  What a singularly stupid thing to do.

  Sighing, I turned the corner, Archer’s apartment complex at my back. My car was just around the next bend, and—

  I stopped.

  Because the entire street was empty.

  Or, at least, the side of the street where I’d parked was empty.

  As in, my car was gone.

  As in, all of the cars I’d parked around were gone. “What the fuck?” I whispered . . . and then my gaze caught on the sign overhead.

  “Fuck,” I breathed.

  Street sweeping. This morning.

  Fucking hell.

  My car . . . had been towed?

  I tilted my head back with a groan, staring up at the cloudless, bright blue sky and tossing a mental curse its way. What right did it have to look so cheerful, so clear and sunny when my car had been towed?

  This was what I got for not following my rules.

  This was the result of my idiocy in staying the night.

  I’d known better, but I’d wanted to spend more time with Archer because he was sexy and kind and because of the paintings, the expression on his face, the way he’d wrapped his robe around me, how he’d cleaned up while I’d made a mess of the sundaes.

  So, I’d . . . been weak.

  So . . . I’d wanted more.

  And now my car had been towed.

  That was karma or the universe smacking me back into place, reminding me that I couldn’t have nice things—or nice men.

  Because, for as dirty as Archer was in the bedroom, he was one of the nice ones.

  And nice didn’t work in my life.

  Never had. Never would.

  Sighing, I walked closer to the sign, squinting up at the number on the bottom, so I could call and figure out how to get my car back. I was just tapping it into my cell when I felt my skin prickle, and I spun.

  “Whatcha doing, Niki baby?”

  Heat and tingles, my stomach filled with butterflies—no, with serpents, writhing motherfuckers that both turned me on and made me feel nauseated as fuck.

  My breathing stalled, and I was stupidly frozen in place, studying the slight red hint in the brown of Archer’s hair. Then he smiled, soothing the vipers inside me like he was a snake charmer and my abdomen was the covered basket, its lid askew, the reptiles inside just waiting for him to play his flute.

  “Going home,” I muttered, pulling up the Lyft app.

  “In what?”

  “A car.”

  “Your car?”

  Well, now, that was beside the point. Ignoring him, I strode down the street, trying to put some distance between us, but the infernal man followed me, keeping an easy pace beside me, even though I was taking as long of strides as I could manage.

  “Did you want a ride?” A beat. “To wherever you’re going.”

  I didn’t even know where I was going.

  It wasn’t like I had loads of experience having my car towed. This was a once-in-a-lifetime thing for me.

  “Streets look clean,” he murmured, strolling next to me, casual as can be.

  I stopped. Sighed.

  “You know, I happen to be on a first-name basis with the impound lot owner,” he said, still casual, but with enough humor in his tone that I was ready to rip out one of those fucking street sweeping signs and impale him with it.

  “Why do I always think murderous thoughts when you’re around?” I muttered.

  A shrug. “I bring out the best in people.”

  I sniffed.

  A grin. “It’s a gift.”

  I kept walking, even though I had no reason to. I could call a Lyft from anywhere. But Archer didn’t question me, just kept pace beside me, though I could feel his amusement in the air between us.

  “I was serious about knowing Paulie.”

  Another sigh. “Who’s Paulie?”

  He snapped his fingers. “Keep up, Niki baby.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I clipped out, shoving his hand away. “You’re going to snap at me?”

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Only the people who I cheerfully murdered.” I stomped down the sidewalk.

  His lips twitched . . . which I saw . . . because I couldn’t keep my eyes off him for long, the motherfucker. “How many people is that?” he asked, picking up my hand and pressing a kiss to my palm.

  I snatched it free. “One.”

  “Including or excluding me?”

  I glared at him.

  He just lifted a brow.

  “Including,” I admitted or rather, grumbled.

  Laughter—his—and I tried to pretend it made me feel homicidal rather than amused, just the slightest bit. The fucker saw right through me, though he didn’t say anything to give voice to that fact. Instead, it was . . . something I just knew in my soul. The same voice that had driven me to stay last night, that had kept me in bed when the coffee had worn off and my eyes had grown heavier, when I’d let Archer put on another movie, even though I’d felt sleep closing in on me.

  He snagged my hand. “Come back to my place. I’ll make you pancakes and call Paulie. Your car won’t be back to the impound lot yet anyway.”

  I didn’t immediately tug my fingers loose again, though I should have.

  Instead, I left my hand in that warm clasp and asked, “How do you know that?”

  That brow lifted again. “How do you think I know Paulie?” he asked. “When the parking lot at my apartment was being renovated, I had to park my car here more than a few times.” He smiled. “And more than a few times, I forgot about the Tuesday/Thursday street-sweeping and didn’t move my car in time.” A shrug. “Which meant that I had to befriend Paulie.”

  “How many is more than a few?”

  “More than a few,” he said. “Fucker never gave me a break on fees, though.”

  I laughed then sighed and slowed to a stop. “How good are your pancakes?”

  He grinned, full-on and cocky, and my pussy throbbed in memory. “As good as your sundaes.”

  And I knew I was so seriously fucked. I was going down. This was going to implode and go so, so bad.

  But . . . I slid close to him.

  If I was going down, I would at least embrace the ride.

  Because I had the feeling it was going to be a hell of one.

  “Pancakes,” I said and turned to lead him back to his apartment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Archer

  I hadn’t made enough pancakes.

  Not nearly enough, I realized when I turned back from the griddle to find the plate was nearly empty.

  “What?” she asked, her mouth full when I stared at her agog.

  “That was six pancakes,” I said.

  Six full-sized pancakes with chocolate chips and powdered sugar and syrup. The woman was going to be jittery from her sugar rush, or at least have a stomachache from the carbs alone.

  “So?” she asked, the word muffled.

  “So, that was supposed to be three each.”

  She froze, the last bite of pancake hanging off the edge of her fork. Then chewed, swallowed. “Then why’d you put them on one plate?”

  “I was making it look pretty.”

  “Pretty?” She glanced at the table then back up at me, eyebrows arched. “But it’s food.”

  I huffed, turned back to the bowl and started mixing more batter—a double batch this time.

  “Where’d you learn to cook?”

  I measured flour into the bowl, added eggs and milk, a dollop of oil, a teaspoon of baking soda. No chocolate chips, since I’d used the last of them for the first six pancakes, but that was okay. They’d still be good. After whisking the ingredients together, I ladled the batter onto the griddle. “My mom taught me,” I said, watching the bubbles form on the back of the circles, growing and collecti
ng until they covered the entire surface and popped, tiny craters telling me it was time to flip them.

  I did so, aware of Niki coming closer, of her propping herself up on the counter as I turned each of the pancakes.

  “What’s your favorite thing?”

  My gaze flicked to hers. “To cook?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re asking me questions, now?”

  A roll of deep brown eyes. “Yes, since it seems that I’m stuck with you, I might as well pull back the curtain.”

  The smallest tendril of hope curled through me. She could have called a car, could have told me to leave. Instead, she’d come back to my apartment and was asking me questions about myself.

  “Pasta,” I said, when I felt a shiver of impatience skate through her. “I have a family recipe for homemade spaghetti and Bolognese.”

  “Mmm.” Her stomach rumbled, and I shook my head.

  “How are you possibly hungry after six pancakes?”

  “Don’t judge me,” she snapped. “I love food, and I love eating. Plus, my idea of pasta is opening a can and heating the slop in a microwave.”

  I dropped the spatula, and it bounced off the tile.

  “Tell me you’re kidding,” I muttered, scooping the utensil up and tossing it into the sink, then opening another drawer to retrieve another turner before snagging the plate from the table.

  “If I don’t, will you make me that homemade pasta?”

  “I’d make it for you either way.”

  She went still for a moment then scooped up one of the griddle-fresh pancakes from the plate and took a huge bite. “Mmm.”

  “It doesn’t even have the syrup on it.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, the words almost indecipherable. “They’re still delicious.”

  “Do you have a hollow leg?”

  Her lips twitched. “You’re not funny. I sometimes forget to eat when I’m working, so I make up for it when I’m not.” She took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “Also, I really like food.”

  I liked the last.

  I hated the first.

  “Why don’t you eat?”

  A shrug. “I get carried away with my work, sometimes I glance up and the entire day has gone.”

  “I get that,” I said, meaning it, knowing I’d done the same many times before.