Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  The kitchen is small, but it's open to the living room and there's enough room between the island and the appliances to move around comfortably.

  "The countertops are new." He runs a hand over the white tiles. "The refrigerator broke down a few days ago and my father decided to get all new appliances. They'll be delivered next week. A dishwasher will be installed, as well. Lucky for you, because I had to wash everything by hand."

  "Wait, you lived here?"

  "I rented it from Lucas my first year of college, then I moved on campus and he moved in after he and my mother sold their house. They're divorced."

  Though the place is empty and without decor, there's a sort of shabby chic air to it that makes me think of a fashionable old lady.

  "Can't imagine you got laid very often here," I say.

  "You'd be surprised." He pats the kitchen counter absentmindedly, but it's clear what he's implying.

  I glare at him. "Oh, that's gross. Is this your sales pitch?"

  He shrugs. "You're the one that brought it up."

  I laugh and his lips curl up in what has to be his very first smile that I've seen today. I'm surprised by the way the unfamiliar edge in his gaze dulls away as though he suddenly remembers we aren't strangers.

  One joke, that's all it took.

  I cast my eyes away to take in the details of the walls. Vertical lines are visible from underneath the layers of paint. "You painted over the wood paneling?"

  "I did."

  I imagine what the place must of looked like with exposed wood paneling and it suddenly transforms in my imagination into a sort of man cave.

  "How do you feel about the tenant painting over this gray?"

  He doesn't answer right away, seems distracted as he looks down at my lips. I swear he nearly leans into them, before turning the movement into a short shake of the head. "What's wrong with the color? It's neutral."

  "I'd paint it something lighter, to contrast with my dark furniture."

  He raises an eyebrow, visibly surprised by my detailed plans.

  "A paint job would be fine," he says, almost reluctantly. "As long as you let me help you. I don't want it getting all on the ceiling and trim."

  I make a point to roll my eyes, showing him how uptight I think he is. Without preamble, I turn to follow the short hall leading to an open room.

  He follows after me.

  The bedroom is a decent size. I could fit my queen-sized bed in here and have enough room for my nightstands. The room has a more pronounced attic-feel than the rest of the place. The walls touch at the top like a pair of cupped hands. I envision my bed, there at the end, cradled by the walls. The room has recess lighting like in the living room but natural light pours in from the large window on the far wall.

  For a moment, I'm overwhelmed by the refreshing novelty of the loft. Laced in the air is the smell of hardwood floors, fresh paint.

  The smell of new beginnings.

  A surge of excited energy courses through me. I've always lived with a roommate. Partly because it's more affordable, partly because I always liked knowing someone was there. But for the first time in my life, I envision myself living alone. I'm romanticizing the idea of living here, I know it. Even knowing it, I can't stop myself.

  A place just for me, myself, and I.

  After everything in my life felt like it was slipping away, I suddenly see a light breaking through. The thought of it fills me with butterflies and I feel like I'm in love. In love with my life. With the possibilities before me. In love with the idea of a fresh start. Starting from scratch.

  New job, new friends, new everything.

  I peer back and see Owen leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, watching me as I stand in the center of the bedroom with my hands on my hips.

  Suspicion seeps into me, a sudden apprehension that crowds my excitement into a corner. "Why hasn't this place rented out yet?"

  He looks unsurprised by my question. "Haven't found the right tenant."

  I raise an eyebrow at him. "The right tenant?"

  "A place like this doesn't get family oriented people, for obvious reasons. I get more of the college kid. And that's not going to work."

  I keep my expression serious. "God forbid someone has a little fun on your watch."

  He stares at me, narrowing his eyes.

  "How do you know I'm not a wild party animal?" I ask, taking a few steps toward him and lowering my voice. "How do you know I'm not going to tear your place apart in a crazy binge of sex and drugs."

  "Is this your sales pitch?"

  I grin at the way he's unfazed by the crazy things that come out of my mouth. I've missed him.

  He reaches behind him, pulls a wad of folded papers from his back pocket and hands them to me. "Here's an application."

  I walk past him without taking it and enter the bathroom, which I've yet to explore. It's small but functional. The tile over the tub is a vibrant white, as is the porcelain sink. Owen's right behind me, still holding the folded papers.

  His gaze rises up from below and I know he was consuming my curves with his eyes.

  "What's funny?" he asks at the short laugh I let out.

  "It just occurred to me—it might be awkward…renting from you."

  He taps the papers on an open palm like a baton, still watching me. "This isn't my place. It's my father's place. You'd be sending the payments directly to him. I'm the property manager." He pauses. "Did you really decide to stay? Or are you trying to trick me into bed again?"

  "Both."

  He brushes a thumb along his bottom lip in a seemingly unconscious gesture I find utterly seductive.

  "All right, look. You want the place? It's yours. Pending a deposit, of course." He throws the application over his shoulder and it lands in a soft thud in the hallway as he takes a step closer.

  I'm half sitting on the bathroom sink, eyes flashing to the papers on the floor behind him. "Am I meant to fetch that?" I ask, amused.

  "No. I'm done talking business." He tucks my hair behind my ear and my lips part in the wake of his touch.

  "Now what?" I try to keep my tone cool and unaffected, but the air feels thick with him.

  "Now, I ask you out on a date."

  "A date?"

  "Yes, tomorrow night. Unless you already have plans for New Year's."

  New Year's. I was supposed to be back in San Francisco by now. And even after I contemplated staying, the days have been such a blur I haven't had the time to consider any plans.

  "What about Landon?"

  "He'll spend it with my sister, she's throwing a party at her house. His cousin and some of their school friends will be there. Trust me, he'd much rather be around them than me."

  "And your sister won't be mad at you for bailing?"

  "Not when I tell her I've got a hot date."

  "All right," I say, smiling. "It's a date."

  He grins, looking into my eyes as I stare into his and try to get a grip on the flurry in my stomach.

  "I've got to be honest." His breath is warm and soothing on my face. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. But the sound of your voice has been playing in my head, on a loop. I can't get it out."

  "Is that so?"

  "There's a very specific sound I'm dying to recreate."

  "I'm not sure what you're talking about," I say with exaggerated confusion. "Is there something you can show me? You know, to jog my memory?"

  "Something like this?" He pulls me up against him and I gasp. He's solid and inviting, and the way his bulge presses into me through our clothes is enough to shatter my pretenses. Still, I manage to tilt my head back and smile coyly.

  "Sorry. It's not ringing any bells."

  I glimpse the wicked smile that flashes across his face before he spins me around and bends me over the sink, bringing my nose inches from my own reflection in the mirror. "How about we let your face tell us when you're close to remembering?"

  I take a sharp breath, heart pounding against my ribca
ge, enthralled by the unchecked desire flooding the man in the mirror. His fingers weave over the buttons of my blouse as he lowers his face onto my neck, kissing me there, waking all my nerve endings, and setting them off at once. He peels away my blouse and lowers his lips to my back. Everywhere his lips touch is blanketed by static energy, making me squirm as I relish in the sensation.

  He unhooks my bra and the straps fall over my shoulders almost on their own accord. The spot on the back of my neck he's kissing must be a pleasure center, because when he sucks on it, I cry out in surprise. My eyes shut tight, heightening the effect of his touch, his hands over my bare breasts, thumbs flicking my hardened nipples.

  Lowering a hand down my abdomen, he hooks it between my legs, over my jeans. I gasp at the way his palms press against where I'm already throbbing with need.

  "Take them off," he says, tugging on the front of my jeans before pulling away from me to peel his own clothes off. I yield to his request, pulling my panties off along with my jeans.

  When I straighten up again, he presses his bare chest to my back and my skin flushes. I'm primed for his touch, wet and on edge, knowing the delicious pleasure that's coming and already reeling from it.

  He lowers me over the sink again, bringing my forearms to rest on the cold porcelain. I watch his reflection as he straps a condom on himself; the sight of his gorgeous body behind me is enough to make my mouth water.

  "Don't go easy on me," I beg, breathless.

  My words elicit a hungry groan from him. His hands close over my waist, eyes holding mine in the mirror. He enters me, filling me slowly until his pelvis is pressed against my ass. I throw my head back and sigh, feeling myself squeezing his shaft. As I go to catch my breath, he starts his breathtaking, rhythmic pulsing. Pure ecstasy surges through me, my moans echoing off the bathroom walls.

  "Eyes forward," he growls, voice strained.

  I meet my reflection in the mirror; my eyebrows are turned up at the ends, eyes slightly narrowed and lips quivering with each breath I take. I cast my sights up to his reflection. He's biting his lower lip, staring right back at me, muscular arms securing me in place as he claims my body with delicious vigor.

  His hands move up my back to close over my shoulders for leverage as he picks up his speed, driving up my need for him to an overwhelming level. Until I'm alternating between panting and moaning, my ass burning from the contact of his body slapping against it. I'm quivering from the electrifying sensations he's delivering.

  Before I know it, I'm moaning out his name in a plea. As though the sound of it describes what he's doing to me. Describes the raw, intoxicating energy coursing through me. My body is fueled by this incredible powerhouse of a man, owning every inch of me until I'm buckling under him.

  He curses under his breath, his rhythm falling off track momentarily, as though hearing me moan out his name pulls him to the edge of control.

  Is that the sound he was dying to recreate?

  My sights are on the sink, but Owen grabs and handful of my hair and pulls my head back firmly so I can meet my own reflection again, the sounds of his body slamming into mine are rivaled only by my wild moans.

  My body tenses up, fingers close over the edge of the sink as the orgasm thrashes across me like a rope, coiling and beating until agony falls away to release. I sigh his name in a hoarse whisper and Owen finishes in a long, rough stroke, followed by a groan that sends a shiver of delight up and down my spine.

  I wonder how I ever thought I could leave him behind.

  And I wonder if I'll ever get enough of him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  If I were desperate to rent a place, there's a dozen living situations I could've entertained. There are ads everywhere. I have friends that love me or at the very least tolerate me enough to let me live with them for a few months. The truth is, I am crazy in love with the loft. I don't know what it is, but I've never had a place give me butterflies the way it does. The thought of living anywhere else literally gives me a pang in my stomach. That loft is my home. I've felt it the very first moment I saw the notice on the bulletin board. I had no idea then the loft was connected to Owen and I didn't know when I dialed the number.

  Anyway, it's done. I gave Owen the check already, first and last months rent. It put a huge dent in my savings, but that's okay. I'll have a paycheck coming in a couple of weeks. Soon I'll be back on track, financially. Soon my whole life will be back on track.

  The next day, my eyes open to the brightness of Lex's guest room. It's New Year's Eve and I'm already nursing a dry mouth and minor headache.

  "Seriously?" Lex asks me as I settle down to eat breakfast. "You're hung-over again? What are you going to do when you start work? You'll have to cut back on the drinking."

  "I'm not hung-over," I lie. "It's just a headache. Anyway, did I tell you? I found a place to live."

  My sister, who is aware of my upcoming interview with the university but not yet privy to the fact that I lost my apartment, sets her fork down, surprised. "I didn't know you started looking. Don't you have to give notice at your old place?"

  "No, it all worked out," I say vaguely.

  There's a lot I don't tell my sister. She worries too much about me and I decide to stow away tiny, inconsequential facts—all of which add up to an inconvenient truth—and mentally place them under the kitchen sink.

  I use my headache as an excuse to keep quiet and Lex, not being much of a conversationalist anyway, doesn't seem to mind. There's an offbeat heaviness to our silence. A chunky anticipation for one or the other to mention the person whose name so obviously hangs, unspoken, overhead.

  Leo.

  Today is the day Lex's supposed to meet him. She's yet to give me any hint as to which way she's leaning but if my gut is right, things aren't looking good for the guy. I think Lex already made up her mind about wiping him from her life the moment he hurt her.

  After hearing Leo out, I understand why he needs her to meet him in person. If he tells her that he bought a house, it won't have the same impact as if she saw it for herself and, frankly, it might scare Lex away for good.

  I have to admire the guy's persistence. Any other sucker wouldn't bother with this shit. It's way too much effort for someone who is anything less than bat-shit crazy in love with my sister.

  Lex leaves me behind at the condo pretty early, vague about what her plans are for the day. I wonder if maybe she plans to drive around aimlessly, as a form of distraction. A form of evasion. That's one thing we Stone women are good at. Evasion.

  I go back to sleep, pulling the covers over my head, enjoying the warmth of the bed, and not waking up again until well into the afternoon. By then I feel better, renewed, able to spend the rest of the evening cleaning and organizing the things I crammed in my giant suitcase when I moved the rest of my stuff into storage.

  I daydream about the loft. I'll be moving my things into it in about a week's time, once the new appliances have been installed. Most of all, I daydream about the man who promised to pick me up tonight, 6:30 p.m. sharp.

  Though I try to remain busy, merely passing the time until my date with Owen, the day feels impossibly long. The minutes churn lazily until I find myself pouring a drink. Sundown still too far away and me too thirsty to wait for it.

  A small voice in my head warns I've been drinking alone too often. It sounds suspiciously like my sister. I acknowledge the voice, and then tell it to kindly mind its own damn business. Still, I end up stowing the bottle of vodka under the sink. Just to avoid my sister's needless nagging.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Air rushes into the speeding car before I can roll up the window. My jacket is open in the front and the nippy air penetrates the fabric of the cocktail dress I'm wearing. I'm glad Owen picked me up in his car, though the cold is hardly a problem when the sight of him alone is enough to stir me until I'm warm. The sight of his profile, the jagged lines of his jaw, the smooth curves of his lips, all make me consider how silently he commands at
tention, how effortlessly he conveys the fact that he knows a thing or two about handling a woman.

  He's sitting there, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, pretending he can't feel my eyes peeling away the layers of his clothes. Pretending he can't feel the way my imagination whirls to build an elaborate fantasy, one where we're both driving each other over the edge, no car in sight.

  The drive is long but he won't tell me where we're going. I'm highly doubtful he would've been able to come up with anything surprising in such short notice. The day before yesterday he didn't think he'd be seeing me again.

  We've been heading south on interstate five but it's not until he clears past the exits for La Jolla that I begin to suspect we are headed downtown. It's New Year's Eve and the only reasons I'd go downtown today would be to party in the Gaslamp Quarter or to watch the fireworks show by the bay. I assume Owen is planning for us to do the latter, probably at some restaurant with waterside views.

  But we veer away from downtown, crossing over the Coronado Bridge. The dark waters of the San Diego Bay glisten in the subtle glow from the surrounding buildings and the moon. It's a clear night, mere wisps of clouds dissolving into nothing before my eyes.

  I don't come to Coronado often, though it's a beautiful island. Houses are worth a pretty penny and the streets on the main part of the island have an almost dainty, historical feel to them.

  As I suspected, Owen takes us to eat dinner at a nice restaurant overlooking the bay. Nighttime views of downtown span out before the wall-to-wall windows.

  Along with a delicious dinner, we enjoy light and fun conversation, which flows with surprising ease. Even though we don't talk about anything important, we both lean into each other's words, not wanting to miss a syllable.We end up reminiscing about high school, as though those were days we shared and not a time when we lived in different worlds.

  I usually have to watch my mouth on a first date, since I tend to say outrageous things when I get carried away. But I don't have to worry about that with Owen. He counters all my quick remarks without even batting an eye.