by Meghan Quinn
What a vision.
What an absolutely horrifying vision.
Tall turtleneck and shoulders for days, this is some hot shit. I will say this, though. Victoria created an accurate portrayal with my hair. A loose bun on the top of my head and curls framing my face.
You know . . . I kind of look like . . .
“Oh dear.” Victoria says from the side of me, fully costumed, eyes raking over my entire appearance.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
She nods and bites on her finger. “It’s uncanny, almost spot on with the teal circle broach.”
“Yup.” I nod. “I’m Cinderella’s wicked stepmother.”
“Dead on.” Patting me on the shoulder, she snags my phone from the counter and says, “Smile for Beck.”
The flash goes off and there is no time for me to stop her. She sends that puppy right on over to him without my permission. She’s been hanging out with Zoey for far too long.
“Hey, did I look good in the picture?”
“Eh, not really, but we don’t have time to make the picture perfect. Let’s go.” She tosses me my phone and takes off down the hall. “We are not going to be late. Dance cards, remember?”
“How could I possibly forget?” Following behind her, because I’m nervous she will cut me if we’re late, I check the picture to see what she sent and stop in place. “Oh my God. Victoria. I have four fucking chins in this picture.”
“Four? Huh, I only counted three.”
“I seriously hate you right now.”
“Hate me on the way to the ball. Come on.”
Blowing steam out of my nose and ears, I follow her into her car, irritated now more than ever when my phone beeps with a response.
“No phones allowed. They didn’t have such devices in that time period.”
“Yeah, and you weren’t alive during that time period either, maybe I should get rid of you, huh?” There is a bit of crazy in my eyes, and I know when she sees it, because instead of pressing the matter, she drops it and starts her car as I read my message.
Beck: I would still fuck you. I would fuck you hard with that dress pushed up and over your hips, my cock buried deep inside of you.
Oh God. My skin starts to heat up and my four chins are slowly becoming less of an issue.
My phone beeps again.
Beck: Can you thank Victoria for the spank-bank material?
I roll my eyes and look out the window, the slightest of smiles turning up my lips. And that would be a hell, no.
Chapter Eighteen
BECK
There’s my girl,” I say once Rylee answers the phone.
Patting her hair down and tucking it behind her ear, she brings her knees to her chest and shyly smiles. “Hey you.”
Hey you. Those two words, so familiar, so comforting. She’s slowly letting her guard down with every text, every call, every FaceTime date. It hasn’t been easy. This is only the third time I’ve actually gotten to talk to her on FaceTime, but for now, I’m going to take what I can get.
“How’s the book?”
She nods and looks to the side. “It’s going well. Just tightening up some things, but I’m sure my editor will have some more notes for me to go over though. Happens every time.”
“When do I get to read it?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “You know, looking forward to reading that window sex, as I really want to make sure you’re accurate and all.”
Chuckling, she answers, “You can read it when it comes out.”
“What?” I lean back on the couch and prop my hand on the arm. “I don’t get an early read of it? What kind of crap is that? Since I was the inspiration and the creator of sex against the window, you should be happy I’m not looking for a cut of the profits.”
Shakes her head. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“Come on, why not read it to me right now? A little story time might be nice before bed.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Why not? Is it really dirty?”
She bites her bottom lip and nods.
“Fuck?” I blow out a breath. “Like really dirty?”
“Like verbatim of our night.”
And I’m hard.
Hands down, that night with Rylee blows any night I’ve ever shared with a woman completely out of the water. I’ve never been with someone so responsive, so reactive to my every touch, my every move. It was addicting trying to figure out what other noises I could cause her to make, what touch made her that much wetter, that much more needy. Playing her body, moving over it, tasting it, hell, I think about it every damn day and yearn for more.
For so much more.
“Kind of killing me, Rylee.”
She shrugs absently. “You asked. I just told you the truth.”
“We need to change the subject or else we’re going to have a big situation on our hands, and what I really mean is I’m going to have a big situation in my hand.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh Beck, you can be so corny sometimes.”
“Would you rather me say my cock is hard as fuck and I’m going to start jacking off if we don’t change the subject?”
She takes pause, her chest moving faster than before. “I mean . . . maybe, wait, no.” She shakes her head. “No cock talk.”
“How about vagina talk?”
“No genitals.”
I cringe. “Genitals is such a fucking awful word. You know how people don’t like the word moist? It’s genitals for me.”
“Genitals? Really? Mine is cream.”
“Cream?” I laugh. “So if I say ice cream you cringe?”
The corners of her mouth tilts up. “Let me be more specific. I don’t like the word creamed.”
“Ah.” I nod. “So the term, I just creamed myself is not part of your vernacular?”
She dry heaves and shakes her head. “Ugh, so gross. Why would that be part of anyone’s vernacular?”
“You got me, Saucy.” Switching gears, I ask, “Did you get any of that clam chowder you were talking about the other day?”
“Ugh, no. They ran out by the time I got there, so I had to settle for chicken fingers, even though it wasn’t close to the same.”
“Chicken fingers? Not even in the same food group. What happened?”
“The other soups at this place are pure crap and so is the rest of their food. I literally only go there for their clam chowder and biscuits; it’s a lethal combination. But I wasn’t about to walk out and not get anything because that’s rude.”
“So you settled for chicken fingers.”
“Exactly.” She sighs heavily. “That’s what happens when you’re stuck in a scene and don’t beat the early birds to the clam chowder pot. Don’t worry, next Wednesday I’ll be the first one in line when the dinner menu rolls out.”
I can’t hold back my smile. Rylee’s life is so different compared to mine. Living in a small town compared to living in one of the biggest cities in the United States, it’s such a stark contrast, and for some reason, I find Rylee’s way of living a hell of a lot more fascinating than mine.
“Do you like living in a small town?”
She twirls a stray lock of her hair. “It has its ups and downs, but I think the ups outweigh the downs. It’s where I grew up, so I know almost every person who lives here, and if I’ve never really talked to them, I’ve heard about them from someone. We’re always talking about each other, always up in each other’s business, but we also look out for each other. Since we’re a tourist spot, we make sure to keep an eye out for one another.”
“That’s nice. Built-in camaraderie. I definitely don’t get that in California. But hey, got to love the road rage only Californians can offer. Bet you don’t get that in your small town.”
Laughing, she shakes her head. God, I love that sound so damn much. “No road rage, but when Mrs. Braverman decides to cross the street, the whole town knows to stop and wait, because it’s going to be a five-minute process. If we rush her, s
he will—no joke—stand there in the road until she’s ready to walk again.”
“Seriously? Is this the same lady who took your sex chair?”
“Inspiration chair.” She absentmindedly licks her lips, and I can’t help but focus on how wet and plump they are. What I wouldn’t give to taste them again. “But yes, that was her. She’s a squatter and everyone knows it, so we do the best we can to not bother her.”
“Just bribe her with candles and incense.”
“Of course.”
Lying on the couch, she holds the phone out so it’s almost like I’m lying with her. I imitate the pose.
“What was your favorite part of Key West?” I ask, loving how her pure blue eyes look so peaceful, content. She really is gorgeous.
“Favorite part?” She quirks her lips to the side, putting some serious thought into my question. “Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“You’re probably going to hate me, but when we played cornhole. It was fun and sexy with how you stole little touches here and there. That entire game I felt on fire and then we won and . . .” She shakes her head. “It was a fun, out-of-body moment for me.”
“Why would I hate you for that?”
“Because, I didn’t say something like when you made me come all over your face.”
A low rumble pops out of my chest. “Yes, that was a fucking awesome moment, but that wouldn’t be mine either.”
“No?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Then what was your favorite moment?”
The image has been on replay in my head for the past few weeks. “My favorite moment, hands down, was when I found you sitting at the bar alone, staring at the bar top, stirring your drink, because in that moment, there was an opportunity in front of me that was about to throw my entire equilibrium upside down. It was a life-changing moment.”
She smiles. It’s a slow smile, but it’s fast becoming one of my favorites. And for once, she doesn’t come back with a smart-ass reply. She’s silent. But her smiles speaks volumes. Yeah, life-changing moment.
Steam billows from the sink as my pasta drains. Sauce is ready, garlic bread is in the oven keeping warm, and there’s a nice glass of milk waiting for me on my table.
I check my watch for the time and quickly pull out a plate, pile some noodles on it, top it with some sauce and parmesan cheese—well, a lot of parmesan cheese—and pull the bread from the oven where I break off a few pieces for myself.
Rushing over to the table, I set the mood lighting, including a tapered candle I bought from the store today, play some music, and position my phone as it rings.
Rylee.
Fuck, seeing her name across my phone still sends a sense of excitement through me. I answer her FaceTime request and can’t contain the smile when she comes on screen. God, how I want to kiss that beautiful face, those luscious lips.
“Hey, Saucy.”
She looks flustered, her hair a mess, her face flushed, and splashes of red all over her white shirt.
“Ugh, why did you pick such a hard recipe?” She presses her forehead into the palm of her hand, her eyes still focused on mine.
“What do you mean?”
Moving her phone, she shows me a plate of what looks like half-cooked spaghetti, chunky sauce, and charred garlic bread. Oh hell.
“I’ve never made homemade sauce before, my noodles weren’t cooking for so long because I didn’t know the burner wasn’t on, and my oven practically scorched my bread. And who makes sauce with real tomatoes?”
I chuckle. I know I shouldn’t but can’t help it. Rylee is a bad cook and for some reason, I find it endearing, especially since she at least gave it a go. A few days ago, I proposed the idea of eating dinner together. I gave her what I thought was an easy recipe to follow so we could both eat the same thing. Seems like my night of cooking went a little smoother than hers.
“Uh, it said canned tomatoes.”
“No, it didn’t.” She pauses and looks to the sky. “Did it?”
“It did.”
She exhales heavily and sits back in her chair. “Ugh, I’m sorry. I was working through this scene today in my book, and I swear it sucked all my mental capacity. When I realized I was supposed to cook dinner tonight, I was rushing. I’m almost positive this is going to taste like a cat ate it and then threw it back up on my plate.” Gross fucking visual.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.” She plays with her fork in her spaghetti. “I’ve never done this before, had a FaceTime dinner date. I wanted to make sure I did a good job, you know, impress you a little. All I accomplished was tie-dying my shirt with the most likely under-seasoned spaghetti sauce.” This girl. Too adorable.
“You wanted to impress me? That’s sexy.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
She motions to her body. “You call this sexy?” Fuck, yes.
“Every single time I see you,” I answer, not even skipping a beat. And every time I close my eyes and see you in my mind. She casts her eyes downward and what I wouldn’t do right now to lift her chin, to force her to focus those irises on me. How can she be so insecure about herself?
“I’m just unsure of what this is between us, Beck. Whatever it is, I’m not good at it.”
“You don’t have to be good at it, Saucy, you just have to be present. The good happens along the way.”
She visibly sighs, her tense shoulders relaxing, a light smile playing across her lips.
“You’re so freaking . . . ugh.”
I laugh. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is.” Shaking her head and hands, like she’s erasing the moment, she says, “Let’s start over.”
Playing along, I say, “Okay, do you want me to call back?”
“Yeah, call me back.”
She’s so goddamn cute. I hang up and give it a few seconds before I set my phone up again and call her. When she answers, she’s no longer wearing a spaghetti-stained shirt. Instead—and fuck, it’s even better—she’s only wearing a red lace bra. There might be food somewhere too, but fuck. Red. Lace. Bra.
My eyes narrow and my dick grows hard, immediately pressing against the zipper of my jeans. This is the one time where wearing no underwear is an issue—when you have a hot-as-hell woman you can’t get enough of FaceTiming you topless. Fuck, it’s been too goddamn long since I’ve been able to touch her.
I clear my throat, and say, “Are you trying to kill me, Rylee?”
She looks at her breasts that are spilling out of her bra and giggles. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t think this through. I was going to change my shirt but you called back so quickly, that this is what you got. Want me to go put something on?”
She goes to stand and I say, “No!” I shake my head. “No, I want you to take more off.”
She tilts her head to the side and gives me a get real look. “I’m not about to sit here naked for you while you eat your delicious spaghetti meal and I choke mine down.”
“I wish you were choking down something else right now.”
With mirth in her eyes, she gives her head a shake. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re hot, so take your bra off.”
“I’ll take my bra off if you take your clothes off.”
Done. Before she can protest, I pull my shirt over my head, toss it to the ground and reach for the zipper of my jeans, my cock excited for the release.
“No.” She laughs. “I was kidding. Keep your clothes on.”
I pause, fingers playing with the zipper of my jeans. “It doesn’t bode well for me that you want me to immediately dress myself when I strip down. What are you trying to say? Does my body disgust you?”
“Oh my God, don’t be a drama queen.”
“Me, a drama queen?” I clasp my hand to my chest in mock disgust. “I’m not a drama queen, and you’re avoiding my question. Does my body disgust you?”
Looking up through h
er eyelashes, her voice soft and serious, she says, “You know damn well your body doesn’t disgust me.”
And that look, that one right there where she very carefully bites on her bottom lip, causes a low groan to come out of me.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to touch her, fuck her, hold her.
“Rylee,” I groan, “you can’t look at me like that when I can’t do anything with it.”
Sighing, she leans back in her chair and studies me. “This is stupid, so why are we doing this when we can’t touch each other?”
I see the doubt in her eyes, the hesitation.
“Because we enjoy each other’s company.” Wanting to pull her back into the moment, I nod at our food. “Let’s dig in, and you can tell me more about your new book.”
We spend the next twenty minutes talking plot and laughing hysterically at the cringe-worthy dinner Rylee prepared. I’ve never done plotting before, but it’s damn fun, throwing out suggestions that are either entirely too terrible for her to consider or ideas that actually inspire her. Even though her laugh hooks me every time, it’s the way her eyes light up when I prompt a valuable train of thought for her that really turns me on. Smart and beautiful.
Leaving my plate at the table, I take the phone to my bedroom where I flop on my bed and place one of my hands behind my head. Instead of her bedroom, Rylee sits in what looks to be her living room.
“What did you work on today?” she asks, speaking of my painting.
“No assignments today actually, so I worked on some individual stuff.”
She perks up, and even though I love seeing how interested she is in my profession, it’s hard not to be distracted with how her breasts sway with each and every movement. I’ve had a fucking hard-on from the minute I rang her back, and it’s painful.
So fucking painful.
And she probably has no fucking clue.
“You have your own paintings?”
I nod, trying to focus on something other than the alluring girl in front of me. “Yeah, painting isn’t just a job for me, it’s therapeutic.”
“Can I see what you worked on today?”
I cringe. “Yeah, you don’t want to see that.”