“Thanks, Dad,” I say, holding my glass to his.
“Cheers.” He clinks and we swallow the last sweet, hot rush of a memory-bonded drink. He grabs my mug and says, “Tell Henry he’s on glass stocking duty. That little shit think he’s fooling anyone showing up twenty minutes after you actually need him every single time? Plus that, he’s trying hard to reel in your woman, and that’s one fish too big for that boy’s line.” He shakes his head, laughing appreciatively. “Man oh man, it’s nice to watch the boy try his heart out.”
My dad and I take a moment to enjoy the sight of Mila mercilessly schooling Henry, and then I stride off to her, my dad’s words solidifying my resolve.
“Dickhead, Dad needs you to do some actual work, so get back there and help. Not that your karaoke didn’t gladden all our hearts while we were busting our asses while we were in the weeds tonight.”
I smile at his scowl, then scowl myself when he kisses Mila way too close to the mouth. He goes back to the bar with a grin I’m sorely tempted to beat off his face.
“You both need to stop it,” Mila sighs. “I’ve decided that New Jersey, as gorgeous and welcoming as it is, is no place for romance. It’s too complicated here. Why is that?”
“Are you trying to say it’s less complicated in other states?” I ask, ringing my arms around her waist.
“Yeah.” Her voice is soft and her eyes, wide and green, are on me, shining then extinguishing, half-nervous, half-excited. “Why?”
“We are the most densely populated state in the nation. You know what that means. We’re used to being close to other people. That’s the key to romance.” I edge closer, she dodges back.
“Proximity?” She shakes her head. “No wonder you’re an opportunistic dater.”
She means for it to be funny. But neither one of us laughs.
“Hey. Stop saying that, okay?” I lean down and brush my lips over hers, softly.
I think about what Toni probably said to her.
I think about Reggie and Henry.
I think about my own fuck-up-and-run personal dating philosophy.
Then I just think about her. Having her in my arms, having the chance to maybe, possibly, make things right. Finally make things right.
I kiss her a little more, and she opens her lips to me.
“You stop,” she says, but her voice is dreamy.
“You mean I should stop kissing you here and get you on my futon?” I whisper. “And right now would be the best time, of course. Because I’d really like to get it on before we sleep. Santa skips the houses where kids are awake.”
She laughs, but it’s jangly. “Landry, I can’t just crash your parents’ house and stay over on Christmas. And I’m definitely not staying in your bed.”
I cup her face and rub my thumb over her bottom lip, loving the way she shivers in response. “You came out here, drove all those hours, on this night of all nights, and you’re not even gonna get the goods?”
She blushes and backs up, almost bumping into another slowly swaying couple. “Landry, I didn’t come here to sleep with you.”
“You did too,” I insist. The smile that tug-of-wars on her lips is equal parts embarrassed and excited. “You did because what we have is chemistry. Undeniable chemistry like I’ve never had with anyone else. If you have had it before, just don’t tell me, okay? So let’s see if it means anything, if it works out to be more than we think. If not, we know and we can move on, okay? But if we don’t do this, we’re never gonna know. It will make daily life together hellish.”
“And if we have sex and regret it?” she presses, her hands rubbing slowly up and down my back.
“Then it won’t be uncomfortable at all. It just won’t be. I know this seems like it came out of nowhere to you, but I had an epiphany. You’re the one, Mila. And if I can’t use my limited charm and sexy prowess and incredible work ethic to convince you that we should be together, I’m going to hole myself up in my bar, grow a long, scary beard, and grumble along with all my unsatisfied, miserable customers. But, before I throw out all my razors, be with me. Do this with me.”
She shakes her head a little, and I grab her hands.
“Listen, imagine we were on Serenity, okay? You’re like the hot cheerful fixer girl—”
“Kaylee.” Mila is trying hard not to smile, but just the mention of that show lights her up.
“Right! Okay, and I’m the doctor with the stick up his ass sometimes—”
“Simon.” She grins and grabs me by the shirt, tugging me closer.
“Right. Could you imagine the end of Serenity without the Simon and Kaylee romance having some resolution?” I’m reaching here. I’m pulling from deep down to find something, anything to sway her.
She stands on her toes and pulls my head down, until her mouth is level with my ear. “Will you talk nerdy to me if I sleep on the futon with you?”
“All night long. It’ll be like that episode where Mal tricks Simon into thinking Kaylee’s dead, and Simon goes nuts on him. But, you know, not that morbid. Was that too morbid?”
She’s so alive, her eyes bright, her hands running in a hot, frantic pace over me, her lips parted, and before I can blabber on about her favorite show or whatever she thinks is sexy, she pulls my lips down and kisses me, fierce and fast at first, then slower, with more tongue and moaning and rubbing against me.
I know everyone can see us. I know my dad is probably completely uncomfortable and Henry is most likely contemplating jumping the bar and beating the crap out of me, but I don’t care. I couldn’t care less.
She’s in my arms, she’s kissing me back, we have this night, this one night she was so sure would be filled with so much crazy magic.
And, just as quickly as I screwed it all up for her, I have the chance to make it all right again, to make the two of us take the leap from awkward roommate-friends to lovers and everything else we should be.
“Come home with me,” I suggest, pulling back from her lips and kissing each one of her eyebrows, on the side of each eye, down along to her ears. I kiss her and I know, for sure, no questions, that as long as she’s with me, I’ll be home.
“Let’s go,” she says, and tugs my hand.
We leave without a second glance, into the blustery snow, away from the warmth of the bar, towards a new beginning that might link us together or unravel us permanently.
I’m ready to gamble on this. I’m ready to take my shot at being with her, no matter what happens in the end.
I’m ready to make my home.
Chapter 12
By the time we get to the house, it’s dark inside except for the multi-colored glow of the Christmas tree shining from the living room.
“This feels…this isn’t a good idea,” Mila whispers as I push her up against the front door and kiss her along her neck. “Mmm, Landry, maybe I should just sleep on the couch.”
“Impossible.” I suck on her earlobe and love the gasp that jumps out of her lips. “If Santa sees you, he won’t leave us any presents.”
She presses her face into my coat to muffle her laugh. Even though it makes sense to muffle it so she doesn’t wake the whole damn house, I hate not being able to hear that laugh.
“Come downstairs with me.” I tug her by the coat, and she follows, one slow, uncertain step at a time.
“Are you sure this is okay with your parents? I feel like this is a really inappropriate holiday crash. I mean, I know they said it’s okay, but it’s Christmas tomorrow and—”
“Shhh.” She comes down one stair, then another one, and I bury my face in the comforting dark between her tits. I poke my head back out and she’s laughing again, hand over her mouth. “My parents will be fine with this. I’m an adult. An adult who is sleeping in his old basement room, but still… And you drove from Boston to New Jersey on Christmas Eve. You deserve a warm futon. This will be fun. I promise.”
Her smile falters. “Oh, I have no doubt it will be fun.”
And I realize I made her
sound like a fling.
Shit.
Not the message I want to send at all.
“It will be the beginning of lots of fun.” I kiss her, my hands tangled in her good-smelling hair, running up and down her back, filling up with the swells of her tits, squeezing her narrow shoulders possessively, because that’s the way I feel about her: possessive. “Come to my futon.”
She rolls her eyes, but she follows me down the stairs, into the basement, past the washer and dryer and into the room where I spent my entire teenage life and the very beginning of my adulthood.
“It’s cozy.” She twists her hands. I close the door and flip the lock, just in case any idiot sibling bumbles down in the night.
Luckily, since I moved out, my mother gave it a thorough cleaning and no one bothered with it again, so there’s nothing too embarrassing—
“Is this a lava lamp?” Mila flips it on, watching as the blobby ‘lava’ in the bottom heats up and starts to float. “I knew you were a player back in the day, Landry, but I had no idea you were, like, some kind of professional gigolo with a whole sex lair lit with lava lamps.”
“Lava lamps are not just for sex lairs. That’s a really popular misconception.” I sit on my futon bed and pat the thin mattress. She comes over and takes a cautious seat next to me. “Sometimes they’re just a psychedelically cool way to light your room.”
I tug her close, kiss her, and put my hand up on the side of her face. She grabs my wrist and kisses back.
She pulls away, her lips still slightly puckered, her eyes closed. “Back up for just one second. How did this happen again?”
“What?” I press strands of dark hair back off her face, and she licks her lips, then pinches them together.
“How were we just friends last week? And now? How did we get here? It feels like—”
“Me getting my head out of my ass?” I press my forehead against hers. “I don’t know how I lived with you for so long and didn’t see what was right in front of my face, Mila. I’m a little dense, alright? But once I realized how right you and I are for each other, I didn’t want to waste any more time. I feel like an asshole for wasting this much already. I know you’re not sure about all this, but keep me around for a while. I swear to you, I won’t let you down.”
I say the words, but even I wonder if they’re all just words turned into promises I’m not sure I can keep. I let people down. It’s what I do.
I’ll have to work my ass off to change that.
For her.
I think about Reggie and everyone else who realized how freaking awesome Mila was before I woke up to her general amazingness, and it scares the shit out of me. It’s a whole new sensation. I’ve been afraid to lose things before or to fuck up, but I’ve never been scared about a girl.
Even when things went south with Heather, it was more aggravation followed by a strange, strong dose of relief.
With Mila, my world and the way I look at it has been turned upside down and shaken, and I’m just grabbing on to her like my life depends on it.
Because I have a feeling it does.
“Landry,” she sighs, and when she kisses me this time, it’s all the wild, insistent slide of her tongue, the quick nip of her teeth, the pressure of her mouth, crushed to my face as she tries to keep connected and pull her clothes off at the same time.
I back up and slide her coat off her shoulders. We lock eyes as I grab the hem of her sweater, and she nods, so I drag it up, over her head. Though I’ve done this a thousand times before with complete success, I manage to get her tangled in the shirt. She laughs, her arms locked over her head, her face covered by the soft fabric. I jump up and tug harder, and the sweater pops off her head, leaving her collapsed on the mattress, her wild hair even crazier from the static electricity.
She sits up and reaches for my hand, zapping me.
I hardly notice. She’s so beautiful, and it’s not just the fact that her shirt is off and her bra is only a few tiny, festive scraps of red lace and shiny fabric.
I mean, it’s also that.
I’m having a hard time ripping my eyes off of all that perfection. But her smile actually rivals her seriously perfect curves, and it gets my heart thumping in a way that even her very impressive rack doesn’t.
I realize how completely sappy that is, but it’s the god’s honest truth.
“You’ve got the best smile,” I tell her, looking down at her upturned face, lit up with happiness.
My words are like some kind of switch. Her smile melts and her eyes go wider and darker. She pulls in her bottom lip and bites it, then reaches her hands up to the button of my jeans and undoes it. She tugs the zipper down and I pull a breath in through my teeth. I grab the back of my shirt and pull it over my head, pretty pumped by the appreciative ‘mmm’ she murmurs when she sees me.
My pants are hanging half off my hips. I press her back on the bed, the thin cotton of my boxer briefs letting me feel enough of her that I’m getting painfully hard, but not enough that I’m anywhere near satisfied.
I move a hand down and undo her pants, pressing them off her hips and down her long legs. She kicks them off and my eyes sweep along her body from head to toe.
From sexy, dark-haired head, to Darcy sock-adorned feet.
“I gotta ask you something,” I say as I lie close to her. She rolls on her side, her thick-lashed eyes lined up with mine. “Who the hell is Mr. Darcy?”
She puts one hand on my shoulder and runs it up and down my arm, all the way to my wrist and back up to my shoulder three or four times before she links her fingers with mine. She smiles at me with a look of pity that says she feels sorry for me because I’m so embarrassingly moronic.
“Darcy is a guy from a book. A super sexy guy from a super famous book.”
“Is there a movie about his book?” I ask, drawing the back of my hand from the side of her neck and down between the nestled red lace. I stop and run a finger inside one cup, then the other, and she closes her eyes and swallows hard.
“A few. Movies…about Mr. Darcy. Yeah, there are.” She snuggles closer to me and lets her hand bump over my ribs and my abs, then come to a quick stop right at the waistband of my boxers.
“We’ll have to watch them. You know. Some morning after we have marathon sex and just need a day to recharge.”
It’s too dark to see her face, but I can almost feel the heat of her blush. I link my fingers in her panties and tug them down an inch, two, before she stills my hand.
“Wait.” She reaches down and pulls off the socks. “I know you’re a guy and can have sex with your socks on and all, but it doesn’t work that way for me. Socks just kill the mood, in my opinion.”
I reach down and pull mine off. “Okay. Darcy is sexy. Socks are unsexy. Even when combined with Darcy. Noted.”
“You’re going to have me completely figured out, and then I won’t be able to resist you,” she whispers, leading my hand back to her panties.
I push them down until they tangle at her feet and she has to kick them off. My hand runs along the small curve of her ass and up her back to the clasp of her bra, which I make quick work of.
“That’s the plan.” I kiss her along her shoulders and down lower, taking a nipple in my mouth and sucking.
She gasps and pulls her knees up, cradling me between her legs.
“Good?” I double check.
“R-r-really good, Landry.” Her nails scratch light lines down my back, and she hooks her thumbs in the waistband of my jeans, but doesn’t push them down.
She pulls her thumbs towards my stomach until they meet in the middle, then presses them out so they bump over my hip bones, trace along my spine, and rub just below the small of my back. Her fingers barely brush my skin and kind of tickle.
But sexy gigolos with lava lamps don’t get ticklish during hot sex.
Only her fingers are stroking so softly right at my ribs, and I’m not made of stone. I’m not. I pull back and laugh.
“Did I tickl
e you?” she asks with a wicked smile.
“You know how you think socks are unsexy?” I kiss the tip of her nose and push up on my arms to put myself out of reach of her tickling fingers. She nods and makes her face too innocent, so I know she’s got an excellent handle on exactly what she’s doing. “I think tickling, the word tickle, the whole idea is completely unsexy. For a guy, of course.”
“Sexist,” she accuses, her mouth making a perfect ‘o’ of glee. “So it’s fine for you to tickle me, but not the other way around?”
“Mmm, kinda,” I kiss her neck. “Though I think it’s always a pretty bad idea. Tickling is all fun and games until someone pisses their pants.”
I can feel the laugh that bubbles in her throat through my lips, and I rush up to kiss her and catch it, directly in the open space of my mouth.
She jerks her hands over my ribs a few times, mock tickling me, and would have kept the ruse up if I didn’t resort to true gigolo tactics. I pull away from her mouth and lick and suck down her neck, down her arms, around her nipples, over the juts of her hips and the dip of her stomach, and she only stops laughing when I kiss her thighs, along the tops.
I kiss her quiet, and run one hand between her ankles, up along the smooth muscles of her calves and to the damn of her knees, pressed as tight as her sexy smile was loose.
“Do you want me to stop here? Because you have great knees.” I kiss up her shins and she wiggles her toes at me.
“Knobby knees,” she says, sitting up on her elbows.
I trace a finger over the rounded smoothness of them. “Sexy as hell knees.”
She opens them an inch, and I slip my thumb in the space. She lets them fall a few inches farther apart, and I run my fingertips from the boney curves down the long, satiny skin of her inner thighs and all the way to the slick, warm center of her. My mouth follows my fingers, and she drops her head back and collapses her elbows, pressing her hips up and towards my eager tongue.
I link my arms under her thighs and pull her closer, licking and kissing at her as she grabs the sheets in her fists and pulses against me, her body jerking in short, frenzied bursts.
A Toast to the Good Times Page 13