“I already have,” I say, glancing briefly at London. I haven’t mentioned any of this yet. I haven’t wanted to bring it up because it just seems so . . . serious. “What I meant is that I probably won’t accept the offer from UCSD. I got into Boalt. I’m still waiting to hear from Yale, but most likely I’m headed to Berkeley.”
London’s head shoots up. “What?”
Guilt cools my bloodstream. “Yeah, I heard back from a few places last week.”
“Holy shit, that’s ama—” Harlow’s phone rings in her purse and she digs for it, squealing when she looks at the screen and excusing herself to answer the call.
“Hey, weirdo,” I whisper-hiss to London. When she looks up, I continue: “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you so quiet today?”
“I had sort of a mini-meltdown when I got home last night. Harlow was there, we had a little talk, and here we are.”
I frown and I reach for her hand. “I’m glad—thrilled, actually—but that’s not what I meant. Are you okay today?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking about wha—”
“Would it be okay if I came over tonight?” she asks, finally holding my gaze.
“Tonigh—?”
“I’d invite you to my place,” she quickly cuts in, “but Lola left this morning so I’m having the paint redone and the entire loft reeks.”
I can’t figure out if she wants to come over to escape her place, or because she wants to be with me, but in either case, I’m all for it. “Of course. Sure.”
She smiles her thanks and ducks to keep eating. I can’t really look away. Out in the sun it’s obvious that London put some effort into how she looks today: she’s wearing a little makeup. Her hair is brushed and smooth. She even painted her nails.
“London?” I ask.
She looks up and I realize I have no idea how to ask her what I want to ask her. Why are you so dressed up? sounds kind of douchey and may imply I think she usually looks less than perfect, which is totally false.
“What?” she asks when I’ve been silently staring at her for too long.
“You look really pretty today.”
She scoffs, smiling into her sandwich. “Shut up.”
“No, you really do. You’re not going to meet some guy after this, are you?” I ask, trying to give her a winning smile.
Laughing, she says, “No.”
“A girl, then? I’m cool with switch hitters, but when you look like this, I want you all for myself.”
Her smile is enormous, but it’s gone in a flash. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and pretend to scowl down at her lunch when she whispers, “You’re an idiot.”
Harlow returns, dropping her phone into her purse. “Never marry a fisherman,” she tells me.
I laugh. “Noted.”
“They’re too sexy for their own good and you’ll end up spending your entire paycheck on a last-minute ticket.”
I look back and forth between London and Harlow before saying, “I’m confused. You have to fly to see your husband?”
“When he’s filming,” she says, and then takes an enormous bite of sandwich. It feels like it takes her three years to finish chewing and swallow before she explains, “He’s one of the Fisher Men.”
I slap the table. “Shut up. I can’t wait for that show. Even the promotion is making me feel manly. Wait.” I pause. “You’re married to one of them?” London is shooting me a warning look but I’m too dense to pick up on it right away. “They’re all single.”
“No, they aren’t,” Harlow says with an edge, and when I look up at London, she quickly tucks away a smile.
Harlow and I catch up on the past few years and then begin stumbling down memory lane. London listens, smiling and laughing at the stories—she didn’t grow up with us so she couldn’t possibly understand the insanity that was Harlow, Lola, and Mia together since elementary school.
“Luke,” Harlow sings, shaking her head, “what would we have done without you back then?”
“Luke was your go-to?” London asks. She’s a little skeptical, but mostly fascinated, and fuck, I could kiss Harlow right now. How did she know this was exactly what London needed?
“Oh,” Harlow says, holding up a hand. “You have no idea. This poor guy. Before we would call our parents we would call Luke. He drove before any of us, and took us everywhere. He rescued the three of us more times than I can remember.”
I laugh, because it’s true. The girls got locked out of buildings naked I think more than any other humans on the planet, punctured two tires on Mia’s piece-of-shit Geo Tracker when they decided to try offroading in the San Bernardinos—hours away from home—and needed me to come get them in Big Bear one night when they’d tried to go camping and had forgotten the tent, had no money for a motel, and Harlow got food poisoning.
They were put in charge of the prom committee senior year—and it’s a miracle the entire school didn’t end up getting arrested for public indecency, but when the cops came, I made sure they knew it wasn’t Harlow who had spiked the punch.
I knew the best way to sneak Mia in and out of her house—not just for fooling around, but to drive her down to the beach and watch her dance at sunrise.
I drove Lola to her evening art class every Tuesday and Thursday night after I got my license.
I would have done anything for those girls, and I did.
I still would.
Harlow and I go from fuming together over something horribly condescending Mia’s dad said to her about dancing, to wheezing in laughter, remembering Lola’s three-legged Humper Dog that would literally have sex with any vertical limb in close proximity. The girls once playfully held me down to see what would happen if we let him go—trust me, at fifteen I was fine being pinned to the couch by three girls—and the dog eventually just peed on my leg.
All through it, though, London stays pretty quiet, and I’m inclined to not push her about it. I mean, I’m not an idiot; the way she’s looking intently at me every few seconds makes me think she’s probably mulling over what’s happening between us, and her being here—with lunch, all dressed up—has to be a good sign.
But inside, I feel tense, wanting to be alone with her to talk it out—to talk about us and make sure she’s really okay, to discuss the prospect of me moving in a few months—but knowing there is no way I can push the conversation yet again. For the first time in our . . . relationship . . . I have to wait for her to come to me.
* * *
LONDON IS ON my porch when I get home, clutching her bag. Before I even reach the top step, she’s speaking.
“I just got here. I haven’t been waiting—”
“I wish you would lie to me sometimes,” I grumble, teasing. “I like the idea of you hanging out, anxiously pining for me.”
Her hand lightly slaps my shoulder as I bend to unlock the front door.
“Want something to drink?” I ask her over my shoulder, dropping my keys, wallet, and phone on the counter.
“A beer?”
I can feel her behind me, looking around before following me into the kitchen. She’s quiet as I open the fridge, reach for a bottle, and pop it open for her.
Turning with her drink in my hand, I immediately run into her. She’s there—right there—chest now pressed to my arm.
I smile, but it feels badly shaped, wobbly. “Hey.”
Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips. “Hey.”
She stares at me, studying, and in an instant I realize she’s working up the nerve to start something. But I’m still wary enough to never want to make that bet. Maybe she changed her mind and doesn’t want a beer. Maybe she wants to add a snack to her order. Maybe—
Her hand comes up from her side, moving up my chest and around to cup the back of my neck.
“London?”
She pulls, stretching at the same time, covering my mouth with hers.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The relief,
the soft feel of her, the slide, the sweetness. Her full lips move over mine, sucking at the bottom, coaxing me open, and my pulse explodes. Her tongue licks my lip, my top teeth. I feel when she moans before I hear it.
My heart is a fucking monster in my chest, claws thrashing.
I pull back, on that razor-sharp edge of ecstasy and heartbreak, needing to know which way I’ll slide. “Are you . . . ?” I don’t even know how to end the sentence. I don’t want this to be a rash impulse of hers.
I’m settled here, in love with her; I couldn’t weather a drive-by.
“Just kiss me?” she whispers.
Her fingers tangle in the hair at the back of my head and she stretches, trailing kisses up my chin. Soft, hesitant kisses to convince me, to coax me some more. Once I force my eyes open, I see that she’s watching me nervously. As if I might say no. The vulnerability there . . . I am fucking done.
The beer bottle shatters near our feet but I need both hands to hold her face. With a groan I take her mouth, tilting her head, sliding my tongue inside and nearly roaring at the stroke of hers, the clench of her hands in my hair. I step forward, moving my hands down her neck, over her shoulders and down her sides, pulling her legs up and around my hips.
My thoughts are nothing but relief and need and need and love and fuck, I’m walking in circles, groaning rhythmically into her mouth.
I don’t know where to take her. I want her in my bed. In my room. I want her here against the wall.
“Your room,” she says, lips moving over my jaw. “Can we go to your room?”
I turn, stumbling down the hall while she kisses and sucks at my neck, her hands digging in my hair, hips grinding into me.
My feet move us to the bed and I lower her there, covering her body with mine and rocking into her, sliding my tongue over hers in the same, slow rhythm.
London scoots up my bed, pulling me up with her, and then rolls us so that she’s over me, her pussy pressed right over my cock as she stares down.
“I like your bedroom,” she says, breaking eye contact to briefly look around.
I follow the path her eyes take: over the bed, the dresser, to the window. It’s a basic room—nice, but unremarkable—and it doesn’t take long for our eyes to meet again. Is she thinking about how many other women have been in here? Is she wondering whether my sheets are clean?
I want to tell her everything, as if confessing—I’ve probably only had sex with two or three girls here, my sheets are clean, I’ve never slept with someone all night in this bed—but there’s no easy way to unload all of this, and what if she’s decided she doesn’t care anyway?
London reaches for the hem of her dress, now bunched at her hips, and lifts the soft cotton up and over her head. Her bra is white and plain, and she reaches back, unhooking it and letting it fall down her arms.
I watch, helpless, as she reaches for me, unbuttoning my dress shirt, helping me shrug out of it. I toss it aside and wrap my arms around her waist, looking up at her.
“I like you,” she whispers.
I exhale, hungry for her and leaning forward to kiss her neck.
The most fucked-up thought hijacks my brain: I don’t want to have sex right now. I want to kiss her. Just kiss. Just feel. I want to focus on the way she touches me, the sounds she makes when I touch her. We’ve charged through everything so far, and I want to go back and feel all the Firsts with her.
I glide my tongue across her collarbone, kissing over the rise of her breast and circling around her nipple. Flicking, sucking—she has a perfect body, perfect skin.
In my hair, her fingers grow tight and restless. Her back arches, pushing her chest closer to my face, hips circling, legs seeking a way to wrap around me.
“I’m sensitive,” she gasps. “I like that.”
I turn my eyes to her, using them to smile as I pull her nipple into my mouth. She watches it come out wet from my tongue, eyes heavy.
“I can tell,” I say.
She was so controlled before, even in the shower when I felt at the time like I got all of her. Here, she’s exposed and defenseless, looking at me with eager eyes and—
“Luke.”
Her voice breaks on the single syllable and she just lets it hang there as she closes her eyes. I don’t really need her to say any more because the fear is written all over her face.
Don’t hurt me.
A spike of pain wedges between my ribs, and I sit up straighter, kissing her slow, and deep. “Hey,” I whisper, repeating it again when she doesn’t open her eyes. “Hey.”
Finally, she looks down at me.
“There isn’t anyone else.”
Her eyes flicker back and forth between mine before she nods, cupping my face and kissing me—so sweet, not deep, just a slide of her mouth over mine.
“Here’s where you tell me you’re not seeing anyone else, either,” I mumble against her lips, and she giggles.
But her eyes are serious when she pulls back. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“Good.”
“You realize how this sounds?” she asks, looking back and forth between my eyes again. “You’re saying that you want to be in a relationship with me?”
“I believe I’ve made that abundantly clear.”
London stretches over me, catlike, and kisses me once before asking, “Where do you keep your condoms?”
Running my thumb across her lips, I say, “Bedside table.” I tilt my head to show her which side I mean, adding, “But I don’t want to do that yet.”
She thinks I’m kidding, and goes to lightly smack my chest, but I catch her hand. “No, I’m serious.”
“We’ve had sex before, you nerd.”
“It was different.” I reconsider. “This is different.”
Nodding slowly, London tries to hide her confusion, and fails, finally admitting, “I want you. I mean, you.”
“I do, too,” I assure her. “God. Trust me.” I close my eyes, swallow, and steady my thoughts before I look at her again. “But I’m also pretty sure I love you,” I say, and she stops breathing. “And I really, really don’t want to fuck this up.”
Her mouth moves for a couple of beats before any sound comes out. “You love me?”
I shrug, going all in. “Yeah.”
As if she only now seems to realize it, she whispers, “You’re shaking.”
I smile, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Because I’m nervous.”
Tilting her head, she lets out a quietly skeptical, “You’re not nervous.”
“I’ve only ever loved one other person.” I reach up, sliding her hair behind her shoulders and cupping her face. Fuck, the way she’s watching me . . . “And doing this feels really different, okay?”
London nods, and slides off my lap to lie back on my bed, wide blue eyes trained expectantly on my face. “What should we do?”
I smile and lose my breath a little at the way her expression softens. She’s never said it, but I can tell London loves my smile.
“I could touch you?” I ask, leaning over her to suck her neck.
I watch her pull her lower lip between her teeth, thinking this over before she whispers, “Okay. I could touch you, too?”
“Me first.” I smile into a kiss to her neck, and inch my fingers under the waistband of her underwear. My hand moves slowly over her pubic bone, farther down . . . and she hisses when I spread her, sliding over her clit and lower and—
“Fuck,” I gasp, pressing my forehead to hers. “Fuck, you are—”
“I know. I know.” She slides her hand around the back of my neck, pulling me down, closing her eyes, working her mouth over mine, working my mouth open. But I want to see her while I do this. Want to witness everything. I give her one kiss and then move back, watching her face as I pull the slickness up and over her clit, circling,
around
around
around
and her eyes fall half closed, jaw goes slack, hips arch into my hand.
�
�Is that nice?”
She exhales a quiet, “Yeah.”
I pull my hand out of her underwear. Her eyes shoot open and she reaches blindly for my arm. “Don’t. Don’t—”
“Shh.” I kiss her. “Trust me.” Showing her my intentions, I slide her underwear down her hips and off her legs.
Relief coats her expression, and she laughs a little, stretching to kiss me.
I run my hand over her stomach. Her knees are bent, legs parted slightly. Just enough for my hand, but not for my full attention.
“Spread your legs.”
She hesitates, and I kiss her, saying again, “Spread your legs. Wide. Please. I want to be able to see.”
With a blush, she lowers her knees to the sides, focusing on my face as I reach forward, touching her.
Something in my chest seems to drop, pulled by a weight in my stomach that makes me feel wild and breathless as I look at her, so open for me. I tease her, slow at first, exploring, telling her I’m patient in every way she needs me to be, but when she reaches for me, running her hands over my bare chest and down, I know she needs more. Faster.
Steady, steady friction.
She whimpers, tugging at the back of my neck, wanting my mouth on hers but I shake my head, telling her I need to watch, I want her to just feel my hand. In truth, I want her wild and a little unhinged, I like the way she finally seems to be all in, needing my weight over her and my kiss on her mouth. I want her begging for my tongue and my cock and my fingers.
She growls a little in frustration but the way she holds her breath when I speed up, her tight gasp when I slide two fingers into her—it’s everything. The entire time, she watches my face; I can only feel it, because I’m watching my hand on her, reeling over the way my fingers come out soaked, the way her skin flushes, the way her legs shake as she gets close, hips arching from the bed and into my hand as she starts to tighten, coming with a long, sharp cry of relief.
She shivers under my touch when I pull my fingers out, and run them up and down the soft, wet skin.
Her eyes are closed, arms bent beside her head and fingers curled in her hair.
“You alive, Logan?”
“No.” She giggles and I bend, drawing the tip of my tongue over her dimple. I’ve wanted to do that forever.
Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4) Page 23