But then I look down and catch her gaze. And my hands still on her hips.
She’s watching me with a funny mixture of free and frustrated, her blue eyes still dark and dilated with desire. She covers her breasts with her arms, and giggles a little when I frown playfully at the movement. No, don’t do that! She’s too beautiful to cover up.
“Nico…I—I just want you to know…I’m not going to sleep with you tonight. I sort of have this rule, you see. I don’t sleep with men on the first date.”
For a minute, I’m stunned. It’s not that I’ve never heard that line before––plenty of girls have similar dumb rules. But for real. As if I give a fuck whether or not she gives it up on date one or date one hundred. Can’t she feel this energy between us? If there is one thing I have ever been sure of in this short, fucked-up life of mine, it’s that our bodies were made for each other. Mine is fuckin’ craving hers at this point, and considering the way her nipples are staring at me like headlamps, she’s dying for me too.
But again, it’s the look on her face that stops me from flipping her over and showing her just how badly we both want it. As turned on as she obviously is, she’s scared too. Those big blue eyes are as wide as the sky, and she’s got her lip in a death clench between her teeth as she watches my reaction.
It’s then that it finally occurs to me that maybe she’s feeling the same thing I’m feeling. Something that goes deeper than just bodies. That maybe she doesn’t just see a pretty face and nice abs––that maybe she wasn’t just after fucking the FedEx guy like everyone else in that stupid office.
Maybe when we touch, she feels the same spark. Maybe this spark is more than just fire.
I glance over her body again––it’s right there, and I can’t help but look––but I settle my hands on her hips and gently stroke her hipbones. She closes her eyes, almost like she’s in pain. Oh...baby. I’m right here with you.
“Are you going to kick me out?” I ask softly. “Or...can I at least stay the night?”
I run my hands around her bare back and gently pull her closer, so that our bodies just barely touch. She keeps her arms in front of her chest, but relaxes a little into me. Her arms are surprisingly cool, and she leans into my warmth.
“You want to stay?” she wonders. “With me? In this tiny bed?”
I almost laugh, but I’m surprised by her obvious shock. She thinks I was only coming up here for one thing. Don’t get me wrong––I was definitely coming up here for that. But we haven’t even fucked yet, and already Layla means so much more than sex to me. I hate that she can’t see it.
So I lean down and land a tender kiss on her lips, one that I hope tells her the things I can’t quite say yet. I run my hands up and down her spine, hoping to tell her with my touch. Tell her not to worry. Tell her she’s safe with me.
“Of course I want to stay with you, sweetie. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
She cracks a smile, and my heart cracks in half. “I don’t know. I guess the kind who smashes himself onto a twin mattress with a girl even if she doesn’t put out?”
I laugh this time, then gather her close and kiss her again because I can’t not. She relaxes more, and her arms drop while she buries her face in my chest. It feels so good I laugh some more.
“Well,” I say with a few more kisses on top of her head. I worry her earlobe again between my teeth and enjoy her hum in response. “As long as the girl’s hot and won’t mind if I try some stuff on her later.”
“You better be careful,” she purrs, arching her neck to the side to give me better access. “She’ll probably try some stuff on you too.”
“God, I fuckin’ hope so,” I growl against her neck.
She giggles. The sound is fucking music to my ears. I could die a happy man if the last thing I ever heard was Layla’s laugh. Then she pushes away reluctantly and grabs my shirt from the floor to hold against her breasts.
“Awww,” I fake moan, flopping my hands out as I collapse back onto the bed. “Don’t do that. Booooo.”
I’m being a clown, but it only makes her laugh more. She turns back to face me, unable to conceal her grin. That smile. It fuckin’ slays me.
“I’m just going to slip into some pajamas, if that’s all right with you,” she says shyly, even as her eyes run down the length of my body again. “Jeans are kind of uncomfortable.”
I can’t even hide the sly smile that arises at the thought of her taking off her pants.
“You mind if I make myself comfortable too, baby?” I ask, gesturing down at my jeans, which are still partially open and not hiding a damn thing about how turned on I still am.
She blushes visibly in the dark light, but shakes her head with another grin. “Not at all.”
She grabs some clothes from her dresser and leaves the room––I’m a little disappointed that she won’t let me watch her change, but I get it. I’m not that much of a creep. While she’s gone, I pull off my jeans, shoes, and socks, and stack my clothes on her desk chair. Then I get into her bed to escape the chill, taking a look at the room she lives in.
In some ways, the way she lives reminds me of my mom’s cramped apartment. I never slept in a room by myself until I moved out of there. The mishmash of posters and pictures taped all over the walls reminds me a little of how Ma used to let my sisters, brother, and me decorate her place. Almost as if to make up for the fact that we didn’t have our own space, she gave us hers.
This is a small room, split between the two sets of clunky wood furniture that each clearly belong to Layla and her roommate. Layla’s bed is crammed against the right side of the room, with a desk on the other side of the bed, and a dresser beyond that. I look around curiously at little ways she’s made the space her own: a really beautiful painting of something that looks like tribal art is tacked over her dresser, and a bulletin board crammed with photos is next to that. Her desk is cluttered with an open jewelry box, a bunch of books and scattered papers, cosmetics, and a computer. I’m tempted to ask her if I can get online. I don’t have a computer, so I don’t check my email that often.
But then again, who’s going to email me?
A few minutes later, Layla comes back looking cute as fuck in a pair of miniscule cotton shorts and a cotton tank top that makes it more than obvious she’s not wearing a bra. Her hair is pulled back in a long ponytail, one I could easily see myself pulling while I do extremely dirty things to her.
But not tonight, I remind myself. Fuck. This is going to be torture. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
I watch curiously as she reaches to the side of the bed and pulls a blue curtain around the wire that I hadn’t noticed suspended from the ceiling. It’s sort of like a hanging shower curtain that surrounds the bed and wraps the two of us with a little bit of privacy. Once we’re immersed in a sheath of darkness, she leans over me, surrounding me with that sweet coconut smell of hers, and switches on her bedside light. It casts a low, ambient glow through the dark blue material.
I grin. “Nice cave.”
Layla sits on the bed next to me. “Quinn and I had to rig something in here, if just to preserve our friendship.”
“I could have used one of these when I was growing up.”
“Tight quarters?”
“You could say that. Get under here.”
She slides in eagerly as I yank back the covers to make room for us both on the narrow mattress. I catch her glancing down my body, pausing briefly on the bulge in my briefs. With a soft hum, she tucks securely into the crook of my arm like she’s meant to be there, laying her head on my chest. She sighs. I sigh. And then, because I just fuckin’ have to, I tip her chin up and kiss her again, another deep, long kiss with just enough tongue to let her know I still want her more than anything, but mostly that I’m just happy to be with her.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her again, unable to keep it back.
My filter is shot to hell with this girl. Her face sees through my damned soul. I have a
feeling I couldn’t hide anything from her if I tried.
She shivers, but I don’t think she’s cold. We lie here, listening to each other breathe in the quiet of the room. The combination of the wine and her warm body next to me soon causes my eyelids to droop.
“Nico?” she asks in a voice low and sleepy.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Thanks for staying. I...I had a good time.”
I hug her tighter, enjoying the feel of her legs entwined with mine, the curve of her lower back under my hand. It doesn’t matter how we do it. Together, we just fit. Absently, I brush a kiss over the top of her head. She inhales, then exhales, long and content.
“Anytime, baby,” I say. And I mean it.
We both close our eyes. Our heartbeats find a similar rhythm as we drift off to sleep.
~
CHAPTER TWELVE
Layla
I awake the next morning to the sound of the curtain sliding back on the clothesline, and Nico is pulling his pants on. God, he looks even better in the light than he did at night––I don’t think I’ve ever had beer goggles work in reverse before. Now the chiseled muscles of his stomach and chest are in full relief in the morning light, and the black of his tattoos are even more visible. I sigh as the rest of the night comes back to me.
Most of our “sleep” consisted of more groping and making out under the thick comforter, even after my roommates clambered in sometime after three. It was simply impossible to sleep soundly while pressed against his body. For some reason, the knowledge that Quinn was snoring on the other side of the thin curtain made the gorgeous man feeling me up that much hotter, and I couldn’t find a way to say no to his urgent kisses and roving hands. By the morning, I was no longer in possession of my pajama shorts, although I did manage to keep on my underwear and camisole. It took every iota of willpower I had not to tear off his boxer briefs and mount him like a damn pony at about four a.m.
But hey, he never promised to be a gentleman. And I never promised to be a lady.
“Hey,” I say drowsily, knowing I must look like a complete wreck.
Curly hair rarely ever looks cute first thing in the morning, and in my half-drunken haze, I didn’t take the time to clean the makeup off my face last night either. I glance across the room at the full-length mirror on the closet door, which reveals several curls sticking out from behind my ears like antennas. With a clap, I grope around my desk for another hair band (since my last one was apparently lost in all the activity) and hastily pile my hair into a messy bun. On the bright side, at least none of my makeup is too badly smudged. I’m pretty sure Nico kissed most of it off.
Nico watches me with an amused smile as he gingerly pulls back the curtain the rest of the way, breaking the sanctuary I built for us last night.
“Hey, baby,” he whispers.
Quinn emits a whale-sized snore across the room, earning an amused glance and a chuckle from Nico.
“Where you going so early?” I ask as I sit up fully.
Much to my disappointment, he pulls his shirt on over his shoulders and sits down to put on his shoes. “I figured I should leave before your roommates wake up.”
I glance at the clock on my desk. It’s just past seven. “Nico, there is no way they’re going to wake up before ten. Besides, they won’t care if you’re here. Jamie or Shama, or both, probably have guys in their room too. Come on, it is way too early on a Saturday for you to be rushing out.”
He smiles again and lies down beside me, and I let him pull my head into his chest for a quick embrace as he kisses my forehead. It’s a sweet gesture, the kind that makes me want to think maybe this means more to him than a casual hookup. God, I hope so.
“You’re even gorgeous in the morning,” he murmurs. “It’s insane. Who are you? Where did you come from?”
I push myself to sit up fully and smile over him. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Soltero. Take your shoes off. Shirt too. I can make it worth your while.”
But he shakes his head ruefully and sits back up, then stretches his beanie back over his head. I know it’s cold outside, but it makes me sad. His hair is thick and glossy. I could run my fingers through it all day.
“I’m really not ditching you, sweetie, I promise. I just have some errands I need to run today, and I’m up, so I figured I’d get them out of the way. Listen…” He traces the cream piping on my eggplant-colored comforter. “Shit…do you want to meet up later this afternoon? I have to work at AJ’s again tonight, but I’d like to see you…if you’re okay with that.”
It’s the game he’s struggling with; I know because I’m struggling too. It’s not cool to want to see someone so soon—especially not the same day after you’ve hooked up. If you’re the guy, you’re supposed to play it cool, wait a few days until you send the girl a casual text to meet up somewhere. If you’re a girl, well, you’re just supposed to wait, and under no circumstances do you call the guy before he calls you. It sucks. Hard. Hardly anyone actually dates anymore, and if they do, they do their best to downplay it.
So when he comes right out and tells me that he wants to see me again, I’m over the fucking moon. Calling me the same night he got my number. Taking me out for the first time on Valentine’s Day. Staying the night with me––without even having sex. And now asking for another date in just a few hours? I guess we’re breaking all the rules.
I try to stifle a wide grin, but it’s a complete failure. My friends always tease me for having such a transparent face. Normally it doesn’t bother me; it’s something that keeps me honest. But in this case, I wouldn’t mind shielding my hand a bit more.
“Sure,” I reply, trying my best to sound nonchalant. “I don’t have much going on today. I guess that sounds good.”
Nico raises one black eyebrow. He sees right through me, which only makes me grin harder. “You guess, huh? Well, good, NYU. I’ll call you after I get my stuff taken care of. Say, around four?”
I nod. He leans in for a brief but thorough kiss, unable to completely subdue a grunt of pleasure before he breaks away.
“Take care, beautiful,” he says as he draws the curtain back around the bed.
I fall into my pillow, listening to the sound of his feet tiptoeing through the apartment. The front door only squeaks a little when it opens, but I don’t close my eyes again until it shuts.
~
Nico
After spending the morning fixing the busted pipe under my mom’s sink and listening to her nag at me for wearing jeans to Mass, I finally manage to get out of Hell’s Kitchen to get a haircut and meet up with K.C. for lunch.
K.C., whose real name is Kevin Carlos, is my best friend. Really, he’s another brother, my twin, since our moms are both from the same part of Puerto Rico. We grew up together in the Kitchen, went to the same elementary school together, high school, ran with the same kids. K.C. and I are ride or die. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him, and him for me.
“Whazzup, maricón!” he hollers when I enter our favorite Dominican restaurant up on One-Forty-First and Broadway.
It’s no different than every other mom and pops’ place in West Harlem, but this one has a cute waitress K.C. likes to flirt with. He’s not allowed to fuck her because we like the chicken here too much.
“Hey, mano,” I greet him with a slap and a hug. “How’s LA? You missin’ New York yet, motherfucker?”
K.C. left a year ago for a job out in LA, but he comes back all the time to visit, usually when he’s booked a gig at one of the clubs. I’m proud of my friend. He started out hoofing around boxes of records for some of the early beat boys in our neighborhood, and now he’s really starting to make a name for himself as a DJ. A big radio station just hired him to do their hip-hop programming while he spins at clubs on both coasts.
“Miss this shitty weather?” K.C. gestures outside, where the snow is piled up on the sidewalks. “Fuck no. Gimme palm trees and beaches. Girls in bikinis, if you please!”
I pull off my jacket
and my hat, eager to get warm. Last night the snow was pretty, but today it’s gray sludge and just causes a bunch of delays. Took me an extra hour just to get up here on the 1 train.
Lula, the waitress K.C. likes, comes over holding her notepad and rattles off a bunch of insults at him in Spanish. Her dialect is a little different from ours––she moved here from Panama, and I know she gets lost sometimes in the slang that gets thrown around by all the different groups in New York. K.C. always liked to mess with her that way, so now she messes with him.
“Nico, que quiere?” she asks me after she’s done trading barbs with K.C.
I order my favorite chicken plate, and she leaves us with a pitcher of Coors Light that K.C. ordered. I roll my eyes.
“Coño, it’s fuckin’ twelve-thirty,” I say as he pours us both pints. “You don’t think it’s a little early?”
“Shut the fuck up,” K.C. says. “This is basically water. Stop bein’ a pussy and drink.”
I just look at the beer skeptically. I still want to get in a workout at the gym before I catch up with Layla. The last time I sparred on a stomach full of beer, I was in the bathroom for an hour puking my guts out. No bueno.
“Come on, cabrón,” K.C. jeers. “We’re celebrating. Fuck your boxing shit. You ain’t gonna need that when you come to LA with me.”
“Come again?” I ask, sitting back as Lula brings a water for me. “Gracias, linda. K.C., what are you talking about?”
K.C. leans over the table, his round white face practically glowing with excitement. It’s funny. He’s never the best-looking dude in the room. Always a little pudgy with skinny arms and a gut, he’s so light-skinned that he looks like he was shipped straight from Spain, which is only more obvious by the fact that he started shaving his head a couple of years ago. Dude looks like the Man in the Moon.
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