All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  The suitcase. That she had lugged up all these steps.

  Benj wasn’t waiting for Nelle. She was making sure Nelle got in.

  “Wait, wait—” The doormat scratched Bran’s bare feet as he went after her. He caught her wrist, fingertips over her racing pulse. “You want to keep our secret? Or have something?”

  Three thin necklaces were layered on her neck. A bird, an arrow, and a geode pendant hung at varying lengths and he dropped his gaze to the stacked rings she always wore. There, glinting on the ring finger of her left hand was the wedding band. Right where he’d left it.

  It means I have you? she’d asked, looking down at him, her weight pressing comfortably into his lap.

  “You want to have a secret or you want to have me?” Two options. Two competing desires.

  “Both.” Nelle answered with the air of someone who wasn’t accustomed to having to choose. She’d have her milk cake and eat baklava too.

  He shook his head. “We agreed both wouldn’t work. It’s more likely someone will find out the more we try both.”

  “It’s more likely someone will find out if we stay out here on your porch.”

  Nelle wanted to stay. Bran could hardly believe it. She was upset, and she’d come to him. He didn’t want to make more of that than he should. She’d known he’d get it. She’d come to get him.

  Now they’d both reneged on the deal, they’d both put the secret at risk. That wasn’t a habit they could get into. And if she became a habit, Bran didn’t think he’d have the willpower to break it.

  “Just for the night?” he confirmed.

  “I have thirty-six hours.”

  He let go of her and spun an outer dial on the watch at his wrist, marking the time. She stepped back on the landing, her gaze sweeping to the door behind him. He moved aside and she started past him. Towards his home. His room upstairs. His house where—

  Bran caught her wrist again. “You can’t come in.”

  “Why not? It’s my house.”

  That outrageous, possessive rebuttal should have stiffened his resolve to keep her out, but it stiffened something else instead. He lost focus on the reason and blinked before remembering. “The guys are here. The game is on.”

  “The guys?”

  “Cormac, Arlo. We used to be in a band.”

  “I thought you—” She bit her lip. His gaze fixed on her mouth. That set of plump pink lips that he had never gotten to kiss goodbye. And now she was here. On his stoop. Her heartbeat twitching in his hold.

  One night, they’d said.

  One night.

  It should have been enough.

  But it wasn’t. For either of them.

  “Fuck it.” Bran tugged her to him, sliding one hand up her neck, the other across her lower back. Her mouth met his in a hungry kiss. She fisted the T-shirt at his sides, pulling him even closer—he didn’t care if she ripped it this time. He had missed this. He had missed her. She was a song he couldn’t get out of his head, one he played on repeat and wasn’t sick of yet.

  His forehead rocked against hers. “You need to come inside.”

  She nodded and he hated the way the motion took her mouth an inch farther from his. Quickly, he claimed her lips again.

  “We’re gonna—Okay—” Bran pulled back, dazed, trying to force the blood back to his brain. “You’ll sneak up the back stairs and I’ll get rid of Cormac and Arlo.”

  Nelle reached for the suitcase but he already had the handle. He wrapped his other arm around her waist and hauled them through the door.

  “I can walk,” she said, trying to twist out of his grasp.

  “Basic marriage rules: I have to carry you over the threshold.” Bran grunted through the effort. “I’m being romantic.”

  “You’re crushing my ribs.”

  He set her down and kissed her again, backing her into the wall. Flattened hands against the surface forced him back, and it was work ignoring the way her eyes had gone dark, the way her lips had transformed so quickly to lush and swollen. He opened the door to a closet and maneuvered the suitcase out of sight. “We’ll leave this here. You don’t need it.”

  “I do actually—it has all my clothes and—”

  Bran pulled her in for another kiss, sweeping his hot tongue against hers. “You don’t need clothes.” They staggered through the open kitchen opposite the hall from the den, and he nodded to a set of steps. “Get upstairs.”

  “Get rid of them.” She countered his command with her own.

  This was insane. This was absolutely insane and made no sense. The skirt of her dress floated around her thighs as she climbed, and he caught a glimpse of lace. Bran didn’t need any more reason than that.

  He crossed the hall, padded down the steps into the den, and stood lamely next to the TV, staring at his friends.

  “Who was at the door?” Cormac sat forward again, his elbows on his knees, his eyes following the movement of the game. “Is there food?”

  “Special delivery.”

  “Of what?”

  Nothing, Bran tried to say. He couldn’t get the word out. “Something I needed.”

  “A blow-up doll?”

  Bran’s gaze lit on a pencil resting on the tray on the coffee table. “Something to sign.”

  Cormac turned his head towards the door. “Aya’s here?”

  “No, a courier.”

  “Aya trusts you to sign something without her?”

  Bran’s face went hot as he botched the excuse.

  Arlo tapped his book. “You gonna sit?”

  “No. I’ve got...a...headache. I’m gonna go...lie down.”

  His former bandmates exchanged glances, Cormac voicing their shared confusion. “It’s El Clasico. You want to nap. During the last fifteen of El Clasico.”

  “You guys don’t mind—Barcelona’s up. You can go—”

  “Go where? By the time we get anywhere the game will be over.”

  Nelle was upstairs.

  Nelle was upstairs.

  Nelle was upstairs.

  He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t care what they did, as long as he got upstairs too. Soon.

  Bran passed in front of the screen, standing in the arch that opened to the other staircase. “So then. Just close the door. When you leave. And get A to the airport, will you?”

  Cormac went slack jawed. “You’re seriously going to nap.”

  Bran nodded. “Yep. Okay. Bye.”

  He took the floating steps off the den two at a time. A glass-walled hall connected straight across to the kitchen stairs, leading past the open music lounge to the door of his bedroom. Slightly ajar. Bran all but broke out into a run getting to it. He burst into the room, expecting to find Nelle sinking into his extra-stuffed duvet, ready and waiting for him. A quick scan of his empty bed kicked up an embarrassing panic that he’d hallucinated the whole thing—it made more sense than the events of the last ten minutes.

  “Nelle?”

  “In here.”

  Bran followed the sound of her voice to the walk-in closet, pausing before he entered. A second chance to not be such a desperate mess in her presence. He took his time, an eight-count of deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down, and then turned the corner.

  And there she was, holding half of a pair of leather Chelsea boots, the other resting on a near-empty wall designed to display shoes. The four walls of his closet were covered in storage built-ins meant for all manner of clothing and accessories, but mostly displaying the rich dark wood of the building material.

  “You need more clothes. Your closet is so sad.” The three suits—coal black, deep navy, and heather grey—swayed on their hangers as she walked by, hand outstretched. She circled the island of dresser drawers where he kept a limited wardrobe consisting mostly of cotton shirts and denim. “Is Marie Kondo
your stylist?”

  “I don’t have a stylist.” He leaned a shoulder into the doorway. “I don’t need a lot.”

  She finished her lap and replaced the boot, gesturing to the open safe in the corner where his collection of watches were secured in their slots, spinning like astronauts preparing for space, the door, again, slightly ajar. “And yet, so many watches. Why are they rotating?”

  “To keep them wound up.” He took two halting steps into the room. “That was locked. I know that was locked.”

  She shrugged, but a self-satisfied smile gave her away. “I was looking for something.”

  “Our marriage certificate is in the firebox.”

  “And your Cartier watch?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Aya made you take it back?”

  “How did you open the safe, Nelle?”

  Nelle lifted her eyebrows. “Two-two-three-seven-one.”

  The sensation that this was a dream hit him again. “How did you know that?”

  She sang and he had to brace himself on the island between them. “Taste your cherry, your French silk, your coconut cream. It’s constant, girl you got me primed.”

  “I’m familiar with the lyrics, I did write them.”

  “It’s a play on pi, right? 223 over 71? I have no idea why you’re obsessed with those numbers. But you are. They show up in everything. ‘Second Best,’ ‘Burn Out,’ that acoustic cover of ‘Right Now.’”

  “Those are some deep cuts.” The counter was warm, sticky under his palms and he worried about the telling imprint he’d leave on the glossy surface if he lifted his hands.

  “Two. Twenty-three. Seventy-one. It’s all over the artwork too.” She unhooked his black-and-gold Blancpain from its spot and slipped it over her wrist, concealing the clockwork visible underneath. “Your first album cover was a train with 7-1-K on the side.”

  “We used to hang out at a train yard, 71st and Kostner.”

  “That first tour, there’s not a single picture where one of you isn’t wearing a Michael Jordan jersey—”

  “What do you expect from three Chicago kids.” He rounded the island, his eyes sparking with discovery, recognizing the curiosity in her movements. Would it be cocky to call it reverence? Not if that was what it was, he decided.

  “I know—the second city.” She held up two fingers, the watch sliding halfway to her elbow, and met his eyes. But she must have seen that he’d found footing in the conversation, that he was the one taking over the pursuit, because she tightened her bun in a defensive maneuver. “It’s not like you hid it.”

  “I can’t believe it. I married a stan. I mean, I knew you appreciated the music, figured you were a Worker, but—tell me you’ve written a Wattpad story about me.”

  Light feet moved her just out of reach and they stood on either side of the island’s corner. “I haven’t.”

  “But you’ve read them—the dirty ones, right?” He had. Or he’d heard them. Drunk and amused, he’d listened to Cormac, drunker and more amused, perform a dramatic reading of what some fan imagined would happen on a tour bus.

  “I can’t believe she wants us each to take a turn,” Arlo had said.

  Cormac had grinned, scrolling ahead. “She doesn’t.”

  “Of course I read the dirty ones.” Nelle blushed but didn’t look away.

  That thought, of Nelle alone in her bed, reading about him, touching herself—an urgent masculine need warmed his groin, one exacerbated by the long weeks he’d spent without relief. She smiled then, both of them realizing he’d lost his chance for the upper hand.

  “What are we doing here, Nelle?”

  She fingered the button between her breasts and the fabric parted. Did he need more of an explanation than that?

  “How’s the celibacy?” she countered.

  “Fine.”

  The color seemed to have jumped from her to him, a scarlet heat that warmed his cheekbones.

  Her smile rose. “Fine? You look a little tense.”

  Another button opened and she let the dress gape, revealing lace and skin.

  “I’ll admit that at this moment, it seems likely I might come just looking at you naked.”

  Nelle stopped toying with the button at her navel to blink at him. “Then I should definitely not get naked.” But as she said it, she shifted the lace under her dress down to the ground and stepped out of it. She perched herself on the shelf beneath his jackets.

  “Are they gone?” she asked thickly.

  With a groan Bran remembered his bandmates downstairs. “They refuse. Until the game’s over. Less than ten minutes.” Ten minutes. He’d waited over a month—he hadn’t even been expecting her to show up here. How could waiting ten minutes seem so daunting? They’d waited hours that first night. Driving, talking, singing. Necessary buildup to an absolutely unforgettable night of release. “Plus stoppage. It’s been a clean game. A minute. Two tops. We can wait.”

  But he wasn’t waiting. Nelle was here. Now. What mattered more than that? He was pressing forward, filling the space between her parted knees, loving the way they opened to welcome him closer.

  Nelle rolled her forehead against his, her eyes down, focused on where she played with the tie of his joggers. The material stretched, revealing the obviousness of his arousal. “Or we can be very, very quiet.”

  “Yeah, that’s a better idea.” Bran grabbed his shirt at the shoulders and pulled it over his head and the next moments were a flurry of tugs and pushes. His hands on her neck, her breasts, her hips. Her mouth pressed into his collarbone, nipped his ear, gasped his name as they bent forward and back, trying to get closer together. His cock rubbed against the perfect place between her legs, and even through the layers of fabric Bran felt a shock of pleasure.

  Bran’s nose grazed over her dark hair—white flowers filled his lungs and he remembered the way her body had moved against his in the hotel. How had he accepted he’d never do that again?

  He scrunched the fabric at her sides, pulling it up to reveal her thighs spreading on the ledge. And then he wasn’t thinking about anything. He was jamming his hands into the pockets of the jackets hanging next to them, one hand in the grey and one in the navy, his groin pressed securely to hers. She bit at his shoulder as he tugged a condom out of the grey suit, the soft lining coming out of the pocket with it.

  Nelle muffled a laugh into his neck. “You keep those everywhere.”

  “They come in handy.”

  “In case Bran Kelly wants to fuck the shit out of someone in his walk-in closet—I do feel like I read this one.”

  She lifted her eyes to his as she joked but he went still. He’d been surprised by her, confused by her, but suddenly he was scared that she was just like everyone else. Wanting a piece of Bran Kelly, to make the character in her mind real.

  He didn’t want to stop. But he had to understand. “Last time I saw you, you were pissed at me.”

  “Yeah. I was.” She teased the curls on his chest. “You went back on what we said.”

  “And what are you doing now?”

  She dropped her gaze like she had something to hide, and his stomach fell with it. But then she was looking up at him again with an answer he didn’t expect. “Getting what I want.”

  He wasn’t sure if that confirmed his suspicions about her motives or not, but he’d figure it out later, because a woman like this saying a thing like that was too much to resist. He drafted a silent prayer that Arlo and Cormac had cleared out and let it go.

  He needed to be inside of Nelle, knocking against the wood panels. He needed her cries loud in his ear, both of them forgetting how they got here, who might be listening, or what it would mean later. He needed heat, rhythm, the rush of pleasure replacing any reason they might have to stop.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Bran tugged his dick free
, letting it bob over the waistband of his sweats, Nelle knew they were on the same page about one thing at least: that they needed to fuck. On the immediate.

  He ripped the foil packet with his teeth. She pushed her hands under the elastic at his back and gripped his butt, urging him into her with one hard thrust. She was ready for him, slick with lust, but her body still strained against the size of the intrusion. Her hold tightened, keeping him fully submerged while she adjusted around him.

  Bran hooked his hands under her knees and managed to push farther into her. So deep it felt like falling and having the wind knocked out of her. There was no room for air—her body didn’t need it like she needed Bran, and, right now, she was willing to make room for him any way she could.

  Her nails dug into his skin for a second, two, as he stood still, just filling her. She eased her grip on him, smoothing her palms over his curves, feeling the tense muscles clenching beneath them as he pulled back and thrust into her again. The rhythm steadied, quickened, steadied.

  Bran caught her mouth with his, his tongue searing hers with heat and desire. The heels of her boots clunked loudly against the wood drawer fronts under her. Ten minutes had to have passed since they’d started fooling around. She mentally mapped the house, picturing the closet above the hallway between the den and kitchen. What if Arlo and Cormac were still watching the game? Wondering if Bran was hammering something? What he’d decided to nail to the wall? She didn’t have long to worry about it. This was going to be fast. The build of it rising higher and higher, threatening to overflow already. That was the thing about sex with Bran: he had some extra sense, some way of knowing just what she needed from him. He was a mind reader—a body reader. She didn’t have to say anything, but Bran found the words in her drawn brows, her angled hips. That first night together, he’d used that knowledge to make her last, tease her. Now he wasn’t playing. Hands tilted her back, opening her up and ensuring that his base rubbed down on her pelvis, steel on bone, harder and harder.