by Cara McKenna
How Mica could disappear before a girl had woken up and found herself in a strange apartment, Vaughn couldn’t fathom. The guy was probably useless at returning a text, too, probably kept women waiting by the phone, and not even as part of some lame, macho head game to keep them eager. Vaughn could admit it—it burned him, some. This was his best friend, after all. He wished he could say that distinction belonged to a guy who treated women with just a little more consideration.
When Vaughn had been about sixteen, teetering on the precipice of losing his virginity, his dad had told him, Any girl who’ll have your fool ass, you be grateful. You’re too young to know what love is, but I taught you respect, so you treat girls like you know I’d treat your mom if she was still with us.
That had made an impression. Not enough to keep a teenage boy from fucking things up and breaking a heart or two, but enough to leave Vaughn feeling shitty about it afterward. Guilt was powerful. Both his parents had taught him that. And in time he’d come to learn that disappointing yourself—not meeting your own expectations about the kind of man you were—felt as ugly as knowing you’d let your folks down. And maybe a little earlier than most men, Vaughn had quit getting himself into positions to do so.
Mica, though . . . He hadn’t grown up with decent parents. Not with any real kind of parents at all. Nobody to teach him this shit, nobody to model any respectable persuasion of manhood. There were withered parts inside him, stunted from never having been nurtured by responsible guardians—empathy, respect, kindness of most any sort.
But the guy had good qualities, too. He was fearless, both physically and socially. He was creative. He was charming . . . if also a touch manipulative. He was exciting, more than anything else. But nobody had taught him how to be sympathetic or thoughtful. Nobody had shown him what that felt like, as a kid. And a neglected kid made for a pretty fucked-up man.
Vaughn had never known his friend to stick with the same woman for more than a week or two. Though it never showed on his face, and he’d never come out and said so, Mica got spooked the second a lover started expecting anything from him aside from fun and sex. Expectations didn’t compute.
Clare was a nice girl. Seemed smart, too, and Vaughn wondered if she was smart enough to realize already that hoping for something real with Mica was an exercise in frustration.
“She’ll find out soon enough,” he muttered, getting to his feet, carrying his plate and cup to the sink. Jealousy squirmed in his guts, imagining catching her slipping out of Mica’s room one morning soon, or out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel or something. It wasn’t a simple jealousy, though. Not at all.
Nothing between him and Mica had ever been simple.
CHAPTER FIVE
Clare got home on Wednesday night at the usual time, though she’d worked only a half day. The old friend from college that she’d reconnected with at the party had contacted her out of the blue the night before with a lead for her photo project—his fiancée’s best friend, a stunning young woman, part Japanese, part white, part Moroccan. Alia was a newly minted veterinarian and was volunteering at a local animal shelter, but about to leave to go back to school. It had been a now-or-never opportunity—perfect subject, interesting setting—and so Clare had been a punk and lied to her manager, clocked out “sick” at lunchtime, and met her model at the shelter.
It had been completely worth it. They hadn’t needed to pose a single frame. She simply clicked away for two hours while Alia had worked with the animals, and Clare had dozens of great shots to choose from. All Alia had asked for as payment was a donation to the shelter. Clare just needed one more sample photo to clinch the show, and she had a good lead from Alia that she could look into tomorrow. She dropped her camera bag on the table, feeling optimistic, excited to get the images onto her computer and get busy curating. Until—
Brrrzzz. She’d silenced her phone during the shoot, and pulled it out now, finding a new text on her screen.
Got apt to myself tonight. Come over?
Clare stared at the message, shocked and pleased and totally unsure. She’d heard absolutely nothing from Mica for five days—not a call, not any kind of message. A resounding chorus of crickets. Now suddenly this random invitation to hook up, and on a Wednesday night? And just when she’d nearly gotten the boy out of her head.
Clare had checked her phone about two hundred times during her night out with the girls on Saturday, and they’d all noticed.
“Who is he?” Denise had demanded after the first distracted hour. And Clare told them. Hell, she showed them his pictures—she’d downloaded some of the best shots from Thursday night onto her phone. Well, the ones from the party, anyhow.
Much whooping and high-fiving had followed, but she’d shrugged it all off, saying she had no idea if he’d even call. Unfortunately, their enthusiasm was contagious, and after that she’d hoped harder than ever that Mica might get in touch. By Sunday night, that hopefulness had curdled to worry, and by Tuesday she’d been in mourning, feeling like a fool and a sad sack and ordering herself to get over it. It was a one-night stand. You don’t even know his last name or how old he is, for crying out loud.
Plus, it was the hottest fucking one-night stand in history. Not much to bitch about, honey.
But now . . .
Were two-night stands a thing? Was another roll in the sheets with that man worth the withdrawal she’d put herself through this past week?
Fuck yes, came her answer, echoing up from between her legs. She wasn’t after anything serious with him, after all. He was gone with the close of August, the memories doomed to fade right alongside her summer freckles. All she wanted from him was more of that intoxicating chemistry, more of that sensation of being desired, being exciting to a man again. Feeling exciting herself, for a change.
Maybe. What time? she tapped.
Her phone chimed a few seconds later, setting her heart tumbling. Whenever. Home now.
Sure. Let me just take care of a couple things, and I’ll be over around 8.
The couple of things she needed to take care of amounted to a load of grooming and primping. She showered, shaved her legs, did her makeup and tamed her hair, debated wardrobe choices. She wanted to look as if she’d just strolled over, impromptu, no big deal. She went with a polka-dot bra—intentionally mismatched to fuchsia boy shorts—and the jeans that made her ass look like a million bucks, topped off with a vintage blouse and a long, chunky necklace, a headband to corral her curls. Silver sandals, with a little perfume behind each ear, and she was ready. Ready for round two.
As Clare walked, she wondered how it would go. Would that little taste of kinkiness from last time snowball into more? More than anything else, she wanted to hear him again. His smooth, musical voice, and his words, Christ, his words. She’d replayed his dirty talk a thousand times in this past week, more than she’d revisited even the mental images of his body or the physical memories of his mouth on her. She pulled out her phone a few blocks from his building and texted Denise and Bree. En route to the hot guy’s place. B, don’t wait up.
Bree was at the movies, but Denise replied immediately.
Git some u nasty bitch
Clare laughed and switched the device off for the night.
It wasn’t until she was standing in Mica’s foyer that her nerves really kicked in. As she pressed the buzzer, her throat went dry and her feet felt sweaty. The day was cool and damp, drizzle still a threat, but she was fanning her chest with her hand as she waited, feeling a little faint.
The door buzzed and she let herself in. She’d brought her camera—she brought it most everywhere, in case some interesting visual caught her eye, though tonight she hoped maybe there’d be occasion to capture something a little more exotic than the play of dappled light on graffiti. Maybe a little something filthy. Who knew, when it came to this man?
Upstairs, she knocked on the apartment door, then tried the kno
b, finding it unlocked. She pushed it in, just as Mica appeared from the next room. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he echoed, his smile broad, crinkling his eyes. Good God, even after studying those photos all week, she’d forgotten how handsome he was. Handsome squared, then doused in sexy and set on fire. She shut the door, knowing her cheeks were bright pink. Nothing much to be done about it.
He came close, touching her arm and leaning in to kiss her temple.
“You work today?” Clare asked, setting her bags on the table.
“Yeah, this morning. You?”
“Half day, then I was photographing somebody for my project. I was just finishing up when you texted,” she fibbed. Let him think she’d come right from the shoot, looking and smelling this fresh. Mica looked awfully fine himself, in jeans and a slim-fitting black thermal that set off his skin and eyes. He had socks on his feet, also black, with gray toes. Something about that damn near charmed her out of her panties.
“Drink?”
“Yeah, please. Wine, if you have any.”
“I stopped by the store.” He moved to the counter, to a brown paper shopping bag. This struck her as a good sign. The poster child for spontaneity had thought to prepare.
He pulled out a bottle. “Got merlot, and some white, though it’s warm.”
“White’s my favorite. And I’m not too cool to stick an ice cube in it.”
“You got it.” He fixed her a glass and one for himself. “We’ve got the place to ourselves. Want to watch a movie or anything? Music?” Or get straight to the hot monkey sex? those dark eyes seemed to ask.
“We can see what movies there are,” she said, thinking she could use a little chill-out time, an adjustment period while she acclimated to this man’s energy. “You have Netflix?” She followed him into the living room.
“Yeah. What do you like?”
She dropped onto the couch and shrugged. “Artsy-fartsy stuff, usually, and documentaries. But I’m game for just about anything.”
He switched on the TV, launching a screen full of apps. “I’m kinda hoping we won’t be paying all that much attention to it,” he said with a wicked smile.
“Oh, I see. Well, pick something really snooty, then, so we can tell people we saw it without having to actually watch it.”
There was a spotlight section of critically acclaimed movies, and Mica scrolled through them, seeming to pick something at random. It was an old, heavy-looking drama, but like he’d said, they weren’t planning on paying it much attention.
“Okay day?” she asked as he settled beside her, thigh to thigh.
“Yeah, the usual. Didn’t see you, though. I’d been wondering if I might.”
Inside, she glowed. “I took off early, for the shoot.” And she’d been in on both Monday and Tuesday, though Mica hadn’t been working.
“My loss,” he said, and tapped their glasses, ice cubes clinking.
She blushed deeper and let him see it. “I was wondering if you’d ever get around to texting me,” she admitted.
“You’ve got my number.”
“Yeah, but a girl doesn’t want to look desperate. I guess a guy doesn’t, either.” She smiled to let him know she was teasing. “You took your sweet time.”
“Maybe I like the anticipation.”
“Can’t say I mind it all that much myself—” She stopped, catching the click of the door being unlocked in the next room.
Mica straightened. From where he sat, he could see into the kitchen far better than Clare. “I thought you weren’t off till six,” he called.
Vaughn’s weary voice answered. “That’s tomorrow. Today was nine to nine.”
“Oh. Well, we’ve got company.” He shot Clare a look, a little frown of apology.
She shrugged. It wasn’t as though the men shared a room; she’d still get hers eventually, and she didn’t mind Vaughn’s company in the least. Maybe with him here, she’d have a chance to see a different side of Mica.
Vaughn appeared at the threshold and waved. “Hey, Clare.”
“Hey. How are you?”
“Beat. What’re you guys watching?” he asked, turning to the TV.
Mica said, “I forget,” just as Vaughn’s eyes lit up.
“On the Waterfront! Are you fucking kidding me?” He grinned and moved to sit on the arm of the couch. Then he seemed to think better of it, standing and shooting them both a glance. “Sorry. Is this a private party?”
Mica looked to Clare and she shrugged again. “I’m here all night, right?” she asked Mica.
“You better be.”
“Then I’m down for more than just background noise, I suppose.”
“Start it over,” Vaughn said over his shoulder, en route to the kitchen. “Nobody should miss a minute of this movie.”
“You’re sure?” Mica whispered, backing it up.
Clare nodded. “Totally. I like your roommate. Plus, what were we just saying about anticipation?”
He smirked, hit PLAY when the film was at the start. “Showtime,” he shouted.
Vaughn hurried in a few seconds later with a tumbler clinking in his hand—whiskey maybe, on the rocks.
“Thought you weren’t much of a drinker,” Clare said. “On a school night.”
“Not usually, but after the day I had, I could use one.” He got settled on the far end of the couch, giving Clare plenty of space, crossing his legs. “Neither of you has ever seen this? Seriously?”
“I don’t even know what it’s about,” she said. “I’ve heard of it, of course.” On the TV, Marlon Brando pulled a pigeon out of his coat.
“One of the absolute greats. My dad’s all about the classics. He must have shown this one to me when I was about seventeen. I promise you’ll know at least one line from it.”
Clare tried to focus on the screen, on the plot, but good as the movie was, a half hour in it simply wasn’t enough to hold her attention. Not when she could feel Mica’s body heat at her side, all but sense his pulse and every urge coursing through his body.
And I know exactly what that body is capable of. She knew exactly what it looked like, doing dark things to hers, knew how ably it could excite her, please her. She knew the feel of his skin under her palms, the smell of him.
Mica’s attention was on her—not the film, not his roommate sitting mere feet away. She could sense it, as real as touch. She glanced to the side and, sure enough, those eyes were waiting. Watching. His face was bathed in the restless glow of the TV, and he smiled.
Nothing about this man was more seductive than his smile. Her gaze dropped to the open V of his collar, to the soft, sparse hair and tempting skin. She inched her hand over, up his thigh to close over his. He clasped her fingers, his thumb rubbing her knuckles fiercely, and the intention in those eyes went dark as pitch. Clare swallowed.
Take me to your room. It’d be so easy. Just stand, tug her to her feet, lead her down the hall. Vaughn wouldn’t care. He was buzzed, same as them, and he had to know he’d walked in on the middle of a make-out session. And he’d been kind to Clare the morning she’d woken up alone in his best friend’s bed, so he wasn’t the type to judge. It wouldn’t be rude if they just left. She held Mica’s gaze, then flicked her own over his shoulder, to the hall. His grin deepened.
He leaned close and put that brazen mouth to her temple. “Something you need?”
“I bet you can guess.”
“The movie not working for you?” he whispered, and she shivered as his lips brushed her cheek.
“It’s fine, but I’m feeling a little distracted.” A little distracted, a little drunk, monumentally horny. She freed her hand to rub his thigh, dipped her face so she could press her mouth to his jaw. Not quite a kiss, but she let him feel a hot, heavy exhalation and hear the need in her very breath.
He turned his head, caught her lips with
his. The kiss was deep and dirty, so good she wanted to drop her chin back and sigh aloud. Instead she held his head in both hands, let her fingers get lost in his dreads, let him feel her hunger, taste it on her tongue.
There was a bunch of shouting on-screen, whisking Clare out of the moment just long enough to remember they weren’t alone. She pulled back, flushed, and let Mica go. She felt silly and overcome, and surely he could see that in her dopey grin.
We should go to your room, she mouthed.
“In a minute.” And he was kissing her again, hungry and needy. No red-blooded woman could possibly say no to that.
Mica’s hand crept higher, his warm palm cupping her breast, stealing her breath. A flash of worry chased the bloom of arousal. We’re not alone on this couch.
It was dark, though, and Clare’s buzz made it hard to feel scandalized. A glance in Vaughn’s direction said he wasn’t paying them any attention. The wine was making it very difficult to care . . . and to be perfectly honest, there was something a little wicked, a little hot, about going there with Vaughn sitting only feet away. With most any other guy, she doubted that would be the case, but Mica’s sexuality was so bold, so provocative . . . it fit, somehow. And Vaughn seemed like the type of man who’d have no trouble excusing himself or calling out his friend if things got too weird for him.
As for Clare, the idea had her hot. Her cheeks were burning, her blood pulsing thick and fast from both nerves and excitement.
“Your room,” she said again, rubbing Mica’s arm.
He whispered, “Do you like him?”
Her hand stilled. “What?”
“My friend. Do you like him?”
Upended, unsure what precisely he meant, she said, “Sure.”
“You want him?”
No reply came, not for long seconds. “I’m not . . . I don’t know.” She knew Vaughn was kind and respectful, and handsome. But what Mica was getting at . . . Shit, she wasn’t thinking straight. The wine had left her warm and easy. If all Mica was after was a bit of kinky dirty talk, she wasn’t opposed.