Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  But he has other matters on his mind. “She still believes in Santa?” he asks curiously, reaching for his phone and finding a playlist. He shows me a list of Billie Holiday and Frank Sinatra tunes, and I give a thumbs-up. He turns the volume low, matching the dim lights in my apartment.

  “She does,” I say, answering the question as Billie croons faintly. “A lot of kids her age don’t, but she still does, so we do the whole routine.”

  “Do you think it’s because she’s had a tough life? That she wants to believe in something?”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?”

  Kicking off my suede ankle boots, I tuck my feet under me. “Do you remember believing in Santa? How wonderful it felt?”

  He nods, an easy grin. “It was magic.”

  “That’s why. She likes believing and it’s a link to Lindsay and a happy time. I don’t think there’s any reason to dispel the notion until she’s ready.”

  He lifts his chin. “What do you believe in? Baths? Knitting? Heartwarming movies? How much fun you have with me?” He smiles, but it holds a hint of nerves, like he’s keen for my yes, and worried he won’t get it.

  “Of course I believe in you.” I lean back, sinking into the sea of pillows. He pats his thigh, a sign for me to put my feet up on him. For a nanosecond, I consider the risk. But we’ve been there, done that. I can handle my feet on his thighs. I oblige, untangling them from under me and dropping them on his legs.

  Miller tugs on my right sock, yanking it off my foot.

  “You’re stripping me,” I tease as I take a drink, enjoying the wine and how easily we’ve slid back into familiar, friendly territory. Even the naughty flirting can’t take us out of where we best belong.

  “I want to check out your feet, woman.”

  I laugh as he tugs off the other sock. “Why on earth do you want to see my feet?”

  “I’m not afraid of feet.”

  “You’re an amazing man. So fearless.”

  “Watch it, or I might nibble on your toes.”

  I hold up a finger. “That, I believe in. Your ability to resist my toes.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” He tugs my foot toward his mouth, baring his teeth as if to bite my big toe. I wriggle away, and he laughs, letting my foot sink to his lap. He switches gears, digging his thumbs into my foot, rubbing. Instantly, I moan in pleasure.

  “I believe in foot rubs. And I believe in your friendship,” I say, because I want him to know no matter how much we flirt, I’ll stay on this side of the divide, since that’s what he wants.

  And what I need.

  He smiles as he kneads deeper into the arch of my foot. “What else do you believe in?”

  I swirl the wine in the glass and take another gulp. “I believe in good wine. I believe in tea with honey.”

  “I’ll drink to that too.” He grabs his glass and swallows, then returns to my feet.

  I gaze at the window and the sky beyond, where a faint orange glow hints at snow. “I believe that when it snows in New York, wondrous things can happen that wouldn’t ordinarily occur.”

  “Because of snow?”

  “Definitely. Snow makes you believe that everything can be beautiful and perfect even for just a sliver of time. You look outside, and it feels calm and peaceful in this most crazy city.”

  He tilts his head as if considering that. “True. We know it won’t be that way in the morning. Everything will change, and slush and dirt and honking trucks will take over once again.”

  “But at two in the morning, it’s lovely.”

  His gaze strays to his phone, as if he’s checking the time—12:09 lights up the screen. “It’s not two yet.” He digs harder into my feet, his eyes returning to mine. “But I’d like it to be.”

  As he looks at me, tingles slide down my body. I’d like it to be two in the morning. Two seems like the perfect time—the only time—for what I want. For a stolen hour with this man, for a moment I might regret but I’ll take the chance on anyway because of how he makes me feel.

  Like I’m floating.

  Like I can do anything.

  Like nothing would ever hurt if we crossed the line.

  I spend so much of my time striving toward goals, planning for the future. What if I let go for one night? Maybe just once?

  My breath catches, but somehow I find the words to keep the night unfolding. “What about you? What do you believe in?” I poke his stomach with my toe.

  His hard stomach.

  Whoa. Miller has firm abs. “Nice washboard. Been hiding these from me?” I press harder against his stomach.

  He grabs my foot and drags my toes over the fabric of the Henley covering his abs. “I’m not hiding them anymore,” he says.

  I’m not a foot fetishist, and I don’t think he is either, but I want to thank the good Lord for making toes, since Miller’s using mine to let me cop a feel of his belly.

  “I need to add your stomach to my list of beliefs. I definitely believe in your abs now. I’ve seen the light.”

  He laughs, tipping his head back, and I sneak a peek at the stubble on his jaw, at his alluring eleven o’clock shadow. That stubble. I want to feel it sliding against my cheek. I want to know its sandpaper scratch.

  He looks down at my feet. “I believe that green toenail polish is adorable and sexy. I also believe that you have strangely beautiful feet.”

  “You do have a foot fetish,” I whisper in surprise.

  “I don’t. I don’t know why your feet are beautiful all of a sudden. They just are.” But he’s not looking at my feet. He’s staring at my face, and my cheeks flush, hot from his gaze.

  Have I had too much to drink? I feel tipsy, but I’ve barely touched a drop.

  “What else do you believe in?” I ask, because I don’t want to stop. I want us to touch in these little ways, to talk, and to tango mercilessly closer to a risky truth.

  “My brothers. Hot chocolate. The good in young people like Jackson and Chloe.” Answers pour out of him like water, his tone shifting to serious. “I believe in music too. I believe it’s the one universal language in the world, and that songs can connect people. When I play and sing, I feel that connection with others. Like you.”

  “I believe in that too,” I say, my voice feathery.

  He drags a fingertip over the top of my foot, and I nearly cry out in pleasure. How is it possible to be ignited from a finger across my instep?

  “I think people are happier when they listen to music. Maybe they love more deeply, or kiss more fervently, or maybe they take someone to bed. I think music helps people to love. I feel like that’s my small contribution to the world,” he adds, and his expression is etched with a new vulnerability.

  My heart slams against my rib cage. I love that he feels that way about what he creates.

  “I’m happier when I’m listening to music,” I whisper, as Frank Sinatra’s voice fills my head, and Miller moves his hands up my ankle.

  “I believe in Skittles too,” he continues, darting back to his playful side again, and I release some of the tightness in my hands. “And ice skating and Donkey Kong. And I definitely believe in these calf muscles you have.” He squeezes my calf, and I wriggle because it tickles. “Where have you been hiding these insane calf muscles?”

  “Same place you hid your abs?”

  He smiles as he rubs, and I’m right back in this brave new land of lust. I fight like hell to remember why Miller and I are a risk—but after midnight, desire is stronger than reason.

  “You feel good like this,” he says as he rubs.

  I can hear my pulse hammer; I can feel every heavy and tender beat of my heart. I swallow, and my throat is dry. I’m thirsty, so thirsty for a kiss.

  He squeezes my leg, like he’s trying to get my attention. His eyes are etched with contrition. “I believe I’m a fool for not realizing we could sing so well together sooner, and I want to sing with you again. I want to make more music
with you,” he says, and it sounds like a desperate plea.

  “Don’t stop, then,” I say, and I’m not only answering him. I’m telling him what I want.

  “I believe, too, that sometimes lines get blurred,” he says as his hands slide up my leg to my knee.

  Movement at the window catches my eye. My pitch rises as I point. “Miller. It’s snowing.”

  That’s all it takes. He kneels forward, brushes my hair from my face, and brings his lips to mine. “Let’s pretend it’s two in the morning,” he whispers against my mouth.

  His lips sweep over mine, and the world blurs deliciously. As he kisses me, my body turns to honey. I sink into the dizzying sensation of our lips connecting, and I fall into this moment, so wonderful and lush, as his mouth explores mine. He nibbles on the corner of my lips, then kisses more deeply.

  Our tongues skate together, and I pretend this isn’t risky. I slide my hands up into his hair, threading my fingers through soft locks I’ve longed to touch without ever realizing.

  Any question as to whether he feels the same escapes into the ether as I tug him closer. He presses his body to mine, his erection hard and heavy against me.

  He’s wildly aroused.

  That’s all I need to know.

  I part my legs, wrapping my thighs around his hips, tugging him closer. I need the full press of him against me. I need his tongue, his lips, and his hard length. I want all of him with every cell in my body, and I kiss him that way, telling him with my lips that I don’t want to hold back.

  We’re quiet though, perhaps both keenly aware of the sleeping child, but in the silence, we kiss like desperate creatures. Wordlessly, mostly soundlessly, we get to know each other’s lips like we’re giving ourselves something we were denied six years ago. Like this kiss, so long in the making, is the only thing we can think of doing tonight.

  We kiss as if the night won’t end, and as if choices don’t have consequences. There’s only the reward of sparks flying across skin, of blood heating, and of skin sizzling.

  I rock my hips against him, desperately seeking more of Miller. His breath tastes like chardonnay and hunger, like he’s been wanting me with a madness. A madness that’s lasted for six years.

  But I can’t and won’t forget that Chloe’s in the other room. I break the kiss and peek over the couch. Her door remains closed.

  “We’ll hear her if she gets up,” he whispers.

  “I know. But we can’t get naked with her here. Even in my room.”

  “I know,” he says with a wicked grin. “But I love that you thought of that.”

  I cup his cheeks. “All I want is to be naked and under you,” I say, and now I truly feel like I’m floating, like I’m falling. Because I’m not holding this in any longer. He groans, a sound so sexy I wriggle to get even closer.

  He sucks on my jaw, whispering, “I want you so fucking much. But what are we doing?”

  That’s the question. I don’t have the answer, and I’m not sure I can handle all that I want. I don’t think he can either, so I choose a half-truth. “Maybe we need to get this out of our system?”

  “You think so?”

  I nod, giving us permission. Judging from the heavy weight of his cock against my thigh, Miller needs the very same things I need.

  Friction.

  Connection.

  Most of all, a seal of approval that this—whatever it is—won’t ruin us.

  “But no sex. We’re not having sex tonight.”

  He nods quickly. “We’ll just scratch the itch.”

  “A sex-less scratch,” I add, and he laughs.

  “And tonight—it won’t change anything?” he asks, like an attorney leading the witness.

  “It won’t change a thing,” I whisper, wishing, hoping that’s true. Choosing to believe it for now.

  “After this, we’ll go back to how we were. Friends.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “Besides, everyone thinks we’re doing it already. Why should they be the only ones who enjoy our chemistry?”

  He laughs. “I think we ought to benefit too.” He dips his face to my neck. “What do you think, Ally?” He drags his lips up to my ear, sucking on my earlobe.

  I bite back a moan. “I think . . .”

  He nibbles, and I can’t form sentences. “You think . . .?” he supplies, waiting for me to fill in the Mad Libs of lust.

  I rock my hips against his hard-on, so thick in his jeans. God, I want to feel him inside me, sliding that hard cock into my wetness. “I think . . .”

  I can’t get words out with him so aroused, with me so desperate. He licks the shell of my ear and my vision blurs. Heat pools between my legs, and I arch against him, eager and hungry.

  “I want you,” I blurt out.

  “I think the same thing,” he growls, his voice dirtier than I’ve ever heard it before.

  I grab his ass, grinding up against him as he kisses my neck, sucks on my jaw. “Love that, baby. Do that again,” he whispers.

  “What part?”

  “The way you rub your sweet little body against my cock.” His dirty words send shivers of lust across my skin.

  I work my hips up against him. He rewards me with a low groan in my ear. “Yeah, that reminds me of how you are in the studio.”

  I thrust up again. “How am I in the studio?”

  “Hot,” he whispers as his lips roam my neck. “Bothered,” he says, dusting them over my mouth. “And turned all the way on.”

  I let out a small moan I can’t hold in. “I am. I am that way.”

  “I know, and I love it. I love that the music turns you on. Makes you hot. Makes you wet.”

  You turn me on, I’m dying to say, but I let him think it’s the music. It feels safer that way. “The music gets me so revved up. You too?”

  Nodding, he swirls his hips, and then slams against me, and I swear, God, I swear, Miller dry-humping me is better than any sex I’ve ever had. “Fuck, baby. You’re getting me going.”

  “Me too,” I whimper.

  Tension climbs my legs, swirls in my belly. I tingle everywhere. I’m drowning in a sea of wild, erotic sensations as my best friend fucks me with his clothes on.

  God bless snow.

  God bless music.

  God bless wild abandon.

  I feel it with him, the crazy rush of sensations, the heavy throb of desire. Digging my fingers into his clothed flesh, I bring him as close as I can. I need all the friction to tip me over the edge.

  I’m dying for it. I’m chasing it. I rock harder, faster. Senselessly.

  “Yes, baby. Let go. Just fucking let go for me. Want you to come. Need you to come,” he urges in my ear, and I gasp, bite my lip, and let go, sparks and electricity flaring everywhere as I reach the crest.

  I grab his face as my orgasm escalates. I need his lips to cover up my moans. I kiss him urgently, hiding my cries of pleasure.

  When my orgasm ebbs, he’s gritting his teeth, breathing out hard. “Just. Trying. Not. To. Explode.”

  I laugh. “I can take care of that for you.” I open my mouth wide, letting him know what I’d like to do with him.

  He growls, as he drags a finger over my bottom lip. “Do not tempt me. We definitely can’t do that. But I want that so badly that now I’m going to think of my brothers.”

  I blink in confusion. “Wha?”

  He pushes up from me, waving a hand in front of his crotch. “Instant boner eraser.”

  I crack up. “Brothers are good for that. By the way, we never worked on our next song.”

  He shrugs. “Win some, lose some. We’ll work on it tomorrow. Our fans are eager for more of our . . . Hot Stuff.” He gives me a wink. “That was pretty hot.”

  “It was,” I say, and then, because we’re playing with fire, I add, “Our music gets me in the mood for sure.”

  “It’ll be our little secret that we’re turned on by our tunes.”

  That’s what this will be. A secret we gave in to one snowy December night, beca
use we believed in wine, and Sinatra, and the mad lure of quiet, calm New York to make us feel like the world had winked off.

  But a little later, I’m curled up in Miller’s arms on the couch, and he’s cuddling me, and this doesn’t feel like giving in to a secret. This feels like giving in to the years.

  That’s the problem.

  The big problem.

  Chapter 18

  Miller

  “You’re a good pillow,” she murmurs, as she snuggles into the crook of my arm.

  “Use me, then,” I tell her, but she needs no invitation. She’s already there. Her eyes are falling closed, her breath turning steady and slow.

  I sigh happily—too happily for my own good, as I stare at the window while white flakes drift down. Ally was right about falling snow. It’s a spell that lets you believe a moment won’t end. That tricks you into thinking it can last all night long.

  I don’t want this moment to end. I want it to unspool into tomorrow and the next day too. Now, after midnight, the soft white flakes hypnotize me, convincing me that this thing could work.

  This wonderful, fantastic, dangerous thing.

  Her and me, wrapped up in each other’s arms, like the sun won’t rise in the morning and shine a light on all the ways we could crack.

  But it will, and we will.

  Because I can count. I can add up the numbers and conclude I'm not a guy who knows how to make a relationship work. Yes, I've had girlfriends, and yes, I’m absolutely a serial monogamist. But I’m not the type who goes the distance. I don’t know how. Maybe because I’ve never been with someone who makes me want to try, and Ally can’t be my test case. The risks are too great. I can already feel how much it would hurt to try and fail.

  There’s more at play.

  There’s Jackson. I can’t screw up his chance for a scholarship by getting involved with my bandmate then—inevitably—messing things up with her, imploding the project and leaving him with no documentary. Then there’s Chloe, and Ally’s wishes for her.

  I tear my gaze away from the snow and bring it back to the woman cuddled against me, her soft brown hair with its pretty lavender strands resting against her cheek.