by MV Ellis
“And who stays,” he repeats.
Doh! I didn’t expect him to hear that. I thought all musicians were half-deaf from years of smashing their eardrums on stage.
“Right now, you probably know more about what’s going on in my life than anyone. Then there’s Google.”
“What?”
“Google. You know. It’s a search engine. When people want to find information on the World Wide Web they enter their question, and as if by magic, the answer appears.”
He says all this in a mock scientific voice, and with a shit-eating grin all over his face.
“Okay, thanks, Einstein, but save the science lesson for someone who gives a shit. I know you know that I know what Google is, so what’s your point? Do you think I’ve been cyberstalking you?”
“Well, let’s see. You were found hiding in my shower, then I caught you papping me in my sleep. Are you going to try and tell me that you haven’t googled me as well, Tog?” Looks like I’ve got another nickname to add to the list—Tog—slang for photographer.
I neither confirm nor deny, but I can’t meet his gaze.
“Look at me,” he coaxes.
I feel the blood heating under my skin again. Jeez, I would love to have just a few minutes with Arlo without making an ass of myself. As it is, I seem to have crammed a lifetime’s worth of embarrassment into a few weeks of knowing him.
“It’s okay. I think it’s cute-slash-hot that you’ve done the background check on me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, dude, I didn’t say I had, and I wasn’t hiding in your shower, I was freaking the fuck out,” I mutter in the general direction of my lap.
“I know you didn’t say so, but I still know you did, and I like it. Anyway, my point is that between what you see around here, and what you’ve read, my life is an open book to you, sweetheart. There’s nothing much else to know.” To demonstrate his point, he reclines on the pillows, spreading his arms out wide either side of him, the very definition of open.
Oh, I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Jones.
Arlo plays his cards close to his chest, generally, so while the book may be open, it’s inside a locked vault to which only he has the key.
“Ha! Let me be the judge of that. What’s the deal with Marnie?” I probe.
I actually can’t believe I came straight out and asked him that, and by the look on Arlo’s face, he can’t either. I seem to have none of my usual reservations with him. It’s kind of unsettling, kind of liberating.
“What about her?”
“Well, since seeing the two of you together I’m a tad curious about the nature of your ‘relationship.’” Sarcasm is my friend.
“There’s no relationship between Marnie and me, L, that’s the whole point. We’ve known each other since we were practically embryos. We’re friends, and we discovered years ago that we’re also very sexually compatible. So now, whenever it’s convenient, we get together to scratch the itch. No strings. No complications. No hearts and flowers. No worries. We’re the ultimate friends who fuck.”
“Luke says she’s in love with you,” I counter.
“Luke doesn’t know shit from shit, and he should keep his nose out of my life. Maybe then he’d have one of his own to worry about.”
“I actually think he’s got a point,” I say quietly.
“Do you now? And what would you know about it?”
“Not much. Only what I saw that day, and what Luke said, but there was something in her eyes that made me think that for her, it was more than a simple booty call.”
“Oh, and suddenly you’re an expert?” he sneers.
“Nope, just telling it like I see it. I think she’s into you, that’s all I’m saying.” I try to keep my growing irritation from showing in my voice.
“Whatever,” he snaps dismissively. “Boring. What else?”
He truly does have a short attention span, so I decide to move on. After all, he’s right, it’s really none of my business.
“So what’s the story with your tattoos? What do they mean?” I wave my hand in the general direction of his expansive chest.
“Well, it’s one piece, made up of individual pieces, but they’re all connected. A bit like how a song is made up of verses that connect to tell a story. The parts are good, but together, they make up an even better whole. With my tatts, each one represents something important in my life—a person, place, time, event. Something that has had an impact on me in some way. It’s pretty much the story of my life, played out in pictures all over my body, so I carry it with me wherever I go. Like I said, babe, open book.” He spreads his arms out again.
“Tell me about it then,” I press.
“How d’you mean?” He looks genuinely puzzled.
“Well, you said they tell a story, so pick a piece and tell me the story.”
“Oh yeah, I get you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, clearly deciding which piece to tell me about.
“Yeah, okay, this.” He points to the word Heartless written in large decorative letters across his chest, ending above his heart. It’s in black ink only, but there is lots of ornate detail—it’s really beautiful.
“The Heartless Few is obviously the name of the band, so no prizes for guessing the significance there. I’m sure you found various tidbits about that in your Google searches about me”—he winks conspiratorially—”how we lived on Hart Street growing up, and named the band after that. You’ve probably also read that I pride myself on being heartless by name, heartless by nature, especially when it comes to women. That’s a favorite with the press, and so clever and original too.” He rocks sarcasm as well as I do.
“For the record, I wouldn’t say I pride myself on it, per se,” he continues, “but it’s good for our rep, so I just roll with it. It’s also partially true in the sense that I don’t do relationships and all that stuff. I guess to some that probably comes across as pretty heartless.”
Just as Luke said.
“Don’t get me wrong—I’m always honest with women. I’ve never promised anyone anything other than a phenomenally good fuck.”
I flinch at his words. The irony and tactlessness of having this conversation just after he’s given me exactly that doesn’t seem to occur to him. Although I guess it’s no worse than discussing his fuck buddy moments after we’ve come, and I was the one who brought up Marnie.
It hasn’t been the most lighthearted of pillow talk, all around.
I’m suddenly self-conscious, knowing I’m another name to add to the list of women he’s screwed senseless and sent on their merry way. I shift slightly to pull the robe tighter around my body, while Arlo talks on, unfazed by, or unaware of my sudden awkwardness.
“What very few people know is that although we did kind of name ourselves after our street, it really came about because we formed the band a few months after my dad died of cancer. Luke and I were fifteen, and of course we were devastated. I for one was really fucking angry, also. Angry at the world for having cancer in it, and for letting it take my dad. Angry at Dad for leaving us. Angry at everyone else for still being here, but not being him. I was especially angry at myself for falling apart over it.”
Oh. I had read that Arlo’s father had died when he was young, but hearing him speak about it makes it so much more real. I feel bad for fifteen-year-old Arlo, and for adult Arlo. That angry boy grew up to be a sullen and closed-off man, and now I understand a bit more about why. I want to give them both a hug, but I don’t want to overstep his boundaries, so I hold back, fiddling with the cord of the robe to keep my hands occupied.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad, Arlo, really.”
I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a parent when you’re just a kid.
“Thanks. If I hadn’t had the band to channel all that anger and negative energy into, I can’t say where I’d be right now, but I know it would have gotten pretty ugly. As it was, things were rough for a long time, but at least with the band, I had an o
utlet.
“Losing Dad taught me an early lesson about love and loss, and how no situation is permanent. That’s really where the name came from. It made more sense to me to be heartless than to let people in and have it all go to shit.” I can totally identify with that.
Chapter Seven
Something shifts in Arlo’s demeanor, and I almost see his internal shutters close before he speaks.
“Anyway, enough talking. I’m horny again.” His tone is light, but something of the seriousness of our previous conversation still lingers.
“And what’s that got to do with me?” I feign disinterest.
“Oh, it’s like that is it?” The cheeky grin is back with a vengeance.
“Like what?”
“You’re going to play hard to get, are you?”
“Ha!” I accidentally snort. “A bit late for that, isn’t it? I seem to remember you fucking me sideways not too long ago. My acting skills don’t run to pretending to be something I’m not, so it’s too late for hard to get. But as much as I’d like to help you out with that”—I motion toward his ever-growing hard-on—”I have to bail.”
“Do you now?” He inches closer to me, still leering wolfishly.
“Yeah, I do. Sorry, I have plans.”
I can see in his eyes that he’s not about to take no for an answer. It’s really not his thing.
“Cancel.” He’s still creeping toward me.
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” We’re nose to nose now.
“Okay, yeah, I can. But I’m not going to.” I hold firm.
“We’ll see about that.”
He pushes me onto my back. I can’t help but laugh in surprise.
“Arlo, what are you doing? I just told you I need to be somewhere else.”
“I don’t care.” His voice is slightly muffled as he plants tiny kisses over my neck and shoulders. It feels so good that my resolve fades more with every passing second, which is obviously his plan.
“Well my roommate-slash-bestie will, and so do I. We’re both so busy that we mostly pass each other like ships in the night, but we have a date night once a month. This one’s been postponed about five times already, and it’s too late for me to back out now. Plus, I’m frickin’ starving!”
I don’t know why I’m explaining all this to him. It’s really none of his business—I certainly don’t owe him any kind of explanation.
“Meh. Tell her you got held up.” He keeps kissing me all over.
It feels so good that I arch my back, allowing him better access. He obliges, lavishing my body with ever-more passionate kisses, before moving to my mouth.
“Him,” I say, breathless with arousal as Arlo’s mouth hovers above mine.
“What?”
“Tell him, not her,” I correct him.
“Who?” Arlo sounds confused, and not a little pissed off.
“Marko, my date.”
“What? Wait, let me get this straight. Your best friend and roommate is a dude?”
“One of my best friends. Correct.”
“You live with a guy, and you’re leaving my bed for a date with him?”
He’s really not looking too happy now.
“Wow, literally nothing gets past you, does it, Sherlock?” I roll my eyes. Arlo seems to bring out a sarcastic streak in me a mile wide. “Yes, Arlo, Marko is a guy. Yes, he’s my roommate. He’s also an amazing cook and a great friend, and he’ll soon be waiting for me to come home and join him for dinner.”
“I don’t think so,” he hisses sharply.
“You don’t think so what?”
“Like fuck are you going home to cozy up to some guy who obviously wants you.”
“Oh my God, you’re actually nuts!” I can’t help but throw my head back and let out a huge belly laugh. “Firstly, my dry cleaner and the lovely Armenian lady who does my bikini waxes have more right to say who I can and can’t spend my time with than you do. Secondly, there’s nothing like that between Marko and me. Really. It’s not like you and Marnie. We’ve been friends for forever, danced together for almost as long, and he, Nic and I are friends who don’t fuck.”
“Oh yeah, silly me. He’s gay, of course.” He looks mighty relieved at the thought. Now I’m laughing so hard, I can hardly breathe.
“Not even close.”
“What? He’s a ballet dancer and a great cook. He lives with you, and he allegedly doesn’t want to get into your pants. Of course he’s fucking gay. Either that or he’s in a coma, but I’m guessing that if he’s cooking dinner tonight, he must be at least semiconscious.”
“He’s not gay, Arlo. Trust me on this one. Couldn’t be further from it, in fact.”
I can’t keep the smug tone from my voice.
“Well, if he’s not gay, he wants you. Period.”
“For God’s sake! You don’t even know the guy. You’ve got no idea.”
“I don’t need to know him, I know you. If he’s got eyes, a dick, a pulse, and a love of pussy, he wants you. If he’s danced with you, he definitely fucking wants you. Trust me.”
I don’t trust Arlo as far as I can throw him.
“Listen, I don’t even know why we’re debating this. But for the record, and to end this completely boring conversation once and for all, I know he’s not gay because we’ve screwed.”
The look on Arlo’s face is priceless. He’s fuming. He looks as though he’s going to swallow his tongue and then kill a dead thing. I don’t bother to explain the finer details. He doesn’t need to know that due to the chemistry we had when we danced, people always thought there was something going on between us. So much so, that we did give it a go once, but it just wasn’t right. It was like getting off with my cousin. Neither of us has been even vaguely tempted since, and it was a very long time ago.
Obviously the concept of spending time with a woman and neither fucking her, nor wanting to fuck her is completely alien to Arlo. In many ways, he and Marko are cut from the same cloth in that sense. Marko is ballet’s enfant terrible. I love him to death, but it’s no secret that he’s a raging man-whore who has women flocking to him like flies. He takes his pick, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. In fact, you could say that he is to ballet what Mr. Jones is to music.
“Fuck that asshole.”
I can see the cogs of Arlo’s mind turning. He’s looking at me intently, as though he wants to ask me something. Instead, he remains silent. Maintaining eye contact, he leans in to kiss me slowly. It’s a deep kiss, laden with intent. The air between us is so charged with electricity that we could power the house with it. I return the kiss eagerly, feeling like a teenager again—I could do this for hours, and it’s fast becoming addictive.
I allow him to turn me around so I’m lying on my front, pulling his robe off me as he does. He spreads my legs as far apart as they will go, stroking up and down my back lightly with the tips of his fingers. It’s a deeply erotic sensation. After a few moments, I’m literally quivering with anticipation. He hasn’t so much as brushed his hands between my legs, yet already I’m throbbing. Knowing what’s coming next, I’m getting wetter by the second. I lift up slightly and move my hand down toward my happy button, intending to get things moving, to release some of the pent-up tension.
“Oh no, you don’t, Tog—patience is a virtue.”
He grabs my arm just as my hand is about to reach its intended destination.
“Don’t even think about getting yourself off. I want that pleasure to be all mine.”
His voice is low, barely audible, and sexy as hell.
“But I need—”
He cuts me off before I can finish.
“What you need is to let me make you come like a train, and to skip the ‘date’ with the ballet douche.” The commanding alpha male routine is scorching hot. Who knew?
Arlo’s hands have moved down to my butt now and are squeezing and massaging my buttocks. It’s exquisite and torturous all at once—it feels amazing, but it’s not what
I’m craving so badly. I want him inside me. Desperately. I raise myself off the bed a little more—partly offering myself to him, enticing him to enter, partly because feeling the sheets brushing against my clit is driving me completely nuts, and I need to dial it back a notch.
“Fuck me. Hard,” I whisper.
He’s still holding my butt, and as the words leave my mouth, he drives into me from behind. I didn’t even notice him putting a condom on, but he obviously did—I can feel it. He grabs a handful of my hair, pulling my head backward as I push myself back toward him, grinding against his dick, wanting to feel him even deeper inside me. He moves his hands to my hips, thrusting harder. I’m so wet. He’s so hard. We’re so hot.
Yet again, this level of intensity is beyond anything I’ve felt before. I want him with every fiber of my being. I want him so deep inside me that I can’t tell where I end and he begins. On the other hand, I don’t want to come just yet. I pull away abruptly, taking him completely by surprise.
“What—?”
Before he can finish the sentence, I’ve maneuvered onto my back again and am underneath him, taking him into my mouth. Hard as he is, he grows harder and larger as I close my lips around his cock. Christ, he really is huge. It’s all I can do not to gag as I deep-throat him. Arlo slows his pace a little, but keeps the thrusts as deep as I can handle. I feel him throbbing against my lips. I grip his dick in my hand and squeeze, so that with each thrust he rubs against my hand and my mouth. It drives him wild.
“Christ, L—keep that up, and I won’t last too much longer,” he warns me, pulling out of my mouth.
He reaches down and grabs both of my breasts, squeezing, and tweaking my nipples. Crap. I thought switching things up would turn the heat down a bit for me, so that I could delay my climax for a while, but if he carries on like this, I’m going to be the one finishing first. An involuntary groan escapes my lips. I pull back to speak.
“I don’t want to come yet,” I pant out breathlessly.
“I know, babe,” he says, continuing the nipple play for a moment. A sexy smile plays on his lips as he brings his cock back to my mouth.