“True. I work with a partner now, and it’s good to have someone to bounce ideas off of. Reid is terrific about that, but he’s more practical. He’ll suggest moving an element a little to the left, or trying a different font.” Reid is great at what he does, and I’m glad he moved from London to New York recently so we could grow the business. “But he’s not like you. We don’t dive into the deep end of how art makes us feel.”
She smiles softly, genuinely. “I like talking about that.”
“Me too,” I say with a contented sigh, returning to the cover, pausing a moment to let the impact of the design sink in. For me, this cover represents the idea of someone desperate for a change, someone who chooses to hit the road in search of a new life. “This image—it makes me think about what I’d hit the road for. What would motivate me to pack up and go?”
“And the answer is?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She arches a dubious brow. “Not a thing? Honestly?”
I shrug, conceding a sliver. “Okay. Fine. I’d pack up for family, if I had to. I’d pack up if I had six months to live. But right now? I’m not looking for a new life, or a deeper meaning. I’m content. Life is good. Work is good. I can’t complain.”
“So the cover made you think that you had no need to take off—that you had everything you needed right in front of you?”
Staring at the image, I nod decisively. “Yeah, it did. I sort of took stock as I stared at it. Asked myself what I’d do. If I wanted something else. Sometimes you have to ask that question to know where you are.”
Her brown eyes sparkle, and she nods excitedly. It’s like we’re on the same wavelength once more, as she answers, “I agree. How do you know if you need to make a change in your life if you don’t stop and meditate on where you are?”
“Exactly. And that’s what I did when I saw this cover. I asked myself if there was something else out there calling to me, like in this story, and like you captured with this design. That’s what I thought about when I saw it. Maybe that’s not the answer you want. Maybe you wanted something—”
She grabs my arm, her brown eyes vulnerable. “No. I didn’t want a different answer. I wanted a true answer. You gave me a true one. I’m glad it made you think and feel. What more can I ask for?”
“Nothing,” I say, setting the book down and meeting her gaze. “You can’t ask for anything more when you create. You want to have an impact, and you did that,” I say, and it feels so good to talk like this again. Once upon a time, we were comrades in arms, two aspiring artists trying to figure out how to make their mark. Leaning on each other for a second opinion, another voice here and there.
We’re doing it again, and it feels natural and right. Like something I didn’t know was missing, but now I don’t want to go without. She was the balance to my grouch. She helped me see and feel beyond life’s little annoyances. And she pushed me to look beyond the practical.
“Thank you for saying that.” Her eyes lock with mine, holding my gaze. “And I’ve missed this too. These little moments. It’s nice to have them again,” she says, echoing my thoughts as she smiles. But in an instant, her good humor disappears, and her eyes flash with worry. “Wait. This isn’t the part where you tell me you have six months to live, is it?”
A laugh bursts from me. “Why would you say that?”
She swats my shoulder. “You just said if you had six months to live, you’d maybe hit the open road. Please tell me that wasn’t a subtle hint that you’re counting down the last days of your life?”
The thin stretch of her voice tells me her worry is legit. But her train of thought is also highly amusing. “Not that I know of. But,” I say, lightly tapping her nose, “I’ve made a note that the mere thought of me disappearing from the face of the earth makes you sad.” I run my finger over her top lip. “Just look at that frown.”
“Stop it,” she pouts.
I laugh, grabbing her waist and administering a series of tickles that make her squirm. When she stops laughing, I say, “I was just messing around. It was hypothetical. But I’m glad I said it, since now I know you’re going to cry at my funeral.”
She huffs. “I’m taking back anything nice I ever said about you.”
“So that’s what? Ten words?” I tease, and now I definitely don’t want to leave. I’m having too much fun with this unexpected turn of events.
“Please.” She adopts a serious expression. “It was eleven. I said eleven nice words. Don’t sell me short.”
“Well, then. You’re a veritable town crier, singing my praises.”
“Also, I’ll have you know, I will definitely cry at your funeral,” she says, dipping her head, then her shoulders shake and her lip quivers.
I freeze, worry racing through me as she looks back up. “Shit, are you okay?” I ask as a tear slips down her cheek.
She frowns, bringing her hand to her mouth as another tear falls.
Is she that upset about the prospect of my someday funeral? “Lola,” I say softly, stroking her arm. “Are you . . .?”
She giggles.
The trickster giggles like a naughty little kid.
I narrow my eyes, squeezing her arm roughly. “You are a devil, woman. It’s official. Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”
She grins wickedly. “I give good crocodile tears, don’t I?”
“Yeah. Scary good. You manipulative feline, you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she says, stretching, arching her back proudly.
“Cat is not a compliment.”
“You said you liked my fierce feline.”
She has me on that. “Fine. I did say that. And you’re definitely fierce.”
“And to answer your question, I learned that on my own. My friend Peyton has this theory that everyone needs a party trick, so I decided mine would be crying on cue.”
“And how did you teach yourself? Slicing onions?”
“Slicing onions is child’s play. All you have to do is read Charlotte’s Web. Never fails to elicit geysers from the eyes. So I think of Charlotte, and waterworks ensue.”
“You are fierce, brilliant, and evil. And you deserve to have the tables turned.” I run my finger down her hip. “What would you do if you had six months to live? Would you hit the open road?” I ask, curious to hear her answer.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe sex changes nothing.
Perhaps we can do this whole get-sex-out-of-our-systems-and-be-friends thing.
Because this? Right here, right now? Feels like friendship. Feels like everything we both foolishly cut off at the knees years ago.
She sighs thoughtfully, then stares up at the ceiling. I follow her gaze, noticing the outline of a few stars there.
“I’d travel,” she answers. “Maybe that seems so ordinary, like what everyone else would say to that question. But I do think that traveling, seeing the world—that’s the kind of thing you should do if time is running out. You’d go anywhere. You’d go everywhere.”
“You’d soak in everything the world has to offer,” I say. “Live each day like it’s your last. I don’t think you can do that if you stay in place.”
She sweeps her arm out wide, like she’s pointing to the door, to the road, to the other side of the world. “You’d have to go. Take off. Leave the mundane behind. Shed it all.”
“Live each day to the limit. Devour every second on the clock like they’re those soul-selling fries,” I say.
She laughs lightly then meets my gaze, her brown eyes soft. “I guess the cover was indeed evocative, like the ones I’ve seen of yours. I’m proud of you, Lucas. I loved watching you create back in school, and once we stopped talking, it was even harder going up against you in contests and for jobs, because your eye was so sharp, so fine. You always saw the details and the emotions in a design. It’s kind of nice to just talk like this. Like we used to.”
She was dead-on that sex changes nothing.
We are older, wiser.
>
“We used to talk about everything. Nothing was off-limits,” I say, then point to the ceiling. “Speaking of, what’s all that about?”
Sighing dreamily, she hops out of bed, walking to the door. “I’ll show you.”
But I’m distracted now by the sight of her naked ass. “Damn, woman. You have a spectacular ass. And trust me, I’ve been ogling it all night, but watching you walk away like that is my new favorite sport. Can you do that again? Like, all night, please?”
Wiggling her luscious rear, she says, “Here’s your encore.” Then she shimmies that ass a few more times, and my body temperature shoots to the sky.
I am on fire. “Do it again. And again. And again.”
She rewards me with one more shake, and I groan in appreciation. “Gluteus perfectus.”
Blowing me a kiss, she shuts off the light and rejoins me in bed, nodding to the ceiling. It’s not spangled in stars like a kid’s. Instead, she’s detailed a few constellations. That’s all. It’s tasteful, thoughtful.
She points at the stars. “When I was in middle school and I moved from Miami to New York, what I missed most was lying on the beach at night and staring up at the sky. You could see so many stars there. Even though it was a big city, there was still a lavish sky. And Luna and I used to go to the beach and watch the stars at night and whisper our dreams to the constellations.”
I smile at that image. “I can picture that perfectly.”
“When I moved to New York, there was no more starlight, so we chose to make it ourselves. We put stars on our ceilings and shared our hopes with them. We told the sky about art and music, about love and passion. She whispered of songs she wanted to write, and I told stories of how I wanted to make people feel. We shared them all with each other and with the stars above. It was our world—the two of us and the constellations.”
The story causes a smile to tug not just at my mouth, but at my heartstrings.
She mimes placing the stickers on the ceiling. “And when I got my own place at last, it didn’t feel like home till I put some of the night sky above me. Cassiopeia has always known our hopes and dreams, so it seemed fitting she’d be the one on my ceiling. It makes me feel like I’m home. Like someone knows me.”
My heart beats a little faster, thrums harder. “Lucky Cassiopeia,” I whisper, then shift closer, reaching for her hair and threading my fingers through those lush strands.
I kiss her again, soft and tender, and it goes to my head. The transition is seamless as we slide right back to where we were an hour ago. She melts against me—not a friend, but a lover, kissing me like a woman who wants to wrap herself around a man.
And that’s what she does. She slings a leg over my hip, and I can’t resist. I slide my hand between her thighs.
She moans as I glide my fingers across her. “So soft, so wet,” I murmur.
“I think you turn me on a little bit,” she whispers.
I grin, dropping a kiss to her neck. She smells addictive, that tropical sea breeze that makes my bones hum. “Pretty sure it’s more than a little.”
“Seems like it is,” she pants, rocking against my hand.
Soon she’s writhing, murmuring, and telling me to keep going. “Lucas,” she murmurs. “I want more.”
What the lady wants . . .
“I’ll give you more,” I growl. I stroke her, touch her, take her over the edge till she cries out, chanting my name. The way she says it, like it tastes so sinful on her lips, convinces me we can have sex, we can have friendship, and we can be back in each other’s lives.
We talked it out, we said our piece, and we apologized.
We moved on like adults at last.
And adults can balance complicated things.
I kiss her forehead as she snuggles against me. “Hey, Lo. This changes nothing,” I say, repeating her words.
Her brow knits. “What do you mean? I can’t think straight post-orgasm,” she says, her voice a little gravelly and all kinds of sexy.
I run my fingers down her arm. “We’re just getting this out of our systems, and we’re going back to being friends. Like you said.” I smile, letting her know I’m on board with the balancing act.
“Right. Yes. Definitely.” Her eyes glint. “But I’m winning because I got one more orgasm out of the deal,” she says in that taunting voice again.
I groan. “Woman, talk like that and you’re going to wind up taking my cock deep in your mouth.”
Her eyes widen. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”
I trace her lips. “You look at me like you want it.”
She moves down my body, lithe like a cat, kissing my chest, her lips trailing over my abs, her tongue blazing a hot path that sizzles my skin.
She goes lower, then lower still.
And thankfully, her mouth is just where I want it. She flicks her tongue across the head of my dick. “I do want it. I want you in my mouth.”
My cock jerks against her lips. “Take it.”
She parts her lips and draws me in a tantalizing inch.
Then suddenly she drops me from her mouth, jerking her gaze to my face. “The tango club on Madison. That’s where they took dance lessons. I saw them leave once.”
“And my dick makes you remember that?”
12
Lola
“Yes!”
It comes out as a shout because I feel victorious.
He pushes up on his elbows, naked as a jaybird, hard as steel, and sexy as hell.
But I am undeterred. Because we still have a mission to complete.
“Takes Two!”
He blinks. “Yes. It does take two for you to go down on me. Your mouth. My dick. Two. Proceed.”
I ignore him because I’m bouncing with excitement. “Takes Two to Tango. It’s a dance studio a couple blocks away from my friend Peyton’s lingerie shop. I saw them there when I was shopping at Peyton’s store a few months ago.”
His eyes narrow. “For lingerie? You were shopping for lingerie?”
“Well, I wasn’t shopping for avocados.”
“Did you wear the lingerie for another guy?” he asks in that jealous rumble again.
I stare at him. “Is that a real question?”
“Yes, it’s a real question. Humor me with a real answer.”
I roll my eyes, even though I like his jealous streak a helluva lot. “No, you caveman. I buy lingerie for me. Because I like it. Like the pink bra and panties I had on tonight. I bought them for me.”
His dick twitches. “But I liked them too. So did my dick.”
“Glad to hear it. Anyway, that’s where they took classes. That’s where the iPad has to be.” I’m ready to grab some clothes and catch a cab right now.
“Great. How about you finish what you started while I google Takes Two to Tango and find out their business hours.”
“Are you serious?” I say with an incredulous laugh.
He glances at his erection. “Do I look like I’m joking? Me before tango, please.”
I smile, delighted by his voracious sexual appetite. It matches mine. Because even though I do want to finish the list, I also want to finish him.
He grabs his phone and speaks into it. “Google, tell me the hours for Takes Two to Tango while Lola sucks my cock.”
And I crack up so hard. So hard and so deep that it’s clear I can’t leave this man bereft of a blow job. Because I don’t want to stop either.
I lean down and kiss the tip of his fantastic dick.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he murmurs.
“Now talk me through it, Lucas. You’ll get your reward as you figure out the details,” I say, drawing him into my mouth again.
He groans a fantastically filthy yes as he slides his thumb across the screen. “It’s open,” he says, breathing out hard as I take him deep. “Fuck . . .”
He hits the back of my throat, filling my mouth.
“Open at . . .” He tries again, but he can’t speak as I wrap my fist a
round the base, gripping him as I suck.
“In the morning . . .” He thrusts up into my mouth, and we find a rhythm.
I take him deep, and he rocks into me, his thumb fumbling away at the screen.
“At eleven. We’ll go . . .” He grunts, panting roughly, finally tossing the phone onto the pillow. “Fuck, Lo.”
I grin wickedly, moving faster, driving him wild, giving him his reward.
“At eleven. Holy fuck. At eleven. Okay?” He bites off a string of curses, the last one ending with Coming now.
And as he fills my mouth, I’m wickedly delighted that we solved another clue and racked up another O.
But I’m more thrilled that he likes this so much. That he craves my body, my mouth, my skin as much as I do his. It’s like a vindication of everything I feared years ago.
That he’d rejected not only the friendship, but this part of me too.
I didn’t simply lose him.
I lost a little sliver of confidence.
I found it again on my own, but it’s sure as hell good to know he responds to me the same way I do to him.
But when he leaves a little later, guitars and T-shirts in hand, I’m sadder than I thought I’d be to say goodbye.
“See you tomorrow,” I say at the door. I’m in a T-shirt and yoga pants. He’s in his clothes again, hair mussed, lips full. Post-sex Lucas. It’s a good look on him, the lover look. It suits his olive skin, his dark-brown eyes.
“Technically, I’ll see you today.” He looks at his watch. “After all, a certain someone kept me up way past midnight.”
I affect a huge yawn. “That certain someone needs her sleep.”
“Same here,” he says, rocking on his heels.
The silence of the late hour wraps around us, and for a few seconds, the air is heavy, thick with unsaid things.
I could ask him to spend the night.
But . . . I don’t think I want to.
I don’t think he wants to either.
Because I don’t know what waking up together would do to this strange, unexpected state of our relationship. It’s as if we’re living in a time warp. A day, maybe two, that exists outside the boundaries of the calendar.
One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material Book 3) Page 10