Promise Me

by Samanthe Beck

  When she leans back on her heels and looks up at me she’s breathing shallow, too. “What about under here?” Her fingers slide over my white knuckles. “Does it hurt here?”

  “It’s killing me,” I answer honestly, “but I don’t know if I can…”

  My words dissolve into the steam, because Kendall simply unwraps my fingers and moves my hand aside. I brace both on the wall in front of me and dip my chin to watch her slowly run her tongue from the base of my cock to the flare of the head.

  “Better?” she asks without actually lifting her lips, because she knows damn well it isn’t. My breath explodes around us in ragged pants.

  “I think I’d better give this some attention, too.” Her fingers dance over the tip. “Maybe one little kiss?”

  I grab my pounding erection with one fist and manhandle it down until the tip points directly at her evil, cock-teasing mouth. “Yes, please.”

  She does. Another of those tiny, chaste, annihilating kisses, and for a haphazard second I don’t know if I’m going to groan until my lungs deflate, pass out, or come. Possibly all three.

  “I think it’s going to need more TLC, Vaughn.” That’s all the warning I get before she closes those lush lips around me and takes me deep. In seconds my legs burn like I’ve run an ultra marathon, but it’s the strain of standing still that slowly wrecks me. My muscles are receiving rapid-fire messages from some primitive part of my brain, commanding my hip flexors to move. But I can’t. I have to be a gentleman.

  Do not fuck her mouth.

  Do not.

  Fuuuucck.

  I can’t stop myself from looking down, watching my cock disappear between damp lips a shade darker now that they’ve been roughed up from the friction of working me over. I don’t remember letting go of the wall, but suddenly my fingers are sinking into the wet silk of her hair.

  She makes an eager noise and follows the subtle pressure on her scalp that I didn’t even mean to assert. She takes me deeper.

  “Kendall…”

  A little deeper.

  “Kendall, baby, don’t…

  Deeper still, and then suddenly, she’s not taking anymore, she’s receiving. I’m giving. Glutes thrusting, hips rocking, head of my cock invading and retreating from the soft haven at the back of her throat while I hold her head just where I need it. Through the haze of an impending orgasm I look down and see her, beautiful and somehow…proud…knowing she owns this moment. She owns me. Then she closes her eyes, tips her head back one crucial degree, and swallows. I watch her throat work, and I’m lost. I come in a shuddering, groaning torrent. I come in her throat. Her mouth. On her tongue. When I finally realize what an impolite load I’m spending, I try to withdraw, afraid she’ll never volunteer the privilege of her mouth again, but she clamps her hands on my ass and nuzzles closer like she craves every last drop.

  I hope to God she does, because I’m too far gone to do anything but give it to her. Seconds, hours…potentially days later I watch my wrung-out dick slide from her lips. She runs the tip of her finger along the corner of her mouth, and then looks up at me. There is no mistaking the triumph in her smile. “Say, ‘You’re the best neighbor ever, Kendall.’”

  I drop to my knees and pull her into a soggy embrace. “Best neighbor ever.” My surrender comes out bouncy with laughter. “You win. You win all the things.”

  “I feel like a winner,” she whispers, and runs her fingers through my wet hair.

  I pull her face close for a kiss. “That makes two of us.”

  …

  Ever have those rare and mysterious spans of time where every pitch life throws in your direction, you knock that fucker right out of the park? Players call it a streak, and some do crazy shit to keep it going—don’t shave, don’t cut their hair, tap the bat against the sole of the right cleat, the left cleat, and then the outside corner of home plate exactly three times before assuming the stance. Whatever it takes.

  That’s my life right now. I’m on a winning streak, except I’m maintaining it effortlessly. Becca texted me she’s over “us.” Anonymous Hollywood insiders might be bashing my chances of being the next host of America Rocks, but the fan reaction has been overwhelmingly positive, and that can be a game changer in and of itself. To top it off, my dad has finally picked up on my frustrations with him and given me some much needed space. He refrained from hovering at the sidelines of an interview I did over the first part of this week, and, more importantly, he hasn’t tried to meddle in my personal life.

  Which brings me to the best part of this streak—Kendall. I love spending time with her. And no, that’s not a euphemism for “banging her like a screen door in a hurricane,” as Dylan cynically suggested when our paths crossed at the house and I told him I was on my way out to hang with her. Don’t get me wrong. I love her body—the feel of her, the taste, the uncensored way she reacts to the things I do to her—but with Kendall, sex is only one facet, as opposed to the primary objective. Hell, I don’t even know if there is a primary objective. All I know is with Kendall, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

  Public parking sucks tonight, but I finally find a spot to pull into that doesn’t require a permit. I jump out of the car and hurry down the sidewalk toward the art gallery. Thanks to a meeting that ran long, traffic, and typical south of Sunset parking challenges, I’m much later than planned.

  I pass a furniture store with a window display featuring a cushiony white sofa. Innocuous as it may be, it serves as a trigger. The kind that transports me to the night I laid Kendall out on my neighbor’s wet-dream of a sofa, hitched her long legs high, and then sank into her again and again while she gasped my name, and…okay, these kinds of memories are going to get me arrested for walking a public street alone on a Wednesday evening with a depraved grin on my face and a hard-on that won’t quit.

  I adjust my khakis and my thoughts, but the grin persists, because now my mind jumps to last night in my bed, when I pretended to wrestle her off me after she snuggled close and wedged her cold toes between my calves. Next, I flash to standing beside her in the kitchen early this morning, brewing coffee and making her laugh at my attempts to seduce her with a whisk I didn’t even know we had while she flipped slices of egg-drenched bread in a pan. We froze when Matt walked in all geared up for another day at the academy, took stock of us—Kendall menacing the front of my sweats with stainless steel cooking tongs while I tried to whisk my way under the T-shirt she borrowed. “There goes my appetite,” he muttered, before he walked out. We laughed so hard we had to hold each other up.

  I can feel a residual smile curving my lips as I turn onto a side street and search for Art In Progress. It’s not hard to find. A small crowd loiters on the sidewalk in front. I pick up my pace for no other reason than I can’t wait to see Kendall. She’s talked about this job, the kids, and this place enough for me to know she’s excited about tonight’s exhibit. And I’m excited for her. I know any job can seem shiny and bright after only a handful of days, but I wonder if she realizes she’s never sounded even a tenth as excited about getting her law degree as she has about AIP.

  I keep a neutral smile in place as I walk past the mix of teens and adults gathered out front. Recognition flashes across a face or two, but this isn’t my night, and I don’t want to steal attention, so I ease through the door. There are even more people inside. It’s a decent-sized space, but nonetheless at capacity. The hum of conversation echoes in the well-lit room, along with soft background notes from a dark-haired guy playing a piano. Because I’m scanning the crowd for Kendall, it takes me a moment to notice the art. Photographs, sketches, and paintings decorate the dark-toned walls. Sculptures bask under spotlights. And then there’s the ceiling. Shades of blue and green swirl above, tinged with yellow, purple, orange, and red. It’s like an ocean. A sunset. A galaxy of color designed to shower inspiration down on all of us.

  Duly inspired, I renew my effort to find my girl. My girl. I falter for a moment. The thought of her b
eing mine is disconcerting. Not because I don’t want to be with her. I do. So fucking much. But I can’t promise I won’t unwittingly hurt her. Ultimately, my career is my main focus; it’s what I’ve strived for. But then I see her standing at the far end of the room, and I selfishly forget about everything but wanting her. Needing her.

  She’s in conversation with a kid who looks about sixteen and a middle-aged woman with similar features. Kendall’s not facing me, but as if sensing my attention she turns her head, and her gaze collides with mine. My smile expands at the same time hers fades, and for a moment I’d swear she looks at me like I just sucker-punched her, but I don’t get a chance to confirm my impression because she turns back to her conversation.

  What the…?

  Yes, I’m forty minutes late, but she knows I was tied up in my meeting; I sent her a text as soon as it ended, telling her I was on my way. Is she bent because I wasn’t here when the event started? That doesn’t make any sense, either. She told me the show would last two hours and I should come by whenever. I stare at her from across the room, and I can tell by how she rubs the side of her neck that she feels my regard, but she doesn’t turn.

  Fuck it. I’m going in. I walk over to her. Not fast, not slow, but directly so there’s no doubt of my destination. The two people she’s speaking with look my way as I near, acknowledging my approach. Kendall? Nothing.

  “Hey,” I say, not bothering to hide my confusion, even though airing my uncertainty with an audience probably isn’t the best move.

  “Hello,” she replies, her tone cool and professional. “Vaughn, this is Bonnie and her son Will.”

  I exchange greetings with Bonnie and get a shy nod from Will.

  “Are you one of the artists?” I ask Will, while taking measure of Kendall from the corner of my eye. She keeps her focus on the teen.

  Will nods again. Okay. I get it. Speech isn’t his thing.

  “Do you have work on display tonight?”

  He inclines his head and points, indicating the framed sketch of three girls playing with a dog that I noticed on my way in. “The charcoal drawing? That’s yours? Dude”—I offer him my fist for a bump and he gives me one—“that piece caught my eye.”

  The boy blushes and shrugs. His mom squeezes his shoulder. “We’re very proud of his work.”

  “I can see why,” I answer sincerely.

  “Oh,” Bonnie exclaims. “There’s Josie. We want to say hello before we head out. It was nice meeting you, Kendall.” She expands her smile to include me. “Vaughn.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Kendall replies, and you’d never guess by her smile that there’s a single thing bothering her. But I know. “Will, I’ll see you Friday.”

  He offers a wave before they walk away. I turn to Kendall. “What’s wrong?”

  Her body language answers with a resounding everything. Her back is straight, her arms crossed, her figure a long, contained column in a midnight blue pantsuit and complicated silver heels. “Nothing I can get into right now. I’m working. If you want to wait until I’m done here, we can talk then. It’s entirely up to you.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “I know. I saw your text.”

  Someone passes behind me. Kendall lifts her chin in greeting and takes another step away from me. “Excuse me. Another artist and her guests just arrived. I need to welcome them.”

  Now I step back, too, because as much as I hate the brush-off, her point is valid. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize this opportunity for her. “I’ll find you later,” I say, and walk to the nearest wall to stare blindly at a group of watercolors. I won’t hover. I won’t crowd. But I will damn well wait her out. I do covertly watch her in action. Any casual onlooker would see an outgoing, radiant woman with a knack for putting those around her at ease. Only someone who’s taken a crash course in the nuances of Kendall Hewitt would detect the tension in her shoulders or the determined set of her smile. When our gazes clash from across the room, I force myself to focus on the art, not on dissecting what I might have said or done to put the wounded look in her eyes.

  I take my time walking through the exhibits and end up meeting Candace, Kendall’s boss. She’s a bouncy woman with genuine enthusiasm for what she does. It’s clear she could talk about Art in Progress all night, but the event is winding down, and her sharp look says she recognizes I haven’t hung around all evening strictly for the exhibit, no matter how worthwhile the cause. She turns, catches Kendall’s attention through the thinning crowd, and waves her over. The reluctance in her strides confirms my impression she’s been stalling for the last half hour.

  “Kendall, thank you so much for your help tonight. I don’t know what I would have done without you. But now”—Candace glances at her watch—“you’re officially off the clock. Take this handsome fellow and hit the road.”

  “I can stay and help clean up. I don’t mind—”

  “Nonsense.” Candace swats the suggestion away like a pesky fly. “You came in early to set up. The rental company will deal with most of the cleanup, and we’ll tackle the rest tomorrow. Go. Shoo. Thank you and good night.”

  “Okay,” she says through a forced smile. Her eyes dart to me. “I have to get my purse from the office, and I’m parked in back.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” I say, and gesture her to go ahead. We’re silent while she leads us down a narrow hall, past some workrooms, and into a small, utilitarian office. I shut the door behind me and watch her retreat to the other side of the desk.

  “Sorry I was late,” I say softly, and walk around the desk to ease into the space beside her.

  “I told you it’s fine.” She retrieves her purse from a lower drawer and straightens. “No explanations necessary. I mean, we’re friends enjoying a casual summer thing, right?”

  Those stiff words put my back up all over again. Right or wrong, my girl, floats through my head again. “Casual? What part feels casual to you?” I lean in so our faces are only inches apart. “When you gave me your virginity? When we had breakfast this morning after spending the night in my bed?” The office is private, but even so, I speak low so my words go directly into her ear. “When you had my dick in your mouth?”

  She pushes me back. “We didn’t have any rules or make any commitments. You’re free to do what you want, and I’m free to—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt, because my go-with-the-flow default setting is about to blow, even though I know it’s not fair. She was a virgin. This world is new to her. Of course she wants to travel in it. Experience more. It’s not her fault the idea makes me want to punch a hole through this wall. My winning streak is about to come to a crashing end, but I’m not letting go without a fight. “Maybe we didn’t spell out the parameters of ‘us,’ but when did we decide this is casual?”

  “You decided.” She corrects. “About the time you went on a date with Becca.”

  I’m clueless. “What are you talking about?”

  She pulls her phone out of her purse, taps a button, and points the screen at my face. I have to ease her hand back six inches before I can focus on a photo of Becca and me leaning across a table at The Peninsula.

  Shit. We’re right there in color-coordinated glory on Becca’s Instagram feed, along with the caption “Missing my boo.”

  “That picture was snapped over a week ago, and it wasn’t a date.” There’s nothing to do here but be honest, even if it puts my dysfunctional relationship with my father front and center. I want to level with her. “My dad set it up ambush-style on the last day of filming Laney’s music video to feed the gossip sites something juicy. I didn’t know she was going to be there. We shared a toast over her landing a movie role, and she tried to talk me into being a publicity couple. I said no. The end.”

  She lowers her hand and looks away. A muscle quivers in her throat. “It doesn’t matter…”

  I cup her jaw. “It matters to me. I don’t feel casual. I don’t want casual. I want you. I don’t care if this
is just for the summer. I don’t care if you’re eventually going to law school to get on with your life. For the duration, I’m yours.” I inhale deeply and add, “And you’re mine.”

  Her breath hitches, and I wonder if I’m about to be kicked in the balls for coming off like a domineering asshole.

  “This was before last weekend?” Before we had sex, her eyes say.

  “Yes.” I wrap my fingers around her wrist. “Yes, but it wasn’t before I started to realize I was—” Caution urges me to take stock of my words, but I don’t want to. I want to let them out. She deserves to have them no matter what she chooses to do with them. “Kendall, it wasn’t before I realized I was into you. And if it counts for anything, I’ve told my father he can’t just—”

  “Me, too.”

  The two words cut through my sloppy arguments. “What?”

  “Me, too,” she repeats, and closes her hand around mine. “I’m into you, too. I feel like this thing between us is…I don’t know…special.”

  “It is,” I interject, but she shakes her head to silence me.

  “But I’m not adept at reading the signals. Maybe you spend the weekend with all your dates? Maybe snuggling under the covers and sharing showers and cooking breakfast only feels special to me because I’ve never done it before?”

  “It feels special to me, too. Believe me, Kendall. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar. I haven’t done this before, either. When it comes to this”—I point to her and then to me—“we’re both virgins.”

  She spears her fingers into my hair and pulls my face close. “I believe you,” she says before she presses her lips to mine.

  Relief courses through me. I dive into the kiss. I don’t know where we’ve landed, exactly, but it’s somewhere beyond the reach of manipulated photo ops and unspoken emotions. Wherever we are, it feels vital.