Dumpster Fire (Life Sucks Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  So, he did.

  The water came on in the sink.

  “Just a second,” she called.

  But it was more than a few seconds, and after a minute, Rob simply ran out of patience. He turned the knob and strode in. “It’s okay if you’re—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Because he turned around, his cheeks feeling hot.

  Soph was on the toilet. Soph was using the toilet.

  He stepped out, closed the door behind him. A minute later, he heard the toilet flush, her footsteps moving to the sink, the stream of water changing as she washed her hands, and then she came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and fucking beautiful in the early morning light.

  Except . . . he’d barged in on her.

  His eyes met hers then darted away.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought—”

  “It was an emergency.”

  Lips parting, he glanced back at her.

  She giggled. “Well, it was an emergency before our horizontal shenanigans. After, it was . . . I don’t know, whatever is worse than an emergency.”

  He snorted.

  She smacked him lightly. “It’s your fault, I’ll have you know. I was trying to wiggle away from you before you got all . . . manly and sexy and distracted me with two freaking orgasms.”

  “It was your fault,” he said, taking her hand, leading her back to bed. He had plans for her, and they involved her captive on that mattress.

  But he needed to make his own trip to the bathroom to clean up.

  Maybe he could coax her back into bed, tempt her to remain naked permanently with treats and copious amounts of tea.

  Hmm.

  Now, that thought presented some serious consideration. She’d be sprawled out there and ready for his lips and fingers and tongue. First, he’d spend long minutes on her breasts. Then trace the smattering of freckles on her torso with his tongue. Then he’d taste her again.

  And only after that would he slide home, riding her until he found the pattern and rhythm that made her lose any semblance of control.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, drifting closer.

  “Hold that thought,” he said, nudging her onto the mattress before disappearing into the bathroom, quickly taking care of the condom and other necessities, then came back out, hoping he’d been quick enough to find her still in bed.

  She was.

  Lucky him.

  He swapped the dirty underwear for clean then crawled back into bed, taking Soph into his arms. “Are you done holding that thought?” he asked lightly.

  “Depends,” she said, cuddling up to him. “Are you going to tell me what you were thinking?”

  “That you are fucking gorgeous and that I want to lick chocolate syrup off every inch of you.”

  “That sounds both kinky and sticky,” she said, giggling.

  “I was also wondering,” he said, parting the sides of her towel and tugging her closer. “Why you were wearing this?”

  She stilled.

  He tensed, wondering if he’d overstepped. “Shit,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to bring up something that would make you uncomfortable.” He reached for the towel, started to wrap it around her.

  But then her chin came up, and determination filled her expression.

  His heart squeezed. “It’s the scars.”

  She made a face. “Yes,” she said. “I know you already saw them, but that was different. It wasn’t a full view of my entire back, and it wasn’t under fluorescent lighting, and I like to pretend that I’m tough and unaffected by them, that I’m not ashamed but . . .”

  “You’re insecure about them.”

  She bit her lip and hesitated. Rob experienced another bolt of rage that this woman, this incredible woman had endured what she had. But he couldn’t take this away from her, and he truly didn’t care about the scars. He’d felt them on her back when he’d touched her, had seen them in the sunlight, so no, he didn’t give a shit what they looked or felt like. What he hated was that she’d been hurt, that her skin bore a memory of the things she’d overcome. It wasn’t fair she had to shoulder that atop everything else she’d survived.

  But he didn’t give two fucks about the actual scars.

  “I shouldn’t be,” she whispered. “But they’re bad enough that I have it written into my contract for a body double any time my back needs to be on film. Bad enough that my wardrobe always covers it—even in the skimpiest swimsuit scene, I make sure to have a cover-up. And I don’t ever take it off—no matter what the director wants.”

  “Tempest, I truly don’t care about your scars.”

  Her face softened. “I . . . well, I can’t say that I know, since I don’t make a habit of showing them to anyone,” she said. “But I think if there was ever a person who truly didn’t care about them, I think it would be you.”

  “Do you want me to get you a shirt you can wear?”

  Mouth curving, she rested her palm on his chest. “I really like you. You know that?”

  He kissed the top of her nose. “Well, I really, really like you.”

  That mouth tipped up further. “Is this where I say, really times three?”

  Laughing, he pressed a kiss to her lips, tasting her smile on his tongue, knowing he was so lucky to be here with this woman. “If you want,” he told her when they broke apart for air. “But then I’d have to one-up you by saying times four.”

  “Competitive, are we?”

  “You should see me during Phase Ten.”

  Brows drawing together, she asked, “What’s that?”

  “You don’t know?” he asked with mock-outrage. “How can Hollywood’s favorite leading woman not know what Phase Ten is?”

  She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you going to tell me?” she grumbled. “Or just keep gloating?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to show you.”

  “Hmm.”

  He rolled onto his back, tugged her on top of him.

  Wickedness in her eyes, her smile, her hands as they slipped down his chest. “Or maybe I’m going to show you?”

  Twenty-Two

  Card Shark

  Soph

  Sunshine was pouring in through the windows, dappling Rob’s skin with streaks of gold, bringing out the red undertones in his hair.

  He had no right to be so pretty.

  He had no right to devastate her heart so completely.

  Sighing, but desperate now to brush her teeth and shower, she forced herself to push off his chest, his pulse still thudding beneath her palms, and sat up.

  “Okay?” he asked, starting to sit up.

  “Shower,” she said. “And toothbrushing.”

  He groaned, flopped back. “Are you always this energetic in the morning?” he groused.

  “When a man gives me almost a half-dozen orgasms”—fucking hell that was a record—“then yes.”

  “Four isn’t a half-dozen,” he grumbled, tucking the blankets around them and holding her captive against his chest again. All things considered, she didn’t mind being his prisoner, not if it meant being surrounded by him and his yummy scent, and not if he kept holding her close.

  And playing with her hair.

  Because God, she really liked it when he played with her hair.

  But she had a reputation to maintain. She wasn’t going to be reduced to a limp noodle just because she’d found an awesome man . . . who could give her awesome orgasms.

  “Fine,” she said, shifting so she could rest her chin on her folded hands. “A third of a dozen. Better now?”

  A grunt was her only response, and when she glanced up at his face, she saw he’d closed his eyes, though his lips were turned up at the edges. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take a third of a dozen.”

  Laughing, she twisted and tugged lightly at the blankets, trying to free herself. After a moment of making absolutely no progress except to get drawn somehow even closer, she sighed and plunke
d back down on top of him. “I see this is going to be a problem.”

  “Shh,” he said. “Sleep.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “I am,” he muttered. “Some wench kept me up late last night and then exhausted me this morning.”

  “I think this morning was your fault.”

  “Nope. Uh-uh,” he said. “I was trying to be the responsible one.”

  She snorted but couldn’t deny that she had been the driving force behind their mattress antics—or at least maybe slightly more than halfway responsible. He had given her all those orgasms after all. “Meh,” she said. “Responsibility is overrated.”

  He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes closed.

  “You know what isn’t overrated?”

  A grunt.

  “Getting out of bed in the morning when the sun is shining so brightly!” she sing-songed.

  He slit open his lids. “I’m not giving you third of a dozen orgasms anymore.”

  She laughed, bouncing lightly on his chest. “Liar.”

  A shrug. “Yup.”

  “Let’s get up and play.”

  Amusement danced its way across his face. “Play what?”

  She threw up an arm. “Anything!”

  He put a pillow over his head. “Nope.”

  Grinning and having more fun with this man than she had with anyone in a long time, she just yanked it free and went back to bouncing on his chest. “Rise and shine, baby,” she said, ignoring his grunt of displeasure. “If you get up right now, I’ll let you play with me in the shower.

  Magically, he summoned the energy to get out of bed.

  Also, magically, he summoned the energy to make her third of a dozen orgasms turn into a half-dozen.

  “Read ’em and weep,” she said cheerfully, putting down her final combination of cards (one set of five of a kind and one set of three of a kind).

  Rob sighed in disgust.

  Probably because she’d been very far behind for the first half of the game.

  Then she’d crushed him resoundingly.

  “You’re a card shark,” he mock-grumbled, laying down his cards and scooping her onto his lap. He’d convinced her to play on the couch, mostly because he’d promised to let her pick what was on TV in the background and had made them a giant bowl of popcorn to share.

  Not that she was hungry.

  He’d taken the bagels she’d brought and turned them from breakfast to lunch—since, by the time they’d made it out of the bathroom, it was much closer to noon than not. And though the bagel sandwiches were loaded with lunchmeat and cheese along with all the condiments, nothing had been as good as that morning in the bedroom and bathroom.

  Bedroom because . . . obviously.

  Bathroom because . . . God, the man never failed to make her heart melt. He’d warmed up the shower then tucked her under the hot water before retrieving extra towels—one for her body and one for her hair, smart man that he was—and had even produced some color-saving shampoo and conditioner from somewhere.

  Well, not somewhere, since certainly it had belonged to Carmella.

  He’d presented it with an apology in his eyes, as though she could ever harbor any ill-will toward the woman. Not only was she gone, but she’d also loved this wonderful man in a way that had stayed with him for years.

  Obviously, Soph didn’t like the idea of him hurting, least of all for years, but she did like the idea of him having cherished moments and happy times with his late wife.

  So, she’d just thanked him for the shampoo and conditioner and had used it, sending up a mental prayer that Carmella was content and joyful, wherever she had ended up.

  Later, when he’d finally gotten into the shower, coming close to share the stream, her stomach had tightened in anticipation. She knew he’d be able to see the scars fully, without her bra or T-shirt blocking parts of them, and under the bright lights of the bathroom. Part of her had still worried he be disgusted by them, that she had been wrong about him and he’d look at her differently because of them.

  But he hadn’t looked at her differently.

  He’d just stroked his hand up and down her spine, just kissed her lightly on her mouth, and then bent to repeat the gesture on each of the heavy, ridged marks.

  Then he’d washed her body with a spicy-scented soap that told her where at least part of his yummy scent came from.

  Now the sun was setting, and she knew that she’d need to go back to her place soon. One, because she was out of clean clothes. Two, because he would need to go to work in the morning and she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his business.

  But she didn’t want to.

  She wanted to fall asleep in his arms and wake him up with her wiggling again. She wanted to spend every second with this man, especially since her time in this town was going to be coming to an end in just a few weeks.

  God, that made her sadder than it should. But she’d committed to the film and others. She wouldn’t be able to look at herself in the mirror if she didn’t honor her commitments—or got in the way of Rob honoring his. Which meant she should go, even though she wanted to soak up every minute.

  “I should—”

  He nuzzled her throat, lips pressing to a spot just beneath her ear that never failed to make her shiver.

  “Stay tonight?” he asked, fingers coming up to tangle in her hair. “I’m not quite ready to let you go.”

  “I don’t want to mess up what you have to do.”

  “Why would you mess me up?”

  She leaned back in his lap, ran her fingers through his hair. “You have to work tomorrow.”

  A smile. “Not sure what that has to do with tonight.”

  “I—” She sighed. “Well, I’m leaving in two weeks. It might be better if we didn’t get too used to each other.”

  “Fuck that.”

  Soph blinked.

  “If you have to leave in two weeks, then I want to have every possible moment with you.” A beat. “And after you go,” he murmured, “I want those moments, too.”

  “But—”

  He brushed a kiss to her jaw. “But what?”

  “What if things change when I go?”

  His arms tightened around her. “Things will change,” he said, far more confidently than she felt, “but the important stuff won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  A warm hand placed over her heart, and she wondered if he felt how fast it was thudding in her chest.

  Probably.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to care when he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, hot breath making her shiver. “I know.”

  Then his mouth dropped onto hers.

  And she forgot all about the reasons she shouldn’t stay.

  Instead, she slept peacefully in Rob’s arms that night.

  But better yet was waking up with those arms still around her.

  Twenty-Three

  All the Grumps

  Rob

  “How dare you?” he gasped a week later.

  In his best impression of the outraged old witch, who Sophie’s character was fighting off in this remake of Hansel and Gretel.

  “I do dare,” she said, lifting her chin. “I do dare, when you seek to unleash your evil on the world.” Then she picked up the ruler and basket they’d been pretending were a bow and arrow and vanquished the evil witch.

  He attempted to die slowly and painfully as the script called for.

  And by the end of his thralls, after he’d finally gone still and groaned his last groan, he and Soph were in absolute stitches.

  Which was fine by him because it meant that he could snag her around the waist, draw her close, and taste her laughter on his tongue.

  Somehow, they ended up on the floor, with Soph on top of him, her hands on his shoulders, and her legs straddling his hips. Which put his cock exactly where he preferred it—between her thighs.

  She tore her shirt over her head, tossed it to the side.

 
“Does this mean we’re done practicing your lines?” he asked, trailing his knuckles down her throat.

  “I was thinking about practicing something else.”

  “Yeah?”

  A nip to his jaw, his ear, his throat. “Yes.”

  “What, Tempest?”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  His hands clamped onto her thighs. “Tempest?”

  Her tongue darted out and tasted his lips. “Yes, obviously.”

  He trailed his palms up and down the sensual curves of her ass, her hips, tracing them up her sides, stopping just beneath her breasts. “This bra should be illegal,” he murmured, using his pointer finger to outline the black lace number, as he plotted the best way to remove the contraption, considering he couldn’t see any hooks or buttons. Just crisscrossing black bands and lace cupping her luscious breasts, drawing the globes up and together and making him desperate to bury his face there.

  So he did.

  Kissing the inside of each breast, using his nose to nudge the straps out of the way so he could get to the treasure hidden within.

  Or perhaps the treasure beneath was more apt.

  Either way, he had to reach the hard peak that was straining through the lace, desperate for his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. So close, so close—there. And her moan when he sucked her nipple deep, the way her hands were kneading at his shoulders, drawing him to her, urging him on was fucking nirvana.

  Except, it wasn’t nirvana when he found himself stuck amongst the straps of her bra, hair caught on some piece, ear on another.

  Soph moaned and gathered him close when he froze.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked.

  His nose was pressed against her soft skin, her scent soaking into his pores. “I’m stuck,” he said, unable to stop himself from pressing a kiss to the underside of her breast.

  “What?” she asked, breath catching when his lips worked on her flesh.

  “I’m stuck,” he said again, and again it was barely discernable, sounding more akin to “Shim shuck” than the reality of his words.