by Staci Hart
And the moment his lips closed over me, I disagreed too.
My awareness shrank to the point where he was latched to me, my nerves zinging toward the point of contact. Heat in my thighs, pooled low in my belly, a drawing from deep within me with every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers. My hips flexed into him, against him, and he met every move with equal and opposite force.
Equals and opposites.
He gave, and I took. And as he gave, he took his pleasure—the rumble of his moan into me, the tremble of his shoulders, the blind, wild intensity in which he shifted his jaw, gripped my thigh, tasted me as if it were for himself far more than for me. As if he were the lucky one and not me, which was the boldest of lies.
It was a slow worship of my body, exaltation delivered by his tongue and hands. The tight drum of my heart battered my ribs with every second. My lungs locked, neck extending in offering. My back arched, thighs taut and shaking. His mouth—his mouth—with its own design, its own directive. The gathering of my senses to the place where we were joined. With a hard, deep draw, I came like thunder, a dark, rumbling division of self, a separation and conjoining at once.
The stop-start of my heart marked the beginning of the fall back to myself, galloping pulse slowing to a trot, then a lazy, deep shuffle as his tongue traced slow circles in my rippling flesh, a savoring. My fingers relaxed in his hair, smoothing toward his ears, settling for his shoulders as I rose, whispering his name. The sound drew him from the place he’d occupied in his mind and between my legs, arms shifting to plant his hands on either side of my hips as he rose, meeting my lips with a crash of desire. My fingers found his face, traced his jaw, splayed the angles, savored the scrape of his stubble against the softness of my palms. And my lips delighted in his, gratified and pliant and desperate for more.
The kiss broke with the roll of his forehead against mine, breath heavy and mingling, eyes closed, my hands on his face, his body hovering before me on hand and knee.
“You were right,” I said.
He backed away so he could see me, one brow arched to match his tilted smile. “I usually am.”
I laughed, shoving one massive shoulder uselessly.
“You gonna tell me what I was right about?”
“If you’re going to tease me, I might make you work for that answer.”
That brow climbed higher as he inched closer. “Careful what you wish for.”
And when he kissed me again, it was with the determination that he’d get the job done well.
He forged forward, laying me down with the motion, settling between my thighs but keeping his hips away.
A flash of petulance sparked in me—did he not want me as badly as I wanted him?—before I realized he still had jeans on. And, lips in motion, my hands slid down his body and to his belt.
He shifted into my hands at the jingle of his buckle, then the flick of his button and zip of his pants, and my hands slid into the V, reaching for him until both hands were full. He thrust into my hands, his crown brushing my belly, his body still too far away. One hand stayed where it was, stroking the length of him, testing its size, and the other hand slid around his hip, hooking the waistband to give it a tug.
It barely moved—his ass was too big and round and strong for a casual slipping off of pants. A chuckle from his nose before he broke the kiss, his hand moving to my face, then my collarbone, then my breast in passing. He knelt between my legs, his eyes roaming my body as his hands did their work. And I watched those hands, hands that tilled earth, harnessing it to grow what he wished. Strong, square hands with long fingers and rough palms that rid him of his jeans, but not before he pulled a condom out of his wallet.
And there he was, every naked inch of Kash Bennet. Corded thighs dusted with dark hair. Narrow hips with hard ridges. Those hands tore open the packet, griped his base, rolling the condom down with a swift stroke and an answering pump. My pulse fluttered, breasts rising and falling rapidly, heavy and aching. An echoing ache deep in the very core of me, a drawing of muscles that knew how he would feel in their grip and who needed to feel it.
Needed him.
But not before he descended, pressing the full length of his body against the full length of mine, lips on a track for mine, undeterred. This kiss was different—deeper but not by force. By weight of emotion, of desire. It was reverent anticipation, quiet demand. It was a reckoning, a calculation of map points—mine and his—and the determination to close that space by the quickest means: a line.
And that line between us would be breached, or so help us both.
That kiss was a meeting, a linking of self, a connection of body and of hearts. It was chemistry, alive and deep, the programming unbreakable. And I should have been afraid of it.
Stupidly, I wasn’t.
The thought faded with the slip of his tongue and the feel of his fingers in my hair. The weight of his body, the pleasurable helplessness of mine. His immense thigh nudging mine wider, the shift of his hips. The slick press of his crown against the hot center of me. The break of the kiss, the brush of our noses, our foreheads. The sound of our breath, thick with anticipation.
A flex of his hips, and he sank into me.
A gasp from my lips. A trembling breath from his.
Our bodies locked, frozen in a long moment of fullness and completeness.
His body rolled in a knowing, willful wave, pulling out only to fill me up again with a jolt. Another wave, a flex and release, and he pressed the place I needed him so desperately with a slam and a grind. I shifted beneath him, wanting to meet him, match him, but I found immediately that he knew better than I did. That he could do exactly what I needed without my help. And that he didn’t want my help. Kash fucked me like he had something to prove—not to himself and not to me. For me. That this was what it should be, that I should settle for nothing less.
And I let him teach me the lesson as he saw fit.
His arms caged me, fingers in my soaked hair, lips on mine. I swallowed his breath, felt the thump of his heart through the drum of his chest. His body waved, and I rode that wave, every crest, every deepening of pressure, every speed of rhythm bringing me closer.
I broke the kiss, turning my face to the sky, hanging on to him like an anchor in a storm. But he was the storm, unbridled in my arms, raw and wild and beautiful. His focus was a devouring of me, a feasting for him, the delivery of my pleasure too great for him to contain. And that consuming pleasure he felt consumed me. He surged in me, and overcome, I surged in answer. And we were both capsized.
We came together, a cry from my lips and a rumbling groan from deep in his chest, our bodies riding those waves until they were slaked, slowing at the shore.
His lips were buried in my neck, kissing sweetly, slowly. But I needed those lips on mine so I could say what I needed without words. So I could explain the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for every second with him in the best way I knew.
I turned, angling for him, and he granted me what I wished, just as I’d known he would. I held his face, kissed him with all my heart, hoped he understood.
When our lips finally slowed, he broke the kiss, backing away to smile down at me. His big hand smoothed my hair.
“Did I earn my answer?” he asked, his voice gruff but the rest of him smooth as a river stone.
“You were right. You are an excellent distraction.”
He laughed, wrapping me up in his arms to twist us to our sides. “Like I told you once before—you tell me when and where to be, and I’ll be there. Ready and at your service.”
“So, tomorrow?”
Another laugh, this one deeper, truer. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. I’m here for you, Lila.”
The way he’d said it twisted my chest, that familiar longing. The want to find someone who would always be there for me. But I smoothed that twist and smiled at my salvation.
“Tomorrow. But next time, it’s on Egyptian cotton.”
“What?” he asked teasing
ly, brushing a lock of hair from my cheek. “Cement and dirt aren’t your thing? Never woulda guessed.”
“I’m just full of surprises, Kash Bennet.”
“Oh, I never doubted that for a second,” he said with a smile before kissing every last worry away.
12
Absolutely Filthy
KASH
“Let me help you with that.”
I stepped into Lila, taking her skirt’s zipper from her hands, pressing a kiss to the curve of her naked shoulder. When she was fastened, my hands slid to her hips, and she turned around.
She wore a smile and not much more, her eyes warm, her hair drying in the softest of tendrils. I’d just spent the better part of an hour with those strands wound around my fingertips and our limbs tangled up, just talking. And I had gotten my wish after all.
Lila Parker, unraveled. Giving and forgiving. Sighing and soft and supple.
I knew she was in there, I thought as I thumbed her chin, raising it so I could kiss her. And I counted myself fortunate for having been able to see it.
I only hoped I’d have the opportunity to see that side of her again.
She sighed when I broke away, her eyes opening lazily. “When can I see you again?”
“Whenever you want.”
A slow smile brushed her lips. “Tomorrow?”
I pulled her a little closer. “Whenever you want,” I whispered again and kissed that smile off her lips.
Another sigh when I ended the kiss to gather her shirt off the ground and help her into it. I stepped in front of her again to button her up, mourning every sliver of skin as it disappeared. She let me fasten those buttons in a satisfying act of submission, her arms threading around my waist as I reached the top.
“I…I’ve never really done this before,” she said with endearing timidity.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m a pro.”
“Are there rules?”
“Not really. It’s whatever you need it to be, and people don’t really…talk to each other. They just fumble around it until something happens. Or doesn’t happen for long enough to bail.”
A pause. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” I said on a laugh.
“There are really no rules? Not even like…unspoken things everyone is supposed to know?”
“Would you feel better if there were?”
“Maybe,” she answered with a smile.
“All right. Let’s start with frequency.”
“How about…never more than two days in a row.”
“And on the third day, we rest.”
She chuckled.
“Spending the night, on or off limits?”
“Hmm. Off. I think? Keeps things more…casual?”
“Okay,” I agreed without wanting to. “Dates?”
“Probably not. Flings don’t go on dates, do they?”
I shrugged. “Not usually.”
“All right, then. No dates.”
“Done. Feel better?”
“Much. And I’m suddenly glad you’re delivering the flowers for the wedding tomorrow,” she said with a wicked smile.
“Why? Already planning your smoke breaks?”
“Maybe one or two. I’ll get us a room at the venue.”
“With those fancy sheets?”
She nodded, lips together in a smile. “And fancy pillows and an actual mattress.”
“Sorry I got you all dirty,” I said, fingering the collar of her white shirt where it was smudged with grime from its pile on the greenhouse floor.
“Please, get me dirty anytime you want.” She stretched up on her tiptoes to press a swift kiss to my lips, then turned, tucking in her shirt.
I watched, greedy for every detail, every movement as she flipped one heel with her foot and slipped into it, then the other, her legs elongating, calves engaged to keep her upright in those shoes. She twisted her hair self-consciously, looking away.
“God, I must look a mess. Do I have makeup all over my face?”
She swiped under her eyes nervously, endearingly. It was true, she had a little makeup flecked under her eyes, but I’d already thumbed away what she’d have been worried about but for the bit of smoke under her lashes. The rain had washed the rest away, leaving her fresh-faced and gorgeous, maybe more so than I’d ever seen her.
Maybe it was because I’d witnessed her vulnerable, her hair unkempt and natural, the gentle smudge of black under her eyes throwing the pale of her irises into high relief. Those eyes, so big and gray, were all-encompassing, unavoidable. Undeniable.
“You’re beautiful,” I said without hesitation.
Her laugh was small and self-deprecating, her hands twisting her hair again, this time into a knot that almost immediately slipped loose. She sighed, stuffing the last of her shirt into her skirt.
“Leave it down.” In two steps, I was in front of her, smoothing the remnants of the knot, slipping my hands into her hair to shake it loose. “I like it like this.”
Her palm rested on my chest, her chin rising to meet my gaze. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong—I’m a big fan of you all trussed up, your hair all shiny and your suit all white. I’ve just been wanting to undo you, to see you like this.”
A pause, her eyes bright and searching. “And did I disappoint?”
“Never,” I whispered against her lips before taking them. I kissed her too long, long enough that I contemplated unwrapping her, undoing her again.
When I ended the kiss, she sighed longingly enough to set a smile on my face.
“Tomorrow night seems a long way away,” she said, her fingers twiddling the collar of my shirt.
“I’ll see you in the afternoon. And if you want, I can hang around for the event. I’ll bring a real shirt with me and everything.”
“Wear a tie, and I’ll let you tie me up with it.”
“Can I get that in writing?” I made the old joke with a pulse in my pants that once again had me considering the ways I might keep her here with me.
But she laughed with a flash of bright teeth and a streak of genuine joy. “Tell me where to sign.”
“Right here.” I tapped my lips, and she obliged with a kiss.
When she released me, she glanced up at the leaded glass panes of the greenhouse roof. “It stopped raining.”
“Good. You won’t get pneumonia. Can I walk you home?”
Another happy sigh. “No, I think I’ll enjoy a minute alone before I see Ivy. Are you … are you okay if I tell her? About us?”
“Sure, so long as she doesn’t get all nosy about us.”
“I can’t promise that,” she said on a laugh, followed by a pause. “What should I tell her we are?”
My heart lurched. “Whatever you want us to be.”
“Easy. Uncomplicated. Casual. No strings, no expectations.”
“I can do all those things.”
“It’s just that I haven’t been single in a long time,” she continued, her nerves plain and bare despite her efforts to keep them tamped down. “A few weeks ago, I lived with a man. Technically, I sort of still do—I still have a few pieces of furniture there. I don’t have my own place, and I’m not even sure how I feel about relationships, never mind—”
“I can do all those things,” I repeated a little slower. “You don’t need to explain.”
She relaxed in my arms. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” I said and meant it.
This was my specialty—providing a diversion. I’d trained my whole adult life for this. I could be Lila’s soft place to land after falling like she had. I could catch her, give her comfort.
I ignored the fleeting thought that I could give her more, if she wanted it. But the truth rang eternal—I knew what things were and what they weren’t. I knew that in this scenario, I could be the one to get hurt if I found myself dumb enough to get my feelings involved. So I’d enjoy Lila when I had her, and I’d let the rest go, for her sake and for
my own.
I’d take what I could get.
And I’d keep on pretending it would be enough.
LILA
I kissed him goodbye one final time before he nudged me out the door of Longbourne, his hair perfectly ruffled and his lips swollen from kisses.
As I walked away, I checked my phone, realizing it’d been hours of kisses. I felt like I’d blacked out and lost time, unable to parse the passage of time and the state of my person—disheveled, untwisted, loose and lighter than I’d been in a week. A year. More maybe.
Kash had erased my brain like a whiteboard. I could barely remember what I’d been so consumed with a few short hours ago. God, old me was uptight. Past Lila was a drag, and new, improved Lila was bold and wise and happy.
Happy.
After the last few weeks, the sensation shocked me. Intoxicated me. The old adage was right—the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. Preferably someone hotter, with a substantial ass and a smile that turned my ovaries into a toaster oven, who treated me like his sole purpose in life was to give me orgasms. Piles and mounds and dump trucks full of orgasms and kisses and smiles and touching of all the skin, all the muscles.
All the Kash.
I strutted up Bleecker without care that I probably had mascara all over my face and my hair looked like a dirty mop. Because Kash made me feel like a million and one bucks. And tomorrow night, he’d do it again.
And if I was lucky, again and again.
I wasn’t even myself, and I couldn’t find it in me to care. And why should I? All my life I’d done what I’d thought I should rather than what I wanted—Brock might have been right in that—but that first shot started a war in my heart, and there was no going back. There was no undoing it, no unringing of the bell. I was the new and improved Lila who damned the rules and did what she pleased.
Presently including Kash Bennet.
God, he was perfect. Attentive in ways that had left me flushed, not just for what he’d done to my body, but in the small ways he made me feel like the only woman on the planet. Buttoning my shirt with care. Holding my face like it was porcelain in his palm. That look in his eyes that promised he could be whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted him.
