Let's Talk About Sext

by Evie Claire

  “That’s actually perfect. I’m not sure I’m going to be signing, anyway.” Lona smiled, clearly thinking she had found a way to win the argument.

  The attorney cleared his throat, but only shook his head and turned for his briefcase.

  “Of course. I’ll have my secretary go over everything and get corrected documents to you by this afternoon. Then it’s up to you if you sign or not.”

  “What’s our time frame for this?” Lona asked.

  “There really isn’t one. The property is already in Mr. Cantrell’s name, per the will’s execution, but a quit claim deed—so long as it’s filled out correctly—can be completed at your leisure.”

  “You mean I already own this property?” Brody looked up.

  “It was explicitly willed to you, so yes.”

  Well, that changed things. Added a sense of urgency Brody certainly hadn’t walked in with. How was his name already on the deed? That must have slipped through in the paperwork he mindlessly signed when all this started months ago. Knowing that he had accepted part of the inheritance, even if it was by accident, didn’t sit right with him.

  “You’ll have it to us by this afternoon?” Brody confirmed.

  “If not sooner. And technically the papers come to you for the first signature.”

  “Then I’ll have the papers back to you as soon as I can.” Brody wasn’t wasting time with this. His mind was made up.

  “Sorry for the mix-up.” The attorney stood and threw a few bills on the table to cover breakfast. Lona stood to exchange goodbyes with the attorney. Brody didn’t bother. The man already thought he was crazy for not wanting a dime. Besides, he had other things he’d rather think about.

  Things that were back home in the warm bed he’d had to leave way too early. Things he’d done in the arms of a woman who could turn the shittiest day into solid gold. If he hurried, he might be able to catch her before she left and convince her to stay. That would certainly turn the day around. Give him the kind of thoughts he wanted occupying his mind. He gulped down the coffee and stood.

  “Where are you going?” Lona asked.

  “Busy day at The Guns. Why don’t you stop by later for dinner? I’ll make you one of Nuck’s burgers.”

  “You have the recipe?” Lona’s brows quirked up in surprise.

  “Uncle Nuck was more of a father to me than—” Brody broke off, not wanting to stir the pot again. There were things his mother would never see about the man she’d married. It wasn’t his place to make her. “I’d love to cook dinner for you. Do you think you could stop by?”

  “Of course, honey. I’d love to.” Lona stood and gave Brody a kiss and quick hug goodbye. She was doing well these days. Brody was proud of her. It couldn’t have been easy to love a man who so obviously loved his work more. But Lona had. Stuck it out for years, and even told herself she was happy.

  That wasn’t the kind of love Brody wanted. No, he wanted the real thing. Something that felt as genuine as what he’d felt last night. The only problem was, women like Phebe didn’t usually want to get caught. If he was going to catch her, he’d have to play dirty. With a reward so sweet…he could be down-right filthy if he had to be.

  Chapter 11

  Phebe

  She still felt him when she woke. In her arms, on her lips, between her legs. What had he done to her? Phebe closed her eyes and rolled over, burying her face in his sheets. Sheets that still smelled of them. Memories washed over her. A pool table. A very naughty suggestion. A whole lotta fucking. Yep, she’d definitely started the night off with a bang. And damn if Brody hadn’t known exactly how to finish it.

  In a city of nearly five million, it shouldn’t be so hard to find a man who knew what a woman wanted between the sheets. She’d given up the hunt long ago. Learned how to do it her damn self. But last night. Him. She had to rub her crotch for relief when the memories flooded back so hot and heavy they nearly drowned her. Holy hell. The better question might be—what hadn’t she done to him? The thought made her blush. Phebe never blushed.

  A laundry basket of clean, folded clothes sat on a nearby chair. Seeing as her clothes appeared to have spontaneously combusted along with her vagina last night, something in there would have to do. She cuffed the sleeves of a white V-neck undershirt, tied it at the waist, and slipped a pair of boxer briefs over her bare ass. In the bathroom, she wound her hair into a topknot and gargled with a small squirt of toothpaste. She wasn’t ruling out the possibility of a morning quickie. It might help her hangover. It would definitely help her forget. Kicking her current reality down the road a bit was something she desperately needed.

  In the kitchen, she found Brody leaning over a butcher-block island, chin in hand, elbows framing either side of a crossword. His back was to her and, good god, what a glorious backside it was. The length of him stretched over the countertop did dirty things to her mind. Reminded her of all the ways it had been stretched over—and around—her.

  Most hipsters she’d encountered were rail thin, presumably existing on a diet of ethically sourced coffee, sustainably grown kale, and air. Not Brody. His body was muscled in ways that ran against the grain of everything she assumed he should be. His ass, for instance, was full and taut, and refusing to be ignored behind the distressed pockets of his jeans. If he bent over another few inches, the hem of his vintage concert tee would rise and the line of a distressed leather belt would no doubt reveal the muscled top of what was easily the most amazing ass her hands and eyes had ever beheld. It was religion in denim.

  The magic wand that lay in front of that ass…No, she needed coffee before pondering those mysteries. Smoothing a hand over her hair, she pushed her shoulders back and forced her feet forward. Drooling in the doorway wasn’t getting her closer to that morning quickie.

  “Morning,” she said, breezing past him for the coffeemaker on the far side. Caffeine hung heavily in the air. She desperately needed it. Only she reached for the pot and found it empty.

  “Microwave,” Brody said, nodding in the direction of the wall. “I single-handedly keep Krispy Kreme in business.”

  Phebe snorted at the obvious inaccuracy of his comment and rolled her eyes toward exposed-beam rafters. It was an immediate response, one she had anytime anyone made a remark about business that she didn’t agree with. One that signaled she was about to lay down some Wharton-educated realities on their ass. In the business world, it worked on overpaid assholes who thought she was nothing more than a pretty suit. Signaled that their asshole was about to form a new shape, compliments of her. Standing in the morning-after kitchen of a guy she’d like to lay other things on, she realized what a huge misstep she’d made.

  Fuck. What was she doing? Guys didn’t like ball-busting girls. They liked sweet. Right? She swallowed the snort and turned it into something that sounded like a half cough, half sneeze. Be sweet, Phebe. You can do this.

  She collected her Styrofoam cup from the microwave and found her way to his side. If he’d noticed her initial reaction, he let it slide. Sidling up beside him, she peered over his forearm and scanned the crossword clues. Their skin never met, yet the nearness of him curled into her depths like the hot liquid in her cup. She inhaled sharply at the reaction, only to pull him further in, with his woodsy, spicy scent. A smell that still softly perfumed her skin in certain spots. Her eyes fell to the counter. A mere centimeter separated their arms. The empty air filling the space felt hot as fire. What was that? Something lingering from last night?

  “Umm…twenty-three down is emu.” She traced the three empty boxes with a finger, hoping to refocus herself. Hope was useless.

  When her eyes focused on the minute print, the migraine she’d been avoiding hit her full-on. Searing its way from her eyeballs to the base of her spinal cord in a nanosecond. She grabbed the counter to steady herself when her knees buckled under the pain. Brody placed a hand over hers. It w
as warm from the coffee cup he’d been holding. And grounding, like everything else about him.

  “Fireball sneaks up on you, huh?” His voice was like water, soothing and calm. Quenching. “I got you a donut and some orange juice. You should probably have those first.” Before Phebe knew it, Brody’s arm around her shoulder had led her to the couch and sat her down. He disappeared. Then reappeared with breakfast. She blanched at the thought of eating.

  “I don’t think I can.” She raised a hand to cover her mouth. The baseball bat that had bashed her brain brought a wave of nausea with it. Brody reached for a nearby trash can and placed it at her side.

  “Trust me. I know about these things.” His lopsided smile assured her he did. Phebe wanted to smile back but couldn’t. Derailed by a mad pounding in her chest that reverberated in her ears, she couldn’t do much more than sit and stare. If it was just a hangover, it was surely the weirdest one she’d ever experienced. “Vitamin C. Sugar. Then caffeine. It helps the body restore what the alcohol depleted.”

  “You sound like a medical professional.” Phebe recovered enough to take a swig of orange juice. It was ice cold, tart, and everything. Each cooling sip further numbed the pain. She reached for the donut and found it was still warm. Which made her wonder how the hell a man like Brody was still single. Warm donuts, hot-ass sex, and a fucking smile like a flytrap. What was the catch?

  “So, I’m not trying to be a dick—hang out as long as you like—but I’ve got a friend playing Eddie’s Attic tonight and I offered to help set up.” Brody jerked a thumb toward the door. “Lock the bottom when you leave?”

  So that was the catch. Phebe knew the venue. Most everyone in Atlanta did. And nobody set up twelve hours before an Eddie’s Attic show. Brody was a one-night-stand kind of guy. And every morning-after minute she lingered only reaffirmed his commitment-phobe MO. Fine by her. She whispered a laugh loud enough for him to hear and shook her head.

  “You don’t have to worry, Brody. I’m not that kind of girl.” Phebe took the coffee he had left on the table beside her and sat back on the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest.

  “What kind of girl?” Brody cocked his head to the side, studying her with a skeptical scowl. One hand moved to his front pocket and half of his fingers slipped inside. Resting. Waiting on her answer. Oh, those fingers. More than anything, Phebe wanted to feel their magic again. And she’d play dirty to get them on her body if she had to. Dirty happened to be her specialty.

  “I can fuck without falling in love.” She took a small sip of coffee, rested the Styrofoam cup on her knee, and fixed him with an unapologetic gaze…after raking her eyes over his junk, of course. Because that was the magic she wanted to feel. Sooner rather than later.

  If Brody was shocked by her brazen glance, he didn’t let on. The world’s best poker face or a guy whose morals perfectly aligned with hers? God, please let it be loose morals.

  He shifted his weight, looked down at his boots, and nodded slowly. When he turned for the kitchen and tossed his keys on the island, she sat up straight. Still without a word, he opened the freezer door, hanging an arm over it while he searched.

  Phebe could see him from where she sat. Could see all of him. Every tempting inch. Even the way he moved was sexy as hell. Like a lanky lion casually casing his kingdom. Not in a rush. On no one’s watch but his own. She appreciated a man whose presence could still fill a room with her in it. There were few who could.

  When he turned back to her, he held a plate and a box of chocolate chip Eggo waffles.

  “My mom made the best Eggo waffles in the world.” Brody had somehow steered their conversation from sex to his mom in under a minute. The hell? Where was he going with this? Phebe pushed off the couch and took a seat at the island, watching him work on the waffles.

  “Um, Eggos are premade. That’s the whole point of frozen waffles.” Phebe propped her elbow on the counter and rested her chin on her palm. Brody shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound through his teeth. His eyes fell to her coffee cup. In one move he turned to the cabinet, opened it, and turned back to Phebe. Taking her Styrofoam cup, he poured its contents into a legit ceramic mug and slid it across the counter like bartenders do. So he didn’t have to hit the road? Did that mean there was a possibility for hitting something else?

  “The trick is butter…lots of it…and then peanut butter.” Brody smeared two chocolate-speckled waffles with butter and popped them in the toaster oven. “What’s your guilty pleasure, Phebe?”

  Her name on his lips—said through that damn sexy-ass smile of his, no less—had her lips quivering for a taste. Both sets of them. They were back to sex again? Whoa, mental whiplash.

  “I find pleasure in a lot of things,” she answered in a bedroom voice that he acknowledged with the slightest uptick of his brow. “But I don’t have time for guilt.”

  Brody leaned opposite her on the kitchen island, their faces level. He studied her, intently mapping the lines of her as if he’d need them later.

  “I bet you keep a bag of Gummy bears in your desk drawer.”

  Phebe shook her head.

  “Right, too common.” Brody slid a hand down his beard and thought. “Butterfinger. Fun-size.” He nodded his head like he’d hit pay dirt, his eyes dancing in a hypnotic way.

  Phebe shook her head slowly and shrugged. Brody’s eyes narrowed.

  “Fruit rollup.” He threw his last guess across the counter like a poker wager. Phebe sat up straight. “Strawberry,” he added to up the ante. Phebe’s mouth fell open.

  “Are you stalking me?” She sat back, closing her mouth so he didn’t see how freaked out she was. Nobody read Phebe that easily. Nobody. Surely, it was nothing but a lucky guess.

  “I know people. I especially know drunk people.” He pushed off the counter and turned his attention back to the waffles. It was entirely possible she had asked for one last night. Strawberry fruit rollups and alcohol were a thing in her world. And other than the sex, she didn’t remember much else.

  Phebe watched him work. She loved to watch him work. Back muscles rippling under a thin cotton shirt. The curve of his biceps peeking out from under the sleeves, swirled with colors and patterns she’d already committed to memory. When Brody placed a plate with two peanut butter–covered waffles in front of her, she had reached her limit of sexy food innuendo.

  “Can we get to the point, here? You don’t need waffles to seduce me,” she said, pushing the plate back to him. He tucked his head to the side and took a bite of a taco-folded waffle. No fork for Brody, he was all man with those hands of his. Those hands. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, and then turned his attention to her.

  “You are a world-class negotiator. I haven’t eaten. Brokering a deal with you on an empty stomach doesn’t seem smart.” Brody’s words made hope swell so fat in her chest, it drew his gaze to the nipples hardening against her thin cotton tee. His thin cotton tee. His eyebrows bounced approvingly.

  “A deal?”

  “Based on our experiences last night, I can only assume you’re looking for a fuck buddy.” Brody licked peanut butter from his upper lip…slowly. Oh. So. Slowly. “I can be the best fucking friend you’ve ever had, but we’ll need some ground rules, of course.” Brody picked up his peanut butter taco-waffle again and tucked in for another bite. Phebe wasn’t the least bit hungry for food, but stuffed the remaining one into her mouth like a ravenous wolf. The quicker it was gone, the quicker they could get around to the important stuff.

  Brody finished and slid the plate down the counter, out of their way. Damn, he was good at that. Didn’t even have to look and somehow knew exactly where it was headed.

  “We only fuck when both of us are single.” Brody laid his first term on the table.

  “Done. Any talk of a legit relationship and it’s over,” Phebe countered.

  “Of course.” Brody’s answer came l
ightning fast. And even though it was her term, the resolute tone in his agreement hit her in the gut. What was that? Brody looked to the side, as if trying to figure out what to say next. His lips fought a grin. “We have to at least try to indulge each other’s sexual fantasies.”

  “That sounds like a fun challenge.” Phebe shrugged, not the least bit deterred. She was always up for trying something new. “So long as lips stay sealed about anything that happens between us.”

  “A man doesn’t need to kiss and tell. But if you drop the L-bomb on me over what I’m about to do to your body…even if it’s in the throes of passion…it’s also over.”

  “And one more thing…” Phebe leaned back, looking at the floor to collect her thoughts, because her final term had just flown into her mind like a Learjet and she needed to be sure it was as good as she thought it was.

  “Yes?” Brody asked, dipping his head to get her attention.

  “I want us to be business partners, too.” Phebe held his gaze, unflinching. “I’ve got a month without much to do. You’ve got a building that needs me. Let me work my magic.” It was as close to pleading as Phebe did.

  He stood, pushing away from the counter and shaking his head. Leaning against the far side of the countertop, he crossed his arms. “You don’t know my financial situation, Phebe. I’m not the kind of business partner you want.”

  “You’re exactly what I want. And I know people who would lend you money. You already own the building. You collateralize this property against the loan needed for renovation. And what’s more, you can draw off that loan without paying a penny of it back while you’re in the construction phase. It’s interest only until the project wraps. And while we’re renovating, I would get tenants lined up and money in the door from their deposits. It would be the most seamless deal I’ve ever done.”

  Brody’s head was shaking as he looked around at the walls; slowly it stopped and he worked his teeth over his bottom lip. “I’ve always wanted to make something more of this building, but I don’t even have the kind of money to dream about it. Not anymore, at least.”