by Anne Marsh
And that’s the problem right there.
My phone always starts buzzing at 12:01 because he knows I’ll ignore him before I take my solo thirty minutes. At 12:01, however, he’ll text What r u doing? and I’ll text back. That’s how our Mondays go. There are limits, of course, on the shareable stuff. I don’t give him details about my trades or the investments I’ve set up; I don’t tell him dollar amounts, names or personally identifying information. We’re just swapping stories. He knows about Coffee Man, who never comes in without two Americanos clutched in his hands, and who gets progressively more jittery as our half-hour appointment winds to a close because it’s time for his next hit. He laughs his ass off at It Girl, whose portfolio is entirely invested in the fashion industry—and who picks her stocks based on the contents of her closet. He tells me to give Weeping Widow a hug (which I can’t, although she really needs it) when she dissolves into tears yet again because I want her to make changes to the investments her husband set up and she wants everything to stay the same even though it’s already changed.
Sure enough, my phone buzzes with Vik’s favorite question. What r we eating today?
I’m not adventurous when it comes to food. My standard Monday fare is arugula, tuna and feta. For 358 calories, I get 39 grams of protein and 2 measly grams of fiber. I went wild this morning and added a cup of blueberries because fruit is good for me and you can’t have too much vitamin C and folate in your life. I send Vik a picture even though my Tupperware hardly qualifies as food porn. Vik promptly counters with a picture of the taco truck parked outside Ink Me.
There’s only one response besides demanding he run a bag of that goodness over here. I can hear your arteries clogging from over here.
I’ve offered to make him a salad to take to work. His whereabouts are unpredictable, I’ve pointed out. There’s zero guarantee he finds a food truck because he’s not always at Ink Me. He doesn’t share details about Hard Rider business, but he’s frequently on the road on his bike or out at the clubhouse. There are things he can’t tell me, just like there are things I can’t tell him. I suspect the key difference is that his things could get him five to ten years in state prison.
We eat lunch together over our phones, texting back and forth. When I ask about his morning, he bitches about a rainbow and unicorn tattoo requested by a college freshman.
Don’t want to talk about that. U got ur next ink picked out?
I suddenly know how Eve felt when the serpent started pitching his suggestions. No, I haven’t thought about getting more ink. In fact, I’m still kind of getting used to the newly healed firebird on my back because it’s my first, it was a drunken impulse and neither of those things gets much play in my life. But maybe I should think about getting more. If the first was so amazing, how much better will the second one be? Or the third?
I can haz rainbow kitten?
Google produces a truly astonishing number of rainbow-colored kitten images, and I send him a selection. You know. Just to torture him. His response is short and to the point.
Fuck no.
Alrighty then. This would be more fun if I could see his face, but I’ll just have to make do.
What would you ink if it were your skin?
He fires back an answer quickly.
Kinda think it is my skin
Huh. That’s not disturbing at all.
Brooklyn bangs on my door while I’m still trying to decide how I feel about Vik’s inner caveman coming out to play. After I sad-desk-salad and text with Vik for thirty minutes, she and I speed walk around the block half a dozen times. Otherwise, as she’s pointed out, we only get up to pee and we hobble like we’re eighty. The mile we squeeze in also burns off approximately a dozen lettuce leaves and several bonus blueberries. It’s a win-win.
I snap the lid onto my Tupperware, de-mute my phone and follow her outside, squinting. I usually don’t see so much sunlight on a weekday. Good thing Kate’s got my back with a pair of snazzy sunglasses.
I’m barely outside, however, when my phone goes off, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” announcing an incoming text from Vik. I should have stayed muted even if I am temporarily out of the office.
“Haaaarper.” Brooklyn draws the syllables of my name out.
I concentrate on focusing straight ahead and resist the urge to yank my phone out and see what Vik’s said this time.
Undeterred, Brooklyn pokes me in the side. “Is it your pet Viking? Show me.”
Ever since Vik sent me a shirtless selfie (his jeans were partially undone as well for added biker badness), Brooklyn has hounded me to share. She claims it’s selfish to keep all that hotness to myself.
Brooklyn makes a give-it-up gesture. “Is he wearing the boots today?”
We both take a moment to mentally appreciate the goodness that is Vik in a pair of motorcycle boots.
My phone announces a second new text.
I should get that. I’m sure I need another half-naked selfie from Vik like I need a hole in the head, but screw it. He’s gorgeous, I’m weak and hearing from him sort of makes my day. I pull my phone out and we both stop walking, cupping our hands over the screen to see better.
It’s a picture of his...stomach. Okay. It’s way better than it sounds because the man’s six-pack hosts its own eight-pack and that much smooth, hard, muscled man begs a girl to lick and touch. Obviously, I need to get a grip, but still.
Brooklyn lets out a little moan of appreciation, and I fight the urge to do a triumphant fist pump. That’s my man.
Wait.
Rewind.
When did he become mine? Because he’s totally, absolutely not and any unrequired liking or possessiveness on my part will end badly.
“You’re so lucky.” Brooklyn’s finger hovers over the screen. “You’ve totally won the boyfriend sweepstakes. Send this to me? Just, you know, so I have something droolworthy for my screensaver?”
“We’re not—”
Shut up. I start walking. God, I’m in so much trouble.
“Not what?” The mischievous smile curling the edges of Brooklyn’s mouth warns me that I’m about to be given so much shit it would take me a month to shovel it. Hercules could clean up a dozen Augean stables in the time I’d need to deal with what Brooklyn’s about to land on me.
“Not boyfriend/girlfriend,” I grit out.
There’s a brief moment of silence broken only by the usual cacophony of Vegas traffic (so okay, it’s still really freaking noisy but Brooklyn stays quiet), and then she positively cackles.
“How’s the weather in the Land of de Nile?” she asks. “Is it hot enough for you? Because the two of you are a thing. An item. The world’s dirtiest and most ill-kept secret.”
“We have sex. Nothing wrong with that.”
I sneak another peek at the picture he’s sent me. He’s sprawled in a chair, the phone angled away to take the shot of his stomach. I’ve got some bonus blue jeans (those buttons are my favorite) and...there’s a rainbow-colored kitten cavorting with his belly button. The man definitely shouldn’t be left alone with Sharpies.
“Harper.” Brooklyn’s voice is soft but insistent. “If you’re not dating, what are the two of you doing?”
I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Hooking up.”
“Uh-huh.”
I’m not sure which of us sounds less certain—me or Brooklyn. And she’s got a point. No matter how hard I try to spin it, Vik’s not just my loaner penis providing physical release. Our hookup is becoming something more...something way too much like an emotional connection for my comfort.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Harper
BROOKLYN’S WORDS STICK with me for the rest of the day. And then the next day and the next day after that. In fact, they hang around the entire week and take up permanent residence in my head. What’s up between me and Vik? I’d li
ke to pretend that I don’t know, but it doesn’t take much thinking to figure out. I’m falling for him.
I’m falling in love with my fuck buddy.
With my best friend.
With Vik.
Our deal was sex with no strings, a hot hookup when we were in the mood and lonely. I should have stopped as soon as lonely turned into loving for me. Vik doesn’t want my feelings. And honestly? I don’t want them, either. They’ll spoil everything. Vik has been clear from the start that he’s all fun and no feelings. When it comes to saying three little words, he’ll always choose on your knees over I love you.
So when he hits my place on Friday night, I open the door for him. I pretend nothing has changed and everything’s perfectly fine. My feelings are my dirty little secret. I’ll pretend I’m looking for Mr. Right when it turns out I’ve been holding him all along. And if my heart gets broken or trampled beneath a pair of too-sexy motorcycle boots, that’s my problem.
I make it through the ten cartons of Chinese takeout that Vik adores. I make it through two hours and twelve minutes of the fourth Pirates of the Caribbean movie. And then in minute two hundred and thirteen, I lose it. Jack’s cupping Angelica’s face and he’s finally giving it up, admitting he loves her, and it’s so goddamned romantic and yet it’s also about to be over. The shooting-each-other and fighting stuff isn’t long-term relationship material and Angelica clearly has commitment issues, but I want them to just kiss and shut up. Kiss and be happy. Kiss and sail off into the sunset together to create baby pirates and major mayhem together.
Instead, they part.
“Hey.” Vik nudges me. “You okay, babe?”
No. No, I am not. I want to crawl on top of him, wrap my arms around his neck and hang on like a love-deprived baby monkey. I want to stick to him, hold him, wrap myself around him like there’s no tomorrow because it sucks to realize that tomorrow might have to happen without him and that I want so much more than sex from this man.
“I can’t—”
The words get stuck in my throat. I should tell him that we’re over. That I can’t fuck my best friend anymore because it feels wrong. Because I’ve gotten too close and he hasn’t gotten close enough.
“Hey.” He brushes a thumb over my wet cheek. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, meaning it. I feel everything, and he feels nothing.
He grabs the remote and hits the power button. Jack’s boat disappears as Vik frowns at me.
“Work too much this week?”
Now is not the moment for emotional revelations. Plus, I hate crying. Tears fix nothing; plans are far more effective. Unfortunately, there’s no plan to make Vik fall in love with me.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
He tosses the remote onto the coffee table. “Do what?”
“Us. Hooking up.”
We’re sitting in the dark because Vik insists movie-watching must be done in total blackness, so I can’t see his face. But I feel him move. He scoops me up like I’m a delicate flower and then he’s carrying me to the bedroom. Even when he sets me down on the mattress, I can’t turn the stupid tears off.
He hesitates. I know he doesn’t know what to do. I never cry, and we’re all about having fun anyhow. We laugh together, but the sadder stuff is off-limits. He wouldn’t let me in when his dad had that episode, and he’s never deliberately let me see him when he was feeling down or vulnerable or anything other than him being a badass and rocking life. And I’ve kind of been the same way.
He doesn’t say anything, but then he follows me down onto the bed, his arms hold me tight, making promises. I’m safe. He’s here. If anything needs to be killed or hurt, he’s the man to do it. And his mouth...
His mouth kisses away my tears.
He doesn’t give me words, but he gives me everything else. He doesn’t tell me not to cry. He doesn’t ask why. He just holds me, and I can almost pretend that it feels like something. Like he loves me. Like he really, truly is my best friend and my partner and that he’s got me. That the heart beating so steadily beneath my folded hands is mine. Stupid.
When the tears start to dry up, he kisses the corner of my mouth. And then my mouth. It’s a soft kiss, his lips closed, just brushing mine. Letting me know he’s here, too, and that I’m not alone. I could get used to kisses like his. Curled up together as we are, however, it’s impossible to miss the way his dick tents the front of his jeans, big and hard. Demanding attention.
“Ignore him,” Vik says roughly. “He’s got no sense of timing, you feel me?”
Happy to oblige, I slide my hand from his heart to his dick because that’s what we have, and I want one last time, one last set of memories. If I can’t have forever, I’m stealing right now.
“Make love to me.” I try not to cringe as the words leave my mouth. He’s so big, so gorgeous and so distant. He nods slowly, but I know he thinks my request is just girl wording. That I’m really asking him to fuck or screw or bang me and not for anything more. He’d panic if he knew I loved him.
“You sure this is what you want to do?”
“I am. I do.”
He looks down at me, his hands cupping my face. The kiss he gives me is sweet and quick, his lips barely skating across mine. I lift up, chasing his mouth with mine, and he chuckles. Bastard. Stupid, fucking, wonderful, not-mine bastard.
“You got it.” He comes down over me, planting his knees on either side of my hips. We’re face-to-face, but his mouth is too far away from mine. The handful of inches separating us is wider than the Grand Canyon.
I tug on his T-shirt. “Get naked.”
“As you wish.” His grin flashes in the darkness.
He looks happier now that the waterworks have dried up and we’re back on familiar ground. And me? I want whatever he’ll give me, which likely makes me pathetic. I need his skin on mine, nothing between us. He sits back, hauling the shirt over his head, and I watch his big hands work.
The shirt hits the floor, leaving him bare-chested. God, I love his chest. It’s all sexy muscles and tempting ridges that ripple with power as he twists to consider his boots. Yeah. Those boots are a problem.
“Be right back.” He brushes another kiss over my mouth and then rolls off me. He makes short work of stripping off the rest of his clothes and then he removes mine. He drops carefully back down on top of me.
I spread my legs, making room for him, and wrap my arms around him. And for a moment I hang on. I let myself forget that eventually we’ll get up and go about our lives and I won’t get to keep him.
“In.” I reach between us, going straight for his dick.
His forehead creases. “Condom would be a good idea, babe.”
“I’m on the pill.” Since condoms are only 75 percent effective, I’m on the pill. Still, we’ve always used a condom. I’ve never given him the go-ahead to take me bare. I want to be his first for something.
He hesitates. “Let me touch you.”
“Now,” I insist. I don’t want foreplay, not tonight. I don’t want him to drive me any crazier for him. I just want to feel connected to him.
He pushes slowly inside me and I can feel my body opening for him. I don’t think we’ve ever gone slow, and yet it’s so good like this. Quieter, softer, but still good. Instead of chasing my orgasm, I just feel him becoming part of me. I feel his thrusts become deeper and harder, his hips slapping softly against mine as he grunts something that might be my name. I think he needs this, too.
“I love you.” The words slip out of my mouth, and I don’t hold them back. I need to say them. I need him to hear me.
“Harper.” He freezes above me.
“I love you.” It’s the least I can say, and it doesn’t feel like enough. Or too much because he’s shaking his head.
“You don’t love me. You love this.”
An
d then he leans down and kisses me, cutting off the words. His kiss is rough and wet, raw and carnal. His teeth nip, demanding I open up, and then he thrusts inside my mouth, his tongue fucking me to the rhythm of his dick. He rolls, pulling me on top of him so that I’m riding him, his dick shoved deep inside me. Big hands cup my butt, working me against him in a dirty, sexy rhythm. I brace my hands on his chest, leaning down into him, because he’s the only solid thing in my universe now, and then he gives it to me hard.
He slams up into me where I’m tight and hot and aching for him, making me gasp as he pushes inside until he bottoms out and there’s no more room. I tighten around him, holding on. He doesn’t get to leave me. Not yet.
He pulls back. Thrusts into me again.
Heat and fire explode through me, my body going ballistic. It loves dirty sex. It loves this man. He pinches my clit, his devilish fingers circling and teasing until I can’t hold back any longer. He’s watching me when I come, and because he may own my heart but he doesn’t own my mouth or my head or anything else other than that stupid, stupid organ, I tell him the truth he can’t fuck out of me.
“I love you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vik
WHAT THE FUCK does Harper mean?
I love you.
We had a deal and nowhere in our discussion of friends with benefits and sexy hookups was love mentioned. The whole faux boyfriend/girlfriend was just to make my old man happy. But right now my dick’s in control, and he wants to come, so come we do. I hammer into the sweet, slick pussy clenching around me, and try not to think. The tightness in my balls is all the feeling I need, fuck her very much.
She was looking for a long-term guy. I helped her scope out dates. I practically gave her away. Goddamn it.
I’m balls-deep in her and she’s stripped away more than just the condom. I have no idea what to do next, so I make her come. I touch and tease until she stops shouting I love you and makes those cute but indecipherable whimpering noises that herald her orgasm. And afterward, I may sort of pull her close. I mean, we’ve reestablished our boundaries, right? When she said those words, it was probably just the sex talking. Or hormones. Pheromones. Something.
