by Candy Sloane
“Sucking my cock got you all worked up, didn’t it?”
“Yes.” She angled her hips up, begging for the firmness of his lips.
“That mouth I just fucked, I’m going to make it scream until it’s raw. What do you think about that?”
“Yes,” she repeated. It was the only word in her mind, huge and neon-bright.
“Say it. Tell me you want me to fuck you with my tongue.”
She managed a raspy breath. She wanted even more than what he was ordering, and she was going to demand it. “I want you to annihilate me with your tongue.”
He pulled back to look at her, his eyes laser sharp, his lips shiny and about to be hers. “Lucky for you, I never leave a lady unsatisfied.”
As the first glide of his tongue hit what had been swollen and ready for him, she knew she’d never heard a truer statement.
Chapter Twelve
“You do know they have breakfast for us at the hotel?” Val asked as they walked down the dairy aisle of Wegmans.
Instead of attending Reece’s itinerary-mandated breakfast, or even getting room service, Alec had brought her to buy groceries at the store where they both had summer jobs during high school. It was no coincidence. He could have picked any one of the stores Kenmore had to offer, but he’d wanted to be with Valerie in a place they both knew well.
If he had to do something he was dreading, he’d comingle it with memories. He pulled his baseball cap down and adjusted his sunglasses.
Alec searched through the cheese. “Do you work for Reece now or what?”
Val threw back her head and released a throaty laugh. “Of course not, I’m just wondering why you’re buying”—she glanced into his basket—“orange juice, eggs, bread—”
“Don’t forget sharp cheddar,” he interrupted, tossing it in. He continued down the aisle and added milk and creamer, too. “Coffee, then we’re done.”
Her big brown eyes examined Alec’s face, or what she could see of it under his “disguise.” She’d always indulged his impish side, but he knew she was definitely curious. Downright desperate to know where they were going.
He couldn’t tell her yet, because he still wasn’t sure he’d have the courage to drive to the house he’d bought for his mother. To see it still empty—to finally accept it would be forever.
That word, that fucking word, kept mocking him.
Last night with Valerie had been incredible, but they’d still somehow stood firm on her basic rules. The rules he now saw made sense. The rules he was thankful for. They were the only thing keeping him tethered in reality. Reminding him that one day from now, Valerie went back to Philly and he went back to L.A. and they went back to being best friends and nothing more.
Val cocked her head. “Where do you plan on making all this? On the hood of the Maserati?”
“You’ll see.” It was too much to explain here, too much to explain now.
After grabbing the coffee, they headed toward the cash register. When they slid past the produce department, a memory hit him hard, as if one of the coconuts stacked up had knocked him in the head.
He stopped in front of the precarious pyramid of brown wooden balls. “Remember when we both called in sick the summer of senior year to go to the Coldplay concert?”
Valerie was in tiny khaki shorts and a tight navy blue T-shirt. Her sneakers squeaked on the shiny grocery store floor. “How could I forget?” Her lips eased into a smile as the memory hit her, too.
He’d loved that day. It was them, only them. They’d traveled by bus to New York City. He said he was sleeping at Gideon’s. She said she was sleeping at Cynthia’s. The lie, all the lies, had been easy for him, but Val had struggled. She didn’t lie to her parents, not intentionally, but she’d made an exception for music, for him.
“That was when you decided to move to New York after high school,” she said, looking down.
She probably hadn’t meant to bring it up. He certainly hadn’t expected her to. They hadn’t ever talked about the day she said no. He wondered if she thought about it as much as he did, or if only the memory had brought her back there.
After graduation, up until the last minute before he left, even up until the train conductor closed the doors, he’d thought she’d join him. That was the thing that was hardest for him to admit, that even after she said no, he still believed she would change her mind.
“You made the right decision that day.” The words came out before he could stop them. It was as much the truth as it was a lie.
She pursed her lips, like she was trying to hide that his words had stung her. “I still feel bad about it, though.”
“Why? We were kids,” he said, trying to play it off.
He appreciated her remorse now, but he’d needed her kindness then. Needed understanding instead of the frown she offered at his plea, needed joy instead of the look of fear in her eyes at his insistence that they could do anything as long as they were together.
“You were never a kid, Alec.”
“Neither were you, Val.”
“I just wish…” A muscle quivered in her jaw, but she didn’t continue. Perhaps she was wondering the same things he was. If she had come, would they be more than friends now? More than whatever this weekend was molding them into and what the end of it would mold them out of?
She would never reply, I should have thrown away my future on a boy who at the time didn’t have one, just had a guitar and a dream. It was probably part of the reason she’d made her rules—she knew he was a man still carrying that boy.
So why couldn’t he help wondering? He might deny himself her flesh going forward, but she had burrowed into his brain nice and tight.
“You knew you couldn’t count on me.” He shrugged. “I don’t blame you for that.”
He didn’t, not anymore. Perhaps she had been as much his friend that day as ever, looking out for him like she always had. He’d tried to go too far too fast. He hadn’t been ready for what he was really asking for, and she knew it.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I guess we were just too young.”
If they were too young then, what were they now?
He nodded. “We’re older, but clearly you still can’t count on me. I was four hours late to meet you this weekend.”
“I can count on you for some things, Alec.”
Yeah, the things he could offer from three thousand miles away. What he’d asked for ten years ago, what he knew she wanted from a man today, was a whole different level of significance. Something he shouldn’t have been playing with then; something he couldn’t believe he was playing with now.
“You don’t have to be sorry for knowing me better than I knew myself.”
She averted her eyes. “I am, but apology officially rescinded, then,” she finally said. She exhaled, seemed to gather herself, before she spoke again. “But I didn’t even know you could cook.”
Her words magically turned the cement in his chest into floating motes of ivory dust, and he could breathe again. Val always knew when he was getting in too deep.
He couldn’t cook, but how hard could it be to make stupid eggs?
“I think, this weekend, we’ve discovered there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He couldn’t help inching closer to her even in the middle of the produce aisle, near enough he could smell every petal in her perfume. “And a whole lot more I don’t know about you.”
He was hoping to avoid this. But maybe there was no avoiding it. Maybe whenever they were together their bodies would take them here, rules or not.
Val’s eyes blazed, but he stepped back. He was about to let the moment go when she added, “And just think of everything you have left to learn.”
He banked his gaze right up against the fire of her eyes. “When you talk to me that way, it makes me think you want to show me right now.”
Her lips parted. “We should probably eat first.”
“First?” Did that mean she wanted to do something after? Fuck, he wanted to ki
ss the crap out of those lips. He wanted to do whatever she would allow him to. He knew it wasn’t smart, but his cock was no Einstein, never had been.
“I just mean breakfast is the most important m-meal of the day,” she stammered, trying to save herself—trying to save them both.
He could have just led her over to the registers and let it go, but his cock spoke before he could stop it. “Thinking you’ll need your energy for something?”
…
Somehow, they made it out of Wegmans without Alec being recognized or screwing her against the coconut pyramid. Yes, she’d pictured Alec dropping his basket, sending creamer and coffee and oranges airborne, and then he was on her, angling her body against whatever he could find. Her ass knocking into the coconuts, forcing them to roll like marbles all over the floor as he ripped off her shorts right in the middle of the store.
She harnessed the mustang canter of her heart as she awakened from her fantasy and remembered they were in the Maserati with the top down. The wind whipped at her skin and in her hair. She also couldn’t believe they’d talked about New York. While she truly was sorry, she was thankful he’d reminded her of the one thing she kept forgetting: you can’t count on me.
She was fooling herself if she thought Alec was any different than he was that day ten years ago. But he’d never promised to be; she needed to remember that, too.
She’d checked her phone already that morning, but she looked at her inbox once again and found nothing from London. She really should have heard by now, so maybe the answer was no. She glanced at Alec, adding yet another reason to keep her feelings contained to the mounting list. She could only take so much rejection this weekend.
But why was she wrapping them together? London and Alec were separate parts of her life, or at least they had been until the past forty-eight hours when she started to wonder if Alec wanted to be her whole life.
She still wasn’t sure where they were going. They rode down the familiar streets of Kenmore, past the neighborhood where she grew up and beyond, to one of the swankiest areas of town. An etched wood sign with stone accents that read Sheridan Estates announced their location.
Her parents’ house had been upper-middle-class nice. Way nicer than Alec’s, he always pointed out, but nowhere close to as ritzy as this street. The kids who attended private schools lived in this neighborhood. It was where everyone in town went on Halloween to trick or treat and catch glimpses of houses they could never dream of owning.
“I’m still totally confused,” Val said, trying to get Alec to spill. He was in a variation of his rock star uniform, dark jeans, black boots, a matching leather belt, and a tight black T-shirt.
According to Reece’s itinerary, they were supposed to go hiking and swimming today. Not that he’d ever seemed to care, but he was not dressed for it. The bikini bottom she wore under her shorts was riding up. Why did she need to be prepared for everything all the time? She wished she could be a little more like Alec.
They turned down Niagara Street and pulled into a circular driveway. A beautiful, newly constructed red brick colonial with a wedding-cake-frosting white door sat tall and fat in the center.
“Here we are.” Alec took a deep breath and exited the car.
Val stared at the house; it was magnificent, though the lawn and landscaping were overgrown and mail and papers were piled like snow drifts beside the door.
What are we doing here? Are we going to break in?
“Are you coming?” He was already standing on the gray-white concrete porch with the groceries, kicking the mail to the side, his sunglasses off, his hat in the back pocket of his jeans.
Though she was still unsure, she exited the car and joined him. “Whose house is this?” She tried to make out a name on one of the pieces of mail, but he gripped her wrist, stopping her. “Does it matter?”
He bent down and grabbed a single key from one of the fake rock hiding places advertised in the airplane magazine she’d actually perused in an attempt to stop looking at Rolling Stone.
She guessed they weren’t breaking in.
The door creaked as he opened it. She stepped in behind him. The foyer was done in huge marble tiles. A gigantic oak staircase and high ceilings reached up to the second floor.
“Whose house is this?” she repeated.
“Please stop asking.” He gave her a firm look. “I need some coffee and food before I can get into all that.”
All that? Where the hell are we?
He began to move through the foyer, but she stood tentatively. Her curiosity and uncertainty would not allow her to follow.
“Val.” Alec pulled the grocery bag up on one arm and squeezed his hand around hers. “I promise we are allowed to be here. No silent alarm has been tripped. No police are on the way.” He met her eyes. “Okay?”
His brown eyes were filled with assurance, and their hands locked tight confirmed it. Nothing had ever been more okay. She nodded and allowed him to lead her farther into the house.
The kitchen was similarly stunning, outfitted with granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, a long wood and glass dining table, and warm wood floors. Though the window above the sink had a baseball-size hole in it, like a rock had been thrown through.
“Sit.” He indicated one of the stools at the bar lining the center island, ignoring the window.
She deposited herself in the seat closest to the stove as he emptied the groceries onto the counter and started coffee brewing. He opened one of the lustrous wood cabinets—it was filled with dishes. He opened the next, filled with glasses. The next, filled with small appliances. He didn’t stop until he found the one containing pots and pans and took out a skillet.
Wherever they were, he hadn’t been here before.
He put the skillet on the stove and poured her a steaming cup of coffee, deposited cream and the cup in front of her.
“How do you like your eggs?” His eyes were so tight on her she thought she might crack in half. Something about the way he asked, the way he watched her pour cream into her coffee, told her he cared far more about her answer than he should.
“Scrambled,” she said.
A wistful smile streaked his lips. “Me too.” He looked at the eggs on the counter. Opened the package and looked at them some more.
“Do you need any help?”
Alec shook his head. He set his jaw and lifted his chin. His determination was beyond endearing.
“Why don’t I grab a bowl?” she suggested, giving him a bit of direction.
He’d never admit he needed help, even when it came to something as basic as scrambled eggs. She slid off the stool and headed over to the cabinet filled with cookware, took out a mixing bowl, and grabbed a whisk out of the utensil cup.
She placed them on the counter next to him. “Crack away, Julia Child.”
Alec took out an egg and studied it. “Can you think of a male chef’s name to call me? I can’t deal with you picturing me as a chubby French woman all morning.”
“Why’s that?” Val asked with a gentle laugh.
Alec shot her a knowing smile, an I’ve been inside you and had you in my mouth smile.
The kind that had only surfaced this weekend. She attempted to drag in a steady breath, but all her body’s attention had been sucked between her thighs.
Focus on the conversation, Val, focus on the conversation. “Do you seriously care what I call you?”
“Nicknames are important,” he replied, cracking an egg into the bowl. He turned to the stove and flipped the burner on under the skillet. “I think you know that better than anyone,” he said, tossing a pat of butter in the pan, “Dirty Girl.”
The sizzle mimicked the hiss in Valerie’s belly. Hearing her nickname on his lips sent her spiraling. Made her want to act like the hot, sexy, naughty temptress he believed she was. She steadied herself against the counter, her fingers shuddering to touch him, her body humming like a harmonica, deep and low.
He’d hypnotized her. Those wo
rds were like her marching orders now.
She gathered up the sexual strength they gave her. “I earned that nickname.”
He turned to her, his eyes as explosive as lightning.
She forced herself to stare deep and continued. “When I taste the breakfast you made, we’ll see what nickname you get.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Bring it on.”
Potent silence hung between them while he finished cracking the eggs. He turned back to the stove, his ass in dark jeans on display for her as he poured the eggs into the pan. A bit splashed up on him and he stepped back.
“You need an apron, Julia?” She smiled, unable to help herself.
She waited for him to come back with a similar quip, but she was underestimating him. She should have learned that by now.
He removed his shirt and lay it on the barstool. “An apron won’t be necessary.”
Holy Cock-fucius.
Alec shirtless, at the stove with the morning light hitting his broad back, the muscles of his shoulders, was almost too much. His brown hair was matted from his baseball hat, the skin of his neck pink from concentration. He might not know it, but he was creating the morning after of her dreams.
His tattoos seemed to breathe as he worked—the wing of feathers flapping and flying, the vine of thorns growing like ivy. The boiling coffee in her hand was at a lower temperature than her body. She took a long sip of it in an attempt to cool down. “I’m pretty sure that’s a health code violation.” She was trying to keep her words measured, but she was beyond tempted to walk up behind him, turn off the stove, and screw him against it.
“I think you’ll be calling the health department anyway, once you taste these.” He indicated the pan.
She pushed herself up on the stool to get a better look. They were the ugliest scrambled eggs she’d ever seen, but because he was making them for her, she couldn’t wait to eat them.
He took the eggs off the stove and served them up on two plates, depositing soggy toast beside them. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head, “who fucks up toast?”
