Isn't She Lovely

by Lauren Layne

  And I want to be the guy who helps her heal.

  But I don’t want to be just that guy. If I’m totally honest, I want her to choose me because she cares, not just because I’m the first guy who’s offered to help get rid of her ghosts.

  Her kiss is soft and sweet, and I let her take charge of the kiss. I let her hands move where they want, and they’re everywhere, running over my shoulders, up my pecs. We both groan a little when her fingers brush the waistband of my boxers, and she yanks her hands back as though she’s been burned.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting for control, refusing to rush her.

  Cupping her face with my hands, I use my lips to play with hers, keeping it light and teasing. Letting her know that I could spend all night kissing her. Just kissing her.

  But she’s making it hard, squirming against me, her hands resuming a wandering that I don’t dare reciprocate. I’m not about to be the asshole who insists she find out if she’s still a virgin and then takes that virginity from her the very night she finds out. She means too much to me.

  But then I feel her hot fingers on my wrist, and she’s tugging my hand downward until she slowly, deliberately rests my hand over her full breast.

  “Stephanie, I don’t—”

  She stops me with a kiss. “Make love to me. Please.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stephanie

  He’s going to turn me away. Ethan pulls back slightly, his hand already moving from my breast where I blatantly made him touch me.

  My face flames.

  He’s rejecting me.

  The first and only time I want to sleep with a guy, and he’s not interested.

  “You don’t want me.” I don’t mean to say it, but there it is.

  He freezes, his fingers plowing into my hair. “God, Stephanie. Of course I want you.”

  “Then why—”

  “You haven’t had any time to think about this. You just got a bomb of an email like an hour ago. You’ll hate yourself if your first time—your real first time—is with someone who …”

  His voice breaks off, and I have to know, even though I dread the answer. “With someone who …?”

  Will be gone in the morning?

  Who only wants to sleep with you as part of the game?

  Who may or may not look at you twice when you go back to being your real self?

  I hear him breathing, and he doesn’t respond for several seconds. “I care about you, Stephanie.”

  My heart thuds. “But then why …?”

  “Because it won’t just be about sex. If you’re looking to get rid of your V-card on the easiest target, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  I narrow my eyes slightly. “Which is it, Ethan? You won’t sleep with me because you’re concerned I’m making a rash decision, or you won’t sleep with me because you’re afraid I’m using you for your rich-boy body?”

  He lets out a little laugh. “God, I don’t know. The first one. Maybe both. I just—”

  “I’m not using you,” I blurt out. “You think it was easy to come in here? But I just got something major handed back to me, Ethan. Now it’s my choice to make. And I choose you.”

  He tips his head down, his forehead resting on mine. “Why?” The question is hoarse. Desperate. Needing.

  I lay my hand along his jaw. “Because I care about you too.”

  He closes his eyes, but only for a heartbeat, because then his mouth is on mine again, and there’s nothing teasing or soft about it, and I know I’ve won.

  As our kisses grow more frantic and more heated, he shifts, leaning toward me just slightly, giving me time and space to freak out, but I don’t. I wrap my arms around his back, my fingers playing over the muscles there as I let him roll me beneath him.

  Our hands are more adventurous now, looking to give pleasure rather than simply explore, and he captures my cry with his lips as his hand finds my breast, his palm circling, putting the perfect amount of pressure on my nipple.

  All of my writhing has made my tank ride up to my rib cage, and he slips his hand beneath it, moving slowly, as though I might freak out.

  I don’t.

  His lips are all over me, sucking and teasing, and I can do little more than hold his head to me, even though I want more. So much more.

  His face moves up to mine as his hand moves downward, his fingers finding my warmth even through the fabric of my silk shorts.

  “Is this okay?”

  All I can do is moan.

  “You can stop me at any time.”

  “Ethan.” I sink my teeth into his lower lip. “Shut. Up.”

  I feel him smile, and then his hand moves gently between my legs. He rubs me there until my thighs fall apart, and then he slides a hand beneath the shorts, beneath my panties, exploring the wet heat of me. I hear soft mewling noises from somewhere, and am humiliated to realize that they’re my own.

  Ethan kisses away my embarrassment even as he eases my shorts and underwear down over my butt, pulling them slowly down my legs until I’m able to kick them away.

  I’m naked underneath Ethan Price, and nothing has ever felt so right or so perfect.

  It’s not until he’s removing his boxers that practicality sneaks through my sexual haze. “Wait!”

  He exhales sharply through his nose, but he moves himself off me entirely, his gaze concerned.

  “Protection,” I say, mortified that I didn’t think of it before, though I’ve never needed to.

  There’s a little flash of relief in his eyes, and he brushes a kiss over my shoulder. “Lucky for you, I happen to be a dude past the age of puberty. We like to be prepared at all times in case we get lucky with a sexy film student.”

  I smile a little, rubbing my hands over his chest, noting the way he sucks in a breath when I touch his flat nipples. “You think I’m sexy.”

  His eyes roam my face, and his gaze grows soft. “You’re definitely sexy.”

  He’s not kidding about having protection handy, as it takes him a half second of digging through a nightstand drawer before he’s rolling the condom on.

  It occurs to me that I should be terrified, but I’ve never been so turned on or so certain of anything in my life.

  “Last chance,” he whispers in my ear, settling above me.

  I pull his lips down to mine in response, and he moves a palm between my thighs, parting them before positioning himself.

  There’s a pinch at first. Not pain, just tight, and I automatically tense against the pressure.

  “Relax as much as you can,” he says, his lips on my neck.

  I do, trusting him, and he slides into me slowly, each of us groaning. I know when he’s all the way in, because I feel full and satisfied.

  So this is it.

  That wasn’t it.

  Because then he braces his hands on either side of my head and begins to move, his eyes never leaving my face. There’s still a remnant of that tightness, but not enough to stop my hips from lifting to meet his slow thrusts.

  For some reason I always assumed that it would be over in a couple of minutes, but it’s deliciously prolonged until we’re both moving faster and faster, and I’m so close but don’t know how to reach for it.

  Ethan’s hand slides down my body, and his fingers do something wonderful, touching me in just the right spot, and in a matter of seconds I have to slap my hand over my face to keep from crying out as everything explodes.

  Ethan gives a muffled curse, and for the first and only time that evening he forgets to be gentle, his body slamming into mine before he jerks once, twice, and I know everything’s exploded for him too. And I love it.

  After, he slowly rolls me onto my side, pulling my back against his chest as he wraps an arm around my waist.

  “I should get back to my room,” I say finally, partially because it’s true, and partially because I don’t know what else to say in the awkward aftermath of something so amazing.

  “Had I known what you had
in mind, I could have come to you,” he says against my hair. “Saved you the walk of shame.”

  “Is it bad that I almost hope to run into your mother? Just to see her face?”

  His hand moves slightly and he pinches my butt. “Don’t even think about it. It’ll be funny for about a half second, but I guarantee the memory won’t be so humorous the next time you see her at Sunday dinner.”

  It takes my brain a second to register what he’s said, and my heart gives a little jump of happiness, even if I wonder if he’s just speaking hypothetically.

  “Is there going to be another Sunday dinner?” I ask, keeping my voice as light as I can for such an important a question.

  Ethan moves, lifting slightly so he can rest his head on his hand while the other moves from my waist to the curve of my cheek.

  “Stephanie—”

  I turn slightly so I can see his face, my heart melting a little when I do. He’s nervous.

  “The timing of this is all wrong,” he says, “because we just—you know—but I swear to God I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow, even before I knew we’d—”

  “Consummate?” I say with a cheeky grin.

  But he doesn’t grin back, his face serious. Hopeful. “I know we agreed that this would only last until school started again, and I know you’re planning to move into the dorms and all that, but …”

  “But?” I whisper.

  His eyes are on my lips. “But we make pretty good roommates. And even better lovers. And I was thinking … I was wondering … if you want to … I was hoping that you might, you know … stay.”

  I feel something warm and comforting uncurling in my stomach, moving slowly up my chest, and it’s been so long since I’ve felt it that it takes me a second to name what I’m feeling.

  I’m happy. Ethan makes me happy.

  It’s crazy. And it’s fast. Jordan will flip. My dad will have a heart attack. His parents will probably call the freaking police.

  But we’re adults, and it’s just a month of playing house, not a wedding ring. And there’s no way I’ll say no to him. I can’t.

  Instead, I pull his lips down to mine. “I could probably stick around … roommate.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ethan

  I get Stephanie back to her room sometime around four in the morning before creeping back to my own bedroom and catch a few hours of sleep before we need to get up for my parents’ farewell brunch and the trek back to the city.

  When I wake up at nine, it takes me five groggy seconds to realize why I’m in such a good mood. Then I remember the moment when Stephanie slid between my sheets, and everything that followed.

  I realize now why I’ve felt like there’s been an elephant sitting on my chest for the past few days. I’ve been dreading the moment of returning to my apartment and not smelling whatever bubbles she has going in her nightly baths. I’ve been dreading not having anyone mock the fact that I iron my golf shorts and dry-clean my polos.

  I’ve been dreading life without Stephanie. And now I don’t have to.

  I take a quick shower before pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a green button-down, just because she once told me I looked “not too bad” in green. It was a begrudging compliment, but it was definitely a compliment. I’ll take it.

  As I emerge from my room, I practically collide with Mike and Michelle St. Claire.

  “Ethan!” Michelle says, her face as familiar as my own mother’s, and she looks so pleased to see me that my gut twists. “I haven’t seen you all weekend. Or all summer.”

  There’s a question there, but I’m not about to answer it. That’s Michael’s to deal with. Still, it’s not her fault that her son slept with my girlfriend, or that her husband is probably sleeping with my mother.

  I wonder if she knows.

  Fueled partly by pity and partly by fond memories, I give her a hug and kiss her cheek, doing my best to avoid eye contact with Mike. How he could cheat on a woman like Michelle St. Claire is beyond me.

  I make small talk for a few seconds before Mike grumbles about being hungry and drags his wife toward the stairs.

  She gives me one last beseeching glance. “We’ll tell Michael you say hi, okay?”

  Please don’t. “Okay,” I say, forcing a smile.

  Still, the thought of my best friend doesn’t burn as badly as it has in recent weeks, and I wonder if maybe it’s time that I give him a call. The least we can do is have it out. Over a decade of friendship deserves at least that much.

  I knock softly on Stephanie’s door, not bothering to wait for a response before entering.

  Her back is to me, and she’s carefully loading her cocktail dresses and swimsuits into her suitcase.

  But it’s not the clothes she’s packing that has my attention. It’s the clothes she’s wearing.

  She turns her head toward me, giving me a shy smile. “Hi,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.

  I tell myself to say something to make her less nervous. To tell her that she should absolutely not be embarrassed about what happened between us last night. That it was one of the best nights of my life, and not just because of the sex. The talking, the cuddling, the confiding … all of it.

  But I can’t take my eyes off her boots. Her pants. Her black top. Her eye makeup.

  I see the moment that she registers that I’m not saying anything. That I can’t stop staring, and not in the way a guy who’s just lovingly taken her virginity should be looking at her.

  But I can’t help it. This isn’t the Stephanie from last night. This is the pissy, angry, world-hating Stephanie. I thought she was gone. But she’s staring right at me.

  In my parents’ house. Where anyone can see her.

  “What’s, um … what’s with the get-up?” I ask.

  Her face immediately clouds over, her blue eyes blinking in hurt and I feel like a dick. But she recovers quickly, and the pain fades into wary anger.

  “My get-up? You mean my clothes?”

  I gesture toward her suitcase. “Those are your clothes. And I thought I got rid of that gray eye shadow.”

  The shadowy eyes in question narrow on me. “You did. I bought some more.”

  Why?

  “Are you mad at me? Is that why you’re all gothed out?” I ask tentatively, trying to figure out what I’m missing. Why she’s not wearing some cute little brunch-appropriate sundress like everyone else will be wearing.

  “I wasn’t. But I’m certainly getting there,” she says between gritted teeth.

  “Spell it out for me,” I say with an easy smile. “What did I do to deserve the all-black attire?” And I do mean all black. From the slim T-shirt to the baggy pants to the boots the pants are tucked into, there’s not a speck of color on her, save for the blue eyes, and the eyes are pissed.

  The warning bells that had started as mere chimes were now wailing in my head.

  “You didn’t do anything to deserve it, Ethan.” Her voice is calm, and that’s way worse than if she’d been screaming at me. “But we’ve said from day one that today marks the end of the charade. The day I can stop pretending.”

  “But last night … I thought …”

  She looks at me patiently. “Last night was everything to me. But I don’t see what it has to do with my wardrobe.”

  I rub a hand over the back of my neck, struggling to find the right thing to say. On one hand, I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter. That I’ll feel the same about her no matter what she’s wearing. That she could wear a space suit and I wouldn’t care.

  But then I imagine the two of us walking down to my parents’ brunch with her wearing that. I imagine the stares, the raised eyebrows, the confusion.

  And before I realize what’s happening, there’s a montage running through my brain like an unbidden slide show.

  Me taking Stephanie to my frat formal when she’s dressed like a horror-movie extra.

  Stephanie and me at my parents’ for dinner with her wearing all t
welve hundred earrings.

  Us meeting up after class, me with my fellow preppy business students and her with her goth film friends, and none of us having a thing to say to each other.

  Trying to take her out to a nice dinner, me in my suit and her in her scuffed battlefield boots.

  I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see any of it.

  “Ethan, do you want me to change?”

  I feel a flood of relief at her suggestion. God, yes. “I think you look great in your new stuff,” I say, patting myself on the back for being diplomatic.

  Silence.

  Oh, shit. Her question hadn’t just been a question. It had been a test. A test that I’d failed.

  I’d never seen anyone’s expression so cold. The hurt I could fix. The anger I could deal with. But this numb, don’t-give-a-shit Stephanie?

  This was bad. Really bad.

  “Stephanie …”

  She holds up a hand. “Get out.”

  My own temper spikes at her cool dismissal, as though we don’t owe it to each other to have a conversation about this. “You’re regressing, Kendrick.”

  “Regressing to what, exactly?”

  “The old you. The version of you that was wary, scary, and maybe a little mean. The version that was mad at everyone and scared of everything.”

  She takes a half step closer, her eyes flashing. “There is no old me, Ethan. There’s the real me, and then there’s the made-up Barbie version that I’ve been faking for the past month.”

  I shake my head, not buying it for a second. “You’ve been happy the past few weeks. Don’t deny it.”

  “I’m not denying it! But it wasn’t the new clothes or makeup that made me happy, Ethan.”

  I get what she’s trying to tell me, I do. And I should be mollified by the fact that it’s me that’s made her happy. Not my money, or my lifestyle, or the fact that there’s legit marble in my bathroom. Isn’t that what every dude wants? A girl who likes him for him and not his image?

  But then she tucks her hair behind her ear and the morning light catches her earrings. All seven of them.