“Sensitive much?” Her lashes flutter. It isn’t quite an eye roll, but it’s almost the same.
“Me? Sensitive?” I scoff. “You’re the one who got her panties in a bunch last night because some drunk guy was hitting on you in a bar.”
“Some drunk guy wasn’t hitting me,” she says, eyes glinting. “Some drunk guy flat out said, ‘I’m taking you home tonight’ and expected me to lift up my skirt and tell him where to stick it.”
“Classy.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “Are we fighting or flirting? Because I can’t tell, and I really need to know because it determines how easy I’m going to go on you.”
I hardly know this woman, but I fucking love her audaciousness.
“We’re not fighting,” I say, eyes locked on my target as I make my way toward her. “But please, don’t go easy on me. Believe me, I can take it.”
I still want to fuck her. I want to fuck her in a way I’ve never fucked anyone before. Detached. Unfeeling. Animal.
Screw roses and dinner dates.
Screw bended-knee proposals and Tiffany diamond rings.
Never again.
I want her body and only her body. And that mouth. God, I want that mouth.
“Good.” She opens her bee-stung lips to speak again, but I hold up a finger to silence her.
“Ayla, stop talking,” I command.
She lifts a single brow again, clearly not appreciating my directives today. There’s a hint of shock broadcasting across her face, and I imagine she wasn’t expecting that pathetic drunk from the bar last night to be anything like this.
“Anyone ever tell you how busy that little mouth of yours is?” I ask, lifting my hands to the sides of her neck. My fingers bury in her thick dark hair, and my thumbs graze the sides of her cashmere-soft face.
Ayla’s tongue glides along her lips, and I watch the outside of her throat constrict as she swallows.
“My mind never shuts off.” Her voice is quieter than it was before. “I talk a lot. I think a lot. I write a lot.”
“Ayla.” I shush her, my lips drawing closer to hers. Her heartbeat pulses against my palm as I guide her mouth closer. Her floral perfume fills my lungs, and though it’s a scent I’ve never smelled before, it feels like coming home. Shoving all the noise, all the thoughts and feelings from my mind, I punish her with a biting kiss, my fingers tangling in her hair. Inhaling the air she releases as she melts against me, it hits me that she’s the first woman I’ve kissed since Damiana.
There’s freedom in this kiss, freedom like I’ve never tasted before.
My hands fall to her hips, then slide beneath the hem of her shirt, cupping her waist. Her kisses are patient and sweet, a harsh contrast against all the things I’m going to do to her. Ayla’s hands glide from my biceps to my shoulders where they rest as she presses her body against mine.
“You’re good at this,” she says, breathless and fighting a smirk as she comes up for air.
“I know.”
I cup her perfect, pointed chin, directing her mouth back to where it belongs, and I crush her lips with another kiss, our tongues gliding against one another.
Pulling her shirt over her head, I toss it to the side and move for her bra. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, I swear I feel her lips arch against mine.
She likes.
With a single move, I unsnap the back of her bra, and she lets it fall off her shoulders, then to the floor. The creamy skin of her breasts mixed with their round, perfect handful size is a combination I’m powerless to resist. Gripping her sides, I lift her to the slick marble top of the kitchen island.
“This is insane,” she whispers. “You know that, right? Normal people don’t do this.”
“Normal people are boring.” I take the rosy bud of her nipple between my lips, sucking, then biting until she moans for more. Her fingers bury in my hair, her nails digging into my scalp, and it feels so fucking right.
Pressing my mouth against her soft skin, I trail kisses down her collarbone, between her breasts, then to her lower stomach, which caves in response to my touch.
My cock strains against the inside of my sweats, begging to be freed, aching for that mouth of hers. Reaching for her leggings, I peel them down her sides and slide her shoes from her feet, letting them drop. She isn’t wearing panties. Did she know I was going to fuck her on my kitchen island this morning?
Her pussy glistens under the dim morning light. She’s wet. All I had to do was kiss her and she’s fucking wet.
I knew she wanted to fuck me.
Lowering my mouth between her thighs, I spread her legs wide and drag my tongue along her seam. She exhales, three jagged little breaths, and leans back, propped on her elbows. Her taste is sweet, addictive, and I peer up, past her swollen breasts, watching how she nibbles her bottom lip as she anticipates my next move.
Plunging two fingers inside her pussy, my cock grows harder the second I realize how goddamn tight she is. Fucking her with my fingers and devouring her with my tongue and watching her wriggle and writhe as I take control of her body makes me harder for her, hotter for her.
Running my hand along her side, I reach for her wrist, pulling her up. Her close-mouthed smirk is uninhibited, her coppery eyes wild, and she slides off the counter, naked, her body brushing against mine, and she smiles when she feels the outline of my throbbing cock.
Her fingers tuck behind my waistband, and our eyes lock as she slides my clothes down my legs and to the floor, dropping to her knees to place the tip between her full lips.
“Oh, god.” I exhale, reaching for her hair and grabbing a fistful as she sucks and licks my length until my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Keep going, baby. God, you’re good at this.”
She sucks harder, faster, pumping my shaft in her palm and generously taking her sweet time. She’s good. She’s really fucking good. But I still want the real thing.
Reaching into a neatly organized junk drawer to my left, I pull out a rubber from my pre-engaged days and slip the packet between my teeth, tearing it open.
“Get up,” I say. I don’t have time to be sweet, and let’s face it, this little exchange between us has nothing to do with romance.
Ayla rises, wiping the corners of her mouth as I grab another greedy handful of her plump breasts, pressing my body against hers. Her soft curves against my hard edges should make for a dynamite combination between the sheets, but we’re not going to make it that far because I’m fucking her right here, right now, and then I’m sending her on her way.
“Turn around.” I slip the rubber over my cock, gripping the base as she turns her back toward me. Her elbows rest against the island, and she bends as I grab a handful of her peach-shaped ass. Not too hard, not too soft.
Ayla spreads her stance, and I reach between her thighs, gliding my fingers along her damp seam before coating them in her wetness and wondering if she always gets this turned on.
Replacing my fingers with the tip of my cock, I slide it against her, teasing her before I plunge the rest of the length deep inside.
Ayla moans, letting her head fall back between her shoulder blades. I hook a hand over her shoulder, steadying myself as I fuck her tight, clenched pussy.
This is it.
This is the life.
No girlfriend. No commitment. No cheating whore fiancée who gets herself killed all because she secretly wanted my best friend’s dick in her pussy.
Just this.
Chapter Eight
Ayla
I can’t breathe when it’s over.
I can’t speak either.
“Jesus, Ayla.” Rhett’s just as breathless as I am when he pulls his spent cock from me. My body is peppered in goose bumps from his ice-cold apartment, and I turn to gather my clothes from ... everywhere.
What. The hell. Did I just do?
Taking deep breaths as casually as possible and trying to gather any ounce of calm I can find, I do what any normal girl would do in this situation and slap a big o
ld satisfied smile on my face.
I mean, I am satisfied. Abundantly. The sex—and everything else we did—was amazing.
But something tells me this is going to end very badly for me.
Sliding my leggings on and slipping my bra over my shoulders, I give him a wink when I catch him watching.
“I should probably get your number,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“I don’t know. In case I wind up pregnant or something. You came a lot. And condoms aren’t always one hundred percent.”
His expression turns to ash until he realizes I’m kidding.
“Anyway.” I pull my blouse over my head and fluff my hair around my shoulders. “Thanks for that.”
I’m halfway to the door with my purse over my shoulder when he says, “Thanks for that? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just an expression. What am I supposed to say?” I shrug. If I tell him it was amazing and we should do it again, then it’s going to turn into a thing. A big, ugly, complicated thing that I won’t be able to explain my way out of.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just say nothing. You don’t have to make it all awkward by thanking me for sex. Who does that?”
“I’m sorry. Does that make you feel used?” I hide my chuckle with my hand, and he comes at me with a giant smirk on his face, pressing his hard-as-steel chest against my body until my back’s against the door.
“God, you have a smart mouth.” His hand lifts to my face, and he drags his thumb along my lower lip, his eyes fixated there as if he’s replaying the last thirty minutes in his head.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that our mouths are inches, maybe even mere centimeters apart. If he wanted to kiss me again, I’d let him. I wouldn’t say no. I wouldn’t protest or try to stop him, even though it’d be the right thing to do.
Kissing Rhett feels different from any other man, and I’m not sure if it’s because of his powerful, complicated aura—or the fact that something so morally, ethically wrong could feel so dangerously good.
I want to ask what he’s doing when our gazes catch. I want to know what this is. And why me? But I know this can never be anything, so asking would be pointless. Besides, more than likely he’s just a horny guy who saw a girl in a bar and decided to go in for the kill.
In my heart of hearts, I know our time together was more about convenience than poetics.
“I should go,” I say, releasing a sheltered breath.
His smirk fades, along with the dimples I’m just now noticing, and his steely gaze darkens.
“Yeah,” he says, as if he’s suddenly drawn the same conclusions but for reasons all his own. “You should.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up a sec.” Bostyn’s jaw hangs when I finish telling her the sordid details of the last twenty-odd hours of my life.
I hold nothing back.
I tell her the truth.
I tell her what I’ve done and how I did it.
And I hang my head when I’m finished.
“Do I even know you right now?” Bostyn’s clear blue eyes dance between mine.
“What shocks you most? The fact that I slept with a stranger or the fact that I haven’t exactly told him who I am?”
“Uh, both,” she says, her tone insinuating that I should’ve read her mind. “You’re literally the most honest person I know. And the most distrusting. You trust no one except, like, me and your mom. And you always tell the truth, even if it’s uncomfortable. This isn’t you. This isn’t you at all. There’s someone else in the control tower of that big old brain of yours.”
“Feels that way.”
I slink to the floor of my brother’s living room, pulling my knees against my chest as Bostyn stares like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“You want to grab drinks?” I ask. “Since last night didn’t work out? I still haven’t told you what I was going to tell you last night.”
“Oh, yeah. Prescott Club?”
“What is it with you and that place?”
She laughs. “Worried you’ll run into him again?”
“Yes!”
“He won’t be there.”
I huff, feeling my lips begin to curl when I think of running into him again. I’m so bad.
“How do you know he won’t be there?” I ask.
“Gut feeling. Anyway, I’m telling you, stiffest drinks in the city. Plus, the Tuesday night bartender has a thing for me. He hooks me up with free drinks, and I don’t get paid until Friday, so ...”
Inhaling, I imagine how awkward it would be to bump into Rhett there again, but the odds of that happening are slim to none without a doubt.
No one drinks on a Tuesday, and if they do, they sure as hell don’t return to the same bar they visited the night before, not in a city with 1,784 other options.
Screw it.
“Fine,” I concede. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Nine
Rhett
“He didn’t deserve you.” I slide my drink toward Allison because she needs it more than I do and the bartender’s a little slower than usual delivering the goods tonight.
She cups the crystal tumbler in both hands, her sleeves pulled down to her fingertips. Taking a drink, she tries her hardest not to make a face, but she can’t help it. I don’t blame her. Shit’s strong; an acquired taste. But after the burn will be the sweetest escape she’ll ever know, even if it’s only temporary.
“All the good ones are taken.” She lifts her glasses to dab at the corner of her eye with the edge of her sleeve. Allison dresses like it’s autumn no matter what the time of year may be. But she’s a small girl and she’s always cold, so I don’t give her any shit for it.
“That’s not true,” I say. “You just haven’t met him yet.”
Her baby blues mist over, and she smiles. “You’re sweet to say that, Rhett. I know you’re just saying the things people are supposed to say in situations like this.”
Releasing a breath, my shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I suck at this. I really do.”
“And you’re dealing with your own stuff,” she says, her voice tapering to a whisper. “You don’t have to do this. We can leave after this drink.”
“No,” I say. “Stay here. Drink as much as you want—on me. And call in sick tomorrow.”
She laughs, though her eyes are still glassy. “Rhett, I can’t call in sick.”
“Why not? I’m your boss, and I say you can. Hell, take the whole fucking week if you want.”
I glance at the bartender who shows no signs of heading in our direction anytime soon. This one’s different from my usual guy, then again, I don’t typically come here in the middle of the week.
I lift a hand, trying to casually garner his attention, but his gaze skirts over the heads of the Japanese businessmen he’s trying to serve and lands on a couple of women coming through the doorway.
“No fucking way,” I mutter.
Allison rotates in her seat, craning her neck to see what I’m staring at. “Oh. It’s that girl from this morning.”
“Yeah.” I rub my palm along my five o’clock shadow. “Yeah, that’s her. Never would’ve pegged her for a stalker.”
“Is she stalking you though? She hasn’t even looked over here. I don’t think she’s even scanned the room. And she’s with someone,” Allison says, always my squeaky voice of reason.
“That’s what they do,” I say. “The good stalkers are so good they don’t look like they’re stalking.”
“Hmm.” She isn’t buying it.
The bartender finally approaches, and I feel like I haven’t seen him in years. I order a whiskey sour and a lemon drop martini for Allison because on her best of days, she’s a little ray of sunshine, and she could use something uplifting at this point.
“I should probably stop after this,” she says when he returns with her martini glass.
“The night is young, Al,” I say, eyes focused across the bar to where Ayla seems t
o be elbow deep in some kind of fascinating conversation.
Allison’s right. Ayla hasn’t so much as glanced in this direction. Not once. Not even for a fraction of a splinter of a second.
There’s a restlessness stirring inside me. I can’t sit here and pretend she isn’t over there. I can’t sit here and pretend like her taste isn’t still on my tongue and that her perfume hasn’t been on my skin all day or that I haven’t been replaying our morning fuck session over and over in my head. I even stroked it while thinking of her this afternoon when my cock wouldn’t stop throbbing every time I passed the kitchen island.
“Are you going to say hi?” Allison interrupts my dirty, dirty mind.
I bite my lower lip, giving it good pause. “Probably not.”
“Why not?”
Oh, Allison. So young. So naïve. She has no idea how this works.
“If I say hi to her ...” I let my sentence dissolve. I can’t explain this to Allison. She’s been my PA for three years now, and we’ve never once discussed my sex life. Besides, I’m not sure I can give her a PG-13 rundown of the way this works. If I stop what I’m doing and say hi to Ayla, then that would mean we’re officially acquaintances, and I don’t want to be her acquaintance. I want to be some random guy she fucked on some random weekday. “It’s complicated, Allison.”
I take a drink of my whiskey, letting my eyes linger in Ayla’s direction. Her friend is quite animated, swooshing her arms through the air when she talks and widening her eyes. It must be exhausting listening to her tell a story, but there’s Ayla, tuned in like a champ.
God bless her.
Allison swivels in her seat, facing me as she licks sugar off the rim of her martini glass. “This is really good, by the way.”
“Glad you like it.”
I steal a quick glance over Allison’s shoulder because apparently I’m incapable of restraining myself tonight, only this time I’m met with two sets of curious eyes.
I’ve been spotted.
Ayla shifts in her seat, her eyes moving to the back of Allison’s head, then to me, then the drink in her hand. Her friend gives me a dirty look.
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