“It’s been a while. And I didn’t exactly think to bring my cup home with me when I was packing for this trip.”
“How do you…” I turn it over in my hand, look at it from all directions, and shake my head. “I don’t even know how this works.”
“Want me to show you?” And there’s the Adam I’m familiar with. The one who’s easy going and flirtatious. Not the one who’s intense and a little possessive. Funny thing is, both his sides get my motor humming.
I ignore his question and continue looking at it, before opening the plastic and pulling out the cup. It looks small. Way too small to hold what I know Adam has tucked away in his pants. And holding him while he’s hard? Forget it. He’d need three. At least. “How does it all, you know, fit?” I gesture with the cup toward his lap.
He laughs, but it comes out strained, and he closes his eyes, resting his head against the seat back. “You’re very good for my ego, sweet cheeks. My restraint only goes so far, though, so unless you want to get naked in the backseat, I suggest you start driving.”
“The sooner I start driving, the sooner you’re going to collect on your winnings.”
With his head still resting against the headrest, he turns to look at me. In his eyes there are a thousand unspoken words. Most of them dirty. “Don’t look so nervous. You’re going to like it, Paige. I guarantee it.”
That’s exactly what I’m worried about.
he hasn’t even done anything yet, and the anticipation is freakin’ killing me. What the hell is he working at? I can’t figure it out. Unless he was telling the truth when we were sitting in the car outside the batting cages. Maybe he really does need to get himself under control so he doesn’t crack.
Adam doesn’t crack often. And by often, I mean ever. That much is certain.
In the short trip to our apartment building, he’s relaxed in degrees, little by little, until he’s perfectly at ease as we walk down the steps inside, standing on the landing between our doors.
I’m a little tired of this waiting game, to be perfectly honest. It’s making me jumpy, flustered. I just want to get it over with. I have no idea what he has in store for me, but I’m anticipating the worst. What the worst is, I don’t know. I haven’t been brave enough to even allow myself to contemplate it. With a bravado I don’t feel, I say, “Time’s up, buster,” then I occupy myself as I fish for my keys in my bag. “It’s now or never.”
I don’t even feel him moving close, not until his breath whispers across my lips as he says, “Now.”
Startling, I glance up and he’s right there. Stepping into my space and causing me to retreat until my back presses against my door. “What…” I internally curse myself at the breathless quality of my voice, then swallow and try again. “What did you decide you want?”
He’s quiet for a minute, his eyes assessing me in a way that makes me nervous. “That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard it. I want it all, Paige. Don’t for a second think otherwise. But since you’re not ready to give me that, I’ll settle for something else. Something you’ve managed to keep from me.”
This man has licked my breasts, my thighs, the space between. He’s had me on my knees, on my back…has taken me in the most primal ways, so I’m having a really hard time figuring out what I’ve kept from him. But when his eyes drop to my lips, I know. I know. The thought causes me to suck in a breath. How is that possible? How can I crave him as much as I do and not even know what his lips feel like against my own? How do I not already know the taste, the texture, the pressure of his mouth?
And how I have lived without it?
“Last chance to back out.” He’s so close. Less than an inch of space between our parted mouths. His eyes are connected with mine, so dark despite the pale blue of his irises. Desire has him in a chokehold. Desire for me.
Reaching out, I grab his hips and pull him against me. Feel the power of his arousal straining in his shorts. “I don’t back out of bets.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “If that’s what you need to fall back on to let me taste those cocktease lips of yours, take it. I’ll give you a hundred bets if it gets your mouth on mine.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already there, his parted lips pressed against mine, his tongue sweeping inside. On a groan, he presses against me harder, rotating his hips and pushing me flat against the door, and I can’t hold in a whimper. Adam kisses me like he can’t get enough. Like he wants to devour me. Like he owns me. That should turn me off. It should make me want to shove him away and slam the door in his face. It shouldn’t make me want to melt into a puddle at his feet. Shouldn’t make me want to hook my leg over his hip, climb him like a tree, and rub up against him until we both come in our pants like a couple of horny teenagers.
He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, then trails his lips down, nips at my chin, licks up the column of my neck. “You know how many nights I’ve stayed awake thinking about these lips?” He tugs on one with his teeth. “How many times I’ve stroked my cock to the thought of them?”
I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t— “How many?” Goddammit.
“Too many.” He closes the space between us again and slants his mouth over mine. His hands cradle my head, his thumbs pressed to my chin, guiding my mouth open even farther so he can take the kiss deeper as he rotates his hips against me.
I’ve been kissed a lot. And I’ve been kissed. The kind that make you breathless and giddy. The kind that make you want to rip your clothes off and fuck right where you stand. So then if I’ve had those kind of kisses before, how can Adam make it feel like he’s the first? Like he’s the only one who’s ever done this to me? The only one who ever could.
The strokes of his tongue slow, gliding against mine gently, until they stop completely. Then he presses three soft, chaste kisses on my mouth and…steps back?
“Wha…” Jesus, I can’t even talk. The only thing holding me up right now is the door and the knowledge that I would look like a damn fool if I sank to the floor like I really want to.
“Night, pooh bear.” He turns around, pulling his keys from his pocket and unlocks his door before stepping through it without a backward glance.
What. The. Fuck.
I reach up, pressing my fingers to my lips, and shake my head. I couldn’t have been the only one feeling that, right? That wasn’t just me getting pulled under by the kiss of my whole goddamn lifetime. But what if it was? God, what if he’s in there right now, thinking I’m just an okay kisser? Well, fuck that.
“Don’t think this means these non-dates are suddenly kissing dates!” I yell at his door as I finally find the strength to slip the key in mine and unlock it…after three tries. “And, FYI, that name was stupid!”
I hear his chuckle through the door as I slam mine. The only thing that settles me a bit, calms my nerves, is that it sounded strained…pained. And I do something I know I shouldn’t, but even knowing that, I can’t stop the train of thought…
I let myself imagine what it means if Adam felt exactly what I did, and that’s why he walked away.
SEVENTEEN
adam
Standing in front of my parents at the shop, going over the new website in detail, is not the time nor the place to be remembering what Paige’s lips felt like against mine last night. What her body felt like pressed all up on me, her hips rolling and seeking what I knew she wanted…what we both did.
Except I didn’t give it to us. Instead, I walked away like a goddamn idiot.
But I knew if I didn’t, if I went into her apartment with her, pulled her down on the floor and guided her to ride me, it’d feel great in the moment—it’d feel fucking awesome in the moment—but when all was said and done and I walked out her door, we’d be right back to square one. She’d shove me aside, shove me away, and all the progress we’ve made would be for nothing. And I’m not interested in playing this game forever. It’s obvious she wants me, but she’s fighting it. Listening to Tessa’s ad
vice, I’m going to push her just enough, then let her get the rest of the way on her own. And if her frustrated shouts at my door last night after I walked away are any indication, she’s slowly getting there.
I force my thoughts away from Paige, because the last thing I need is to get wood with both my parents standing within five feet of me.
“Can you go back to the doohickey, honey?” my mom asks, pointing at the laptop screen. “You know, the one that shows all the stuff.”
I resist from rolling my eyes, but it’s damn hard. We’ve been looking at the site for forty-five minutes, and she still doesn’t have a clue how it works. And forget about updating it—it might as well be in Japanese for all the sense it makes to either of them. Keeping it up-to-date will definitely fall to my shoulders. At least while I’m here. Probably after I’m gone, too. “It’s a website, Mom. Every part of it shows stuff.”
Her spine snaps straight, and it doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-five and an adult, I get the same oh shit feeling in my stomach at knowing I’ve stepped over the line that I did when I was thirteen. “Don’t get smart with me, Adam Christopher. I don’t know all this techie speak you do.”
Blowing out a breath, I deflate against the counter, rubbing my fingers against my forehead. I’m taking out frustrations on my mom that she isn’t the cause for. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just a little stressed.”
Mom tuts and rubs my back while my dad looks on, shaking his head, but he’s trying to hide a smile. Growing up, it was the two of us a lot of the time, going off on our own to do guy stuff. And during many of those outings, he stressed how far an apology went with my mother. Whenever I’m in the doghouse, I’m quick to say I’m sorry.
“See? I’ve been telling you you’ve been working too hard. Haven’t I been telling him that, Calvin?” Mom doesn’t wait for Dad’s reply before she continues, “And you look like you’ve been losing weight. Have you been eating now that you’re out on your own again?”
I want to remind her that I’ve spent ninety-nine percent of the past seven years living on my own, but a sharp shake of my dad’s head has me pressing my lips together. Smart man. “Yes, Mom, I’ve been eating.”
“Not my food, you haven’t. I’ll bake you some pies and bring them over tonight. You need some fattening up.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Let me do something. Please. I’ve been feeling so useless around here, can barely keep up with all the changes you’re making to the business.” She holds up her hand to stop me before I can say anything. “Changes we need, I know that. But still, I don’t like feeling like I’m worthless. I need to do something. Let me bake you some pies.” Having perfected the mom guilt long ago, she adds, “Plus you’ve been living there for weeks, and we still haven’t seen it.”
There’s a reason for it, too. If my mom sees the crackerjack box in which I live, she’ll have a coronary. Probably break down sobbing right there in the minuscule space between my kitchenette and bathroom, wailing about how this pitiful shoebox was better than being home? Being with her? No, thank you.
I glance to my dad for help, and the only response I get is raised eyebrows. It’s a look I’ve seen dozens of times from him. One that says, you got yourself into this, you can figure out how to get out of it, buddy. Clearing my throat, I say, “I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to unpack everything, and I don’t want you to see it like that. How about I come over tonight instead? I’ve been craving your homemade lasagna. I know it’s a lot of work, but—”
“Of course!” She beams at me, clasping her hands together. “Lasagna and homemade garlic rolls. And blueberry pie…no, chocolate torte. More calories.” She pats me on the stomach then walks over and feeds some of the receipt paper from the register, ripping it off before grabbing a pen and scribbling down a list, presumably for the grocery store.
My dad gives a nod of approval at how I handled the situation, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s a man of few words, until it comes to his wife. If I made her sad—or worse, left her sad—I’d get reamed up one side and down the other by him.
The bell above the front door rings, and I step out from behind the counter to greet the new customer, leaving my parents at the cash stand. When I get within viewing distance, I freeze. Suck in a breath between my teeth. Even though her back is to me, I’d know that ass anywhere. And all those thoughts I pushed away when I was with my parents come back full force. There’s not a second of those five minutes when I had Paige pressed up against me I don’t remember. And now she’s here, right in front of me, and I want a repeat.
“Paige? What are you doing here?”
She whirls around like she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, her eyes darting all around the store before taking a sweep of me, then settling somewhere over my left shoulder. And even though I should be focusing on her face, on the almost…guilty…look she has, I can’t. Because all I see when I look at her is her face right before I kissed her last night. How her eyes fluttered closed a second before I pressed my lips to hers. How her hands grasped my T-shirt, like she wanted to make sure I didn’t go anywhere. The greedy way her tongue slipped into my mouth…and that dreamy, glazed look in her eyes when I pulled away? Got me so fucking hard. Remembering it isn’t helping me in that area, either.
Paige clears her throat. “Oh, hey, I didn’t expect to see you. This is your parents’ shop? I didn’t know.” Her words come out too fast, all jumbled together. Paige is usually smooth, collected. The only other time I’ve heard her like this was when she was trying to convince me her old neighbors were meth heads and cat hoarders.
And then I remember her telling me she’s been here before, buying skis in high school. She’s lying so hard, I’m surprised her pants aren’t on fire. I narrow my eyes at her. “You didn’t know,” I repeat.
“Nope.” She shakes her head for good measure.
I stare at her for a moment, then glance pointedly at my work polo, at the embroidered letters on my left pectoral. The ones that say Reid Sporting Goods in a big, bold font, and look back at her with a raised eyebrow.
She darts her eyes everywhere, ping-ponging them anywhere but me, then she spins around and faces the display in front of her. “Well, anyway, I need some gloves.” She stares intently at the merchandise on the wall.
I step closer to her, positioning myself so we’re standing side by side. “Gloves.”
Huffing out a breath, she turns and shoots daggers at me with her eyes. “Why do you keep repeating everything I say? It’s annoying.”
“Because everything you say is fishy as hell.”
She sniffs, turning her head away. “I have no idea what you mean, but I need some gloves. That’s why I’m here. At this store I didn’t know was your parents’. For rappelling gloves.”
I narrow my eyes at her. With the way hers keep darting away from me and back again, it’s like I’m watching her wage a war with herself right in front of me. She wants to look, but she’s forcing herself no to. It seems a hell of a lot like the entire reason she came here was to see me. If that’s the case, I might be further ahead in my plan that I ever thought.
Time to test that theory. “And you needed them at”—I glance at my watch—“five-thirty on a Tuesday.”
“Yes,” she snaps. “Look, dude, are you going to help me with the gloves or not?”
Considering the time, that means she came straight here, immediately after work. Almost like she couldn’t wait to see me until we inevitably ran into each other at the apartment building tonight. The thought nearly brings a smile to my face, but I know that wouldn’t sit well with Paige, so I clear my expression entirely. I’ll let her play it how she wants. For now.
“Okay, well, we’ve got a few options for your hand size.” She looks startled that I’m not pushing harder, but I ignore it as I grab the three best pairs off the wall and pull them out of the packages so she can try them out. �
�You rappel fairly often?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’d probably go with these.” I hand her the most durable ones. Bonus that they’re not the most expensive, especially since I’m pretty sure she already has a pair at home.
She slips her hand into the right one at the same time my mom walks toward us with her head down, looking at her list. “Adam, do you want a salad tonigh— Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know we had a customer.” My mom smiles and glances at Paige, then does a double take, her finger pointed in Paige’s direction. “Wait, I remember you.”
Paige shakes her head and rushes to say, “No, I don’t think so.”
My mom laughs and steps closer. “Honey, with a face like yours, I’m sure most people don’t forget you. Weren’t you here last month for new gloves?” Mom frowns. “Did they rip?” She tuts, shaking her head. “That’s completely unacceptable. You bring those back in here, even if you don’t have your receipt. Adam’ll get you set up with a new pair.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. It’s fine.”
“It absolutely isn’t.” Mom’s tone is firm. “We don’t sell shoddy merchandise, and I want to know which kind they were.” She glances at the gloves on the wall, her eyes scanning each as if trying to remember, then she reaches out and plucks a single glove out of my hand—the match to the one Paige’s currently trying. “It was these, wasn’t it? Such a shame. They used to be great quality. But you know, these companies now, they’re trying to take shortcuts. Anything they can do to make an extra buck, even at the expense of the customer. Well, I won’t put up with it. If that’s how they’re going to start producing their products, good for them, but we certainly won’t be selling them anymore.”
“No, no,” Paige says, almost tripping over her words. “They didn’t rip. I, uh, lost them. Or they were stolen. Probably stolen.”
“Stolen.”
She glares at me because I’ve just repeated yet another thing she’s said, but I’m not buying her story for a minute. She comes here immediately after work, less than twenty-four hours after the kiss that could cause riots, pretends she doesn’t realize this is my family’s shop, and now she’s got some tale about how her last pair was stolen? Not fucking likely.
Paige in Progress (Reluctant Hearts #3) Page 12
