Still So Hot!

by Serena Bell

  “Turns out I’m not smart enough for that kind of work. You gotta have a lot of substance to do that stuff. I’m more the glitz guy.”

  Now she was really frowning at him. “You put yourself down a lot, you know that? ‘God knows why, but she likes me.’ Then ‘For some sick reason, she seems to listen to me.’ Followed by ‘I’m not smart enough...you gotta have substance.’ What’s that about?”

  This was vintage Elisa, chiming in with the pop psych analysis, making more out of everything than was there. “I was joking.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Give it a rest, Elisa. I’m not your client. You don’t have to figure me out.”

  “If you were my client—”

  “I’m not.”

  Thankfully, she left it at that. For a moment they sipped their drinks in silence. The scent of the ocean and the resort’s floral plantings drifted to them. Overhead, the sky was silly with stars, a dizzying firmament. His brief anger had left him aroused and impatient, and if they had been any two other people on the planet, with any other history, on any other day, he would have followed his dark craving to its logical conclusion, would have turned to her and kissed her. Hard. But he couldn’t do that. She’d slap him across the face.

  And he’d deserve it. Not only because of what he’d done—and hadn’t done—two years ago, but because, intentionally or not, he’d landed like a combat boot on her carefully laid weekend plans. On her ambitions.

  He tipped back his glass, swallowing a long pull of whiskey. He wanted to reach for her hand. He wanted to reach for her across the years that were between them, across the mess he’d made of things, and tell her that he would make it all right. He wanted to show her the best way he knew to make it right.

  Instead, he said, “All you need to redeem yourself with Haven and the media and the rest of the world is for Celine to find someone else she likes, right? Then she’s happy, and you’ve made a match, and the world will be far more interested in that than in more footage of Celine behaving badly. Falling off a bar isn’t really that entertaining anyway.”

  “You’d think that, right? But just wait. That thing is going to be all over the internet by morning. And footage like that has a longer shelf life than you would ever believe.”

  “Unless something more interesting happens.”

  “What’s ‘more interesting’ than a party girl relapsing, ending up with the wrong man and falling off a bar drunk?”

  “Love at first sight?”

  She laughed, a hard, bitter sound. “You don’t believe in love at all, let alone love at first sight.”

  Why did that hurt? He didn’t believe in love—not her kind, anyway, not arrows through the heart, and chocolates and roses, and happily ever after. “I don’t have to believe in it. But I can still help you direct a movie that portrays it.”

  She frowned at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not helping me with anything. You need to get yourself on the next flight out of here.”

  He didn’t want to leave. A few hours ago, he might have told himself that it was because they were friends again, or on their way to being, that he was lured by the simple promise of having Elisa back in his life on the old terms. But now he knew it wasn’t true. The moonlight and her vulnerability made a potent combination. He had to control his hands and talk his body down as he tried his damnedest not to lean over and capture her mouth, twine his fingers into her thick, shiny hair.

  God, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so she’d forget she’d ever been kissed before. He wanted to mold her body along the whole length of his, press all the hungry, stupidly lustful parts of himself against her. He wanted to drown the craving. Oh, he was going to lose his mind thinking about it—drown in the craving. He could make her forget all about Celine Carr and the media and the rest of the world.

  Selfish bastard. She was trying to save what mattered to her, and all he could think about was his cock. He hadn’t deserved her friendship before, and he didn’t now.

  She was watching him. Watching him watch her, her eyes big. And then her gaze slipped, just for a moment, to his mouth.

  He didn’t think; he just pounced.

  * * *

  SHE’D KNOWN HE was going to kiss her before it happened, and still, it was a shock. The heat and possessiveness of his mouth, and the way her hands reached for him against her better judgment.

  His mouth was so soft, so demanding, so giving. It made her cells sing with pleasure. And were those her fingers in his hair? And her other hand on his back, clutching him, noting the shift and bunch of the muscles there?

  She was aware of her body, like a chant. Want. More.

  His tongue urged her lips to open, and she let him in. The stroke of his tongue against all the tender bits of her mouth made her sigh. He groaned in response. That sound undid all her resistance, and she pulled his head down to get more of him. He tasted so good, of whiskey and wine and Brett. She knew this kiss, knew it inside and out, knew that he was going to bite her lower lip before he did, knew that he wanted her to meet his thrusts and that, when she did, she’d feel it down to her toes, that slide and urgency.

  Want. More.

  She did. She wanted him to pick her up and carry her into the room where—

  Where Celine was sleeping.

  Reason rushed in like an unwanted rainstorm. This could not happen.

  She let go of his head and gently shoved his shoulder.

  He looked back at her with lust-glazed eyes.

  “Are you crazy?” she demanded. Of course what she meant was, Am I crazy? Which clearly she was. “This situation isn’t screwed up enough as it is? What if there’s some stealth paparazzo with a night lens out there?”

  “Shhhh,” he said, extending his hand.

  She dodged it. “Don’t do that again. Ever.”

  “Oh, but I want to do it again.”

  “No. Never gonna happen.”

  “I want to do it again, and I want to do it for longer next time, and I want you to squeak like that again.”

  “I didn’t squeak.” She hadn’t, had she? She tried to think and remembered the rush of wet heat she’d felt when he’d bitten her. Maybe then. Her body had a mind of its own, and it was dazed with years-old lust.

  “You did,” he confirmed. “And, God, you can kiss. Let’s do that again.”

  He reached for her, and she wanted to just give up everything and fall into him, so she did the next best thing, which was to become furious.

  “Stop it. No. I’m wise to your M.O. and no. No way I’m going to be your next victim.”

  He drew back. “I don’t have victims.” He was angry. “Jesus, Lise, you’re harsh.”

  “Conquests, then. You have conquests. You’re done with Celine, and you’re ready for the next fix, and I’m conveniently available. Well, that’s not gonna happen. I’m not going to be your next twenty-four-hour entertainment.”

  “Twenty-four-hour—”

  “Have you ever thought about it? Really thought about it? That’s how long it is, Brett. Twenty-four hours, and then you’re done. Ready to move on. Next conquest.”

  “They’re not conquests! They’re partners! I have partners. They’re willing, Lise. Celine was willing. Your sister was willing.”

  How dare he? How dare he bring up Julie? “That’s not the point. I know they’re willing. They don’t know any better!”

  “They’re willing because they’re attracted to me and because I make them feel good. Like I was making you feel good. Tell me that’s not true.” He pointed a finger in her direction, then shook his head and dropped his hand. “No, don’t even. I don’t need you to tell me. I heard you. I felt you. I smelled you.”

  If she hadn’t been so angry, she would have whimpered.

  “So that’s why
women sleep with me. Not because I use magic on them or trick them or lie to them. Because they want to. So just shut up about the conquest thing.”

  But she couldn’t. Because if she shut up now, he would kiss her again, and she would let him, and one way or another they would find a horizontal surface, and she would be one—conquest or victim or partner—for twenty-four hours. And she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk Rendezvous. She couldn’t risk—

  “You believe whatever you want, Brett. Whatever lets you sleep at night. But I don’t want anything to do with your games. I didn’t then, and I don’t now.”

  “Understood,” he said tightly.

  She had to give him credit. If she’d been in his shoes, she would have had to make some pride-saving final shot, some stab about how the kiss hadn’t meant that much, anyway. But he just picked up his whiskey glass and carried it into the room. She heard the water run in the bathroom—he was rinsing out the glass. He’d always been a nice boy that way—good manners, careful with her stuff, helpful when he was in her apartment. He’d been a good friend, and the truth was, her anger was already cooling enough that she knew he didn’t deserve the things she’d said to him. No matter who he was. No matter what had happened two years ago.

  He set the glass on the desk without looking at her and let himself out.

  She had the overwhelming feeling she’d been here before.

  The last time she’d felt Brett’s mouth against hers, the last time her reason had been overwhelmed by the smell and taste of him, they’d been out beforehand at a see-and-be-seen bar called Aquarium. Aquarium was set up to look like the inside of a fish tank, with windows and blue light and projections of moving ocean. They had gotten very drunk, sung on the subway and stumbled up the steps to her apartment, where they’d collapsed together on the couch. She felt like she was still in a fish tank as the world swayed gently all around her, and Brett’s face was very close to hers, swaying a little also, and getting closer? Or was she so drunk she only thought that?—No, definitely getting closer, and her heart started to pound, and her mouth went dry, and her hands shook. She could feel the warmth of his breath move across her face like a spring breeze, clean and slightly alcoholic.

  The kiss, when it came, was a revelation. A moment of sweet and then hours, years, of hot, the unfolding feel of him letting go, pouring himself into her. His hands were in her hair, clutching her, then on her arms, her waist, her hips, drawing her closer. Fingers tugged her shirt from her jeans, and she heard her own moans and his grunts, each sound pulling something deeper from inside her, relief and yearning and a desire to laugh and hold on to him forever.

  She felt his hands on her bare skin, and her nipples hardened under the lace cups of her bra, tight knots that stole her attention from the feathery touch on her belly and the wet heat gathering at the juncture of her thighs. The ache made her cup his head and pull him closer, made her kiss him harder, trying to have more of his mouth. More of him. All of him.

  He slid a warm hand up, and she whimpered when he cupped her breast and found her nipple with his thumb. He made an answering choked sound deep in his chest. She moved her hands from his head to his broad shoulders, then down over his pecs, so hard, so tense—she could feel the restraint. The fact that he was holding himself back, because he wanted her that much, did crazy things to her, and she was on her knees on the couch, ready to throw a leg over his so she could straddle him and get herself closer.

  Then he’d suddenly broken it off and drawn back. “I’m drunk,” he’d said.

  And then, the worst: “I’m sorry.”

  She couldn’t speak because all the lovely heat that he’d summoned up in her body had solidified into a chunk of ice around her heart.

  “I’ll go,” he said. He got up off the couch so quickly he’d smacked his leg into the coffee table and hurried toward the door.

  Just before he went out, he turned and said it again, so she saw how deeply he meant it. “I’m sorry.”

  She’d stared at the door for quite some time after he’d closed it, not willing to admit he was gone.

  That had been the worst. The having and the losing and then—nothing.

  No—that was a lie. That hadn’t been the worst. The worst had been two weeks later, when her sister, Julie, had come to visit.

  * * *

  ELISA HAD KNOWN her sister was on the market and raring to go. Julie had made no bones about the fact that she was on the rebound, or that Brett was a potential target. She’d asked Elisa point-blank whether he was available and whether Elisa had dibs.

  “Or even if you don’t have dibs.” Julie had tucked her shiny blond hair behind her ears and scrutinized her sister’s face. “Even if you feel like it would be weird for me to sleep with your friend. I won’t do it if you think it would be weird.”

  Weird. Julie had no idea what had happened between Elisa and Brett, because as far as Elisa was concerned, nothing had happened. Certainly Brett was acting that way. A few days after the post-Aquarium kiss, he’d called her, and they’d had a tentative phone conversation in which neither of them had mentioned the kiss. She’d almost started a thousand different sentences. What was that? Can we do it again? Are we ever going to talk about this? But she’d been too relieved they were talking at all and too afraid of what answer she’d get if she pushed. After a few more days he’d showed up at her apartment with his Scrabble board. During the game she’d made herself breathe through her mouth so his scent would not be a constant temptation, all the while refraining from looking at his lips. And things were almost normal, even if her own laughter felt tight.

  She’d become an expert over those next two weeks in rolling on past the twinge in her chest. She repeated to herself what she’d always known: that there was no future, not even a tomorrow, in Brett Jordan.

  So there was no way she was going to tell Julie the truth or admit how foolish and hopeful she’d been in the face of years of evidence. It was better to just allow the incident to slide away into the Aquarium-blue haze from which it had crawled.

  “Believe me,” said Elisa. “I have the firmest evidence that Brett Jordan is not interested in me.”

  “But you’re interested in him?”

  She made a scoffing sound.

  “Because I wouldn’t want to—”

  “No,” she said, before her heart could protest. “It’s fine. But just so you know,” she told Julie, “he’s not much for relationships. He’s more the one-night-stand type. Forewarned is forearmed.”

  Julie had laughed and said, “Rebound. One night is perfect. And he’s not my type, anyway. Too surface.”

  “Jules?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I—don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t want to hear about it. Afterward.”

  Julie had stared at her, long and hard. “I don’t have to do this, Lise.”

  “No. It’s fine. Go for it. Just—no details, okay?”

  “Deal,” Julie said.

  So, no, she didn’t think Brett had taken advantage of Julie. Julie hadn’t been a conquest or a victim—she’d been, as Brett had said, a partner, kind of a partner in crime, in fact. The three of them had gone out for drinks, and Elisa had stayed as long as she could stand it, until the flirtation between Julie and Brett had become unbearable. Then Elisa had left, and Julie had not come home until nearly 4:00 a.m.

  Lying awake in the early hours of the morning, Elisa had wanted to stab herself in her mind’s eye. She was not someone with a particularly vivid imagination, but she had been able to imagine Julie and Brett together, kissing, whispering, laughing. Brett moving over Julie, his eyes dark with heat.

  She knew too much about how it would feel. She had been eaten alive with envy and wracked with frustration, and she had been denied the relief of self-righteousness because she had given her blessing.

 
; And yet the ultimate irony had been the rage she’d felt on Julie’s behalf when, the very next day, Brett had refused Julie’s invitation to get dinner again. Two days later, Julie left New York; and a week after that—during which, Elisa knew, Brett hadn’t so much as texted Julie to see if she’d made it home alive—he’d stopped by Elisa’s apartment with a steaming bag full of Chinese takeout and a copy of 50 First Dates.

  She’d opened the door to see his finely hewn, slightly scruffy face smiling at her over the brown paper bag. Her heart had lurched, same as ever, and suddenly everything he did was intolerable. He leaned down and planted a kiss in the general vicinity of her cheek, and the heat and scent of him filled her like fury. He swept past her into the apartment and set the Chinese dishes on her coffee table, and the familiarity of it grated against her skin. Even the way he stepped into the kitchen for a handful of serving spoons, getting everything ready for her, was unbearable. He wasn’t sheepish or contrite, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong. For him, it seemed, the kiss that had rocked her world hadn’t happened, and neither had sleeping with her sister.

  There she’d been for a week and a half, with her huge out-of-proportion emotions, feeling like a barbell had been dropped on her chest. Fierce twinges of envy and anger had invaded her everyday activities, sneaking up on her when she had a vulnerable moment.

  He had cocked his head from the other side of her couch. “You want me to wrap up a moo shu pancake for you?”

  She was done with the way he’d treated those women and the way he’d treated Julie.

  And she was done with the way he treated her, as the perfect rest stop between assignations. As if she’d always be here. Mi coffee table es su coffee table; come on in, make yourself at home, but, no, don’t worry about me. I don’t need more of you than this.

  “I’m done.”

  She had said it out loud.

  He looked over at her, quizzical. “Done with what?”