Love Handles (A Romantic Comedy)

by Gretchen Galway

  She jerked her head away. “We need to talk.”

  First he had to shut up the voice in his head that was shouting, She came! and get a grip on the torrent of emotions tearing through his body. “Let’s go up to my place.”

  “I’m not going inside. We can talk out here.”

  Stifling a howl of disappointment, he nodded and turned to walk at her side, determined not to scare her away. He wouldn’t touch her again until they were in his condo. “I know what you’re thinking, believe me,” he said. “I never get personally involved at the office anymore. I even refuse lunch invitations from my own staff. Nobody knows anything about me outside of work they didn’t learn from Ed or old newspaper clippings.”

  “This is supposed to impress me?”

  “You think that getting involved with me—more involved, because let’s face it, we’ve already crossed the line—is going to screw up your goals at the company. Am I right?”

  She stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. The sexy dress was gone. Now she hid herself under a pea-green, shapeless sweater his brother might have picked out for himself. He knew what she was trying to do, but it was hopeless.

  I can still imagine you naked, babe.

  “You can’t convince me it won’t hurt our working relationship,” she said.

  “What working relationship? I’ve been trying to screw you over since you got here.” She cracked a smile, and he took the opportunity to guide her another few feet closer to the entrance. “If anything, scratching this itch will probably help us get along better.”

  She started walking again. “Wonderful. You’re comparing me to a rash.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t wait until they got upstairs to remind her of her own desires. Cupping the back of her neck, he dipped his head down and brushed his lips against hers, inhaling the scent of her deep into his lungs. “I want you, Bev.” He trailed kisses along her cheekbone to the hollow below her ear and felt her tremble. Good. Now don’t push her too fast. He lifted his face a couple inches above hers. “I made dinner.”

  She didn’t pull away. “Made? Or bought?”

  “I buy the pasta, then boil it all by myself.” He drew back and typed in the keycode at his building’s front door. “You'll like it. Lots of carbs.”

  She sighed, annoyed again, and he congratulated himself on distracting her enough to follow him deeper inside. They got onto the elevator, and this time he kept his hands to himself.

  The car rose twenty floors, and the doors slid apart.

  “You didn’t have to cook.” She didn’t move.

  He put his hand in the door and smiled at her. She looked stricken, staring at him. Then she followed him into the carpeted hallway.

  April had better not be there. If she hadn’t gone out like he told her to, he’d hack into her blog and decimate her social life. But the condo was quiet and dim and filled with the smells of simmering garlic and tomatoes. He held the door open. “Here we are.”

  He heard her breathing the rich cooking smells, exhaling with a distinctly feminine groan of pleasure. He felt a surge of desire so intense he fisted his hands to stop him from pinning her against the front door and taking her right there.

  Apparently unaware of his struggle, she studied the furniture. “Of course you have a real Winzler.”

  He admired the swell of her breasts, as much of them as he could see under the baggy fabric. “I’m going to burn that sweater.” He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him for another kiss.

  After a painfully brief kiss, she shoved him away. “We talk. We eat. We do not—” she pointed at his mouth, “—do that.”

  For the first time he realized he may have been overconfident. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned back in the doorway to the kitchen and kept his gaze fixed above her neck. “What would you like to drink—wine? A cocktail?”

  “Water,” she said. “Just water.”

  He sighed. “Make yourself comfortable.” He should have just handed her a glass of wine the moment they walked in the door, and he shouldn’t have kissed her like that. Something about Bev made him needy. Desperate. He readjusted his jeans.

  From the kitchen he peeked around the breakfast counter into the living room, drank in the sight of her sitting in a narrow upright chair with her knees pressed together and fear in her eyes, then reached under the sink where he hid his best scotch. God knows his sister would never look for cleaning supplies.

  “That’s not water,” she said when he handed her a glass of it.

  He took a chair on the opposite side of the room, ten feet away. “Sure it is. Mostly.” He kicked his own back and let the fire singe the fuzzy corners of his brain. “You want to talk, talk. I’m listening.” He stared at her and had the blinding vision of kneeling at her feet with his head between her thighs.

  Still sitting primly upright, she frowned at the glass resting on her knee. “If we—do this—everyone will know.”

  “If we don’t people will think we did anyway.” He took another gulp. Which was true. If they were going to pay, they might as well play. He looked at Bev over the rim of his glass.

  She shifted uneasily in her chair, exaggerating the swell of her hips in the seat. Then she lifted the glass and drank.

  Liam’s heart, already racing, began to pound against his ribs. He tossed back the last of the scotch and got to his feet, not breaking eye contact with her. She took another swallow.

  “I want you,” he said, walking over to her.

  She frowned. “Well, I find you repulsive.”

  Her mouth was rosy and glistening from the scotch. He leaned down, grinning, and licked it from one corner to the other while his hand slid around the back of her neck and dug into her thick, bewitching hair. The scotch had tasted good in the glass, but on her skin it was a narcotic. He had intended to guide her to her feet but found himself on his knees, kissing her while she sat on her chair, whimpering, moaning.

  He trailed kisses down her neck, nibbling gently until he hit the thick acrylic knit. “I'm taking this off,” he said in her ear, and tucked his fingers under her sweater and teased it up over her ribs.

  She giggled then frowned, pushing him away half-heartedly. “It tickles.”

  His cock strained against the fly of his jeans. She sounded so young and sweet, but he knew better. He saw through her, how every act of niceness was carefully calculated and planned ahead. How she managed to disarm her enemies with charm. How she always seemed to get exactly what she wanted without ever seeming to fight for it.

  “Tell me how you like it.” He dipped his head lower to taste the naked skin of her belly. He licked her navel, and she jerked, sighed. He wrapped his arms around her body and pulled her soft flesh against his face. Her bottom came off the seat of the chair, and she clutched his shoulders for balance.

  “I like it in bed.” She pushed him away, stumbling to her feet, and rubbed her back. “Or somewhere padded.”

  He came after her and pulled her with him onto the sofa. He wanted her on top of him, to feel the full weight of her body along his, nothing held back. “Take off your clothes—” Then he remembered how badly he wanted to finish what they had started in that shore in Oakland the week before. “Wait. Come with me.” He rolled aside and got to his feet.

  She looked up at him, her hair strewn across the cushions, and raised an eyebrow.

  “You'll like it.” He held out his hand.

  She took his hand—warm, smooth fingers—and followed him to the bedroom.

  When he bent over to switch on the lamp on a side table, Bev came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, slid her hands up his chest. He straightened, strung tight, pausing to enjoy the feel of her body pressed up against his. For two shapes with so little in common, their bodies fit together amazingly well. For a moment he forgot about the destination to savor the journey. The bodies enmeshed. No gaps. Just yielding flesh and muscle and bone.

  Then Bev pulled his shirt up,
slid her hand over his abs, and pinched his left nipple.

  Electricity spiked through him. He spun around, captured her face in his hands to kiss her. Rich, sweet lips, open for him and wet and hungry. He rotated her in his arms and kicked the door shut, revealing the full-length mirror hung on the inside. Standing with their eyes locked on each other in the reflection, she lifted her arms over her head and wiggled her ass.

  “Nice,” he whispered, nibbling her neck. “I mean, naughty.” He pulled the ugly sweater up and exposed a red lace bra that appeared two sizes too small. Groaning, he slipped the neckline over her head and buried his face in her hair, silently thanking her and fate and even Ed for contributing to the genetics of her glorious breasts spilling out of flimsy—he dipped a finger under the top swell of flesh until he felt her hardening nipple—“Silk.”

  A small moan rose up from her throat as she threw her head back. “Went shopping yesterday.”

  He withdrew his hand—soon, soon—and hurled the sweater across the room. Her hair fell down her back in a tousled curtain, black on white. Inhaling the scent of her scalp, he ran his hands down her body and met her eyes her in the mirror. “You are so damn beautiful.”

  She met his eyes, looking alarmed.

  “What's the matter?” He pulled her closer and ground his hard cock through the jeans against her bottom, while his fingers teased her nipples through the lace.

  Gasping, she shook her head and leaned into him. “You—terrify me.”

  “Serves you right.” He brushed her hair aside so he could kiss the back of her neck, still searching for the source of the intoxicating citrus smell that followed her everywhere. It seemed to be everywhere on her skin, sweet and sharp and rich. He dropped kisses along her shoulder then dragged his tongue up the side of her neck to her ear and inside, tasting and breathing and whispering her name.

  He watched her reaction in the mirror, surprised to see her staring at him with those stunning blue eyes. Below her face, the red bra with the full breasts spilling out of the cups snared his attention. He looked lower, to the curve of her bare abdomen, and down to the hint of red lace under the waistband of her jeans.

  The jeans were as loose as her sweater had been, which she probably intended as a turn-off, but now, sagging low on her hips and exposing her panties, they reminded him of what delights he hadn't explored, delights he'd been obsessed with since that morning in the store's dressing room.

  He opened his hands over the indentation of her waist and held them there, willing his body to be patient, go slow. They slid lower, his thumbs stroking her belly while his fingers dove under the gaping waistband.

  She sucked in her breath, tensing her abs, and he squeezed the handful of woman in his hands and nibbled the side of her neck.

  “No running away this time,” she whispered, and he shook his head.

  “Too late for that.” He unbuttoned her jeans and slid his hand down over her pussy. “Don't even think about it.”

  Faintly, from the back of her throat, she whispered, “I meant you.”

  “I’d die first.” She was hot under his palm. With a fingertip, he traced the elastic bands of her panties, his large hand a tight fit inside the jeans. Having his hand down her pants, and watching her aroused face in the mirror, he worried about losing his control.

  He slid his hand away, pleased by her whimper of disappointment, and jerked the pants down over her hips to expose her glorious ass.

  “You seemed to like the thong,” she said, her voice rough. “In the dressing room.”

  Stunned with lust, Liam took a step back to get a better view of the narrow band of red silk slicing her perfectly round ass in two. Smiling at him, her fear draining away from her face, Bev kicked off her shoes and each leg of the jeans, jiggling her hips and breasts with each move. He closed his eyes to get a grip. The thunder of his heartbeat in his ears and drowned out what she said next.

  “What?” he whispered.

  Turning to face him, she slid her hands up his chest to the top button of his shirt and began unfastening. “Your turn.”

  He barely heard her the second time. The sight of her backside in the mirror, pinched by inadequate scraps of red lace, drove all the blood out of his brain to a presently more essential organ. Vaguely he was aware of Bev sliding his shirt apart and moving the fabric down his shoulders. While he swiftly unhooked her bra and bent over to feel the weight of her breasts on his face, she tugged the last of his shirt off his wrists.

  She stepped around him to reverse their positions. Now she stood behind him, peering out from the side, her hands sliding up over his belly and chest, her pelvis grinding into his ass while they looked at each other in the mirror.

  Except Bev wasn't keeping her eyes on his face. Embarrassingly enough for him she was caressing his chest and watching the muscles ripple under his skin.

  “I thought you didn't like jocks,” he said. Even after a decade exposing his body in public he didn't like to be stared at. Too much of the pudgy kid he used to be lingered in his soul. His mother had always loved him unconditionally, but not the other kids, the P.E. teachers, his father—

  She flattened her palm over his abdomen, slid the tips of her fingers down the stripe of hair that led down under the waistband of his jeans, searching. “Like isn't the word,” she said, then wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed.

  With a groan he spun around, took her in his arms, and lifted her off the ground. “I know what you mean.” He carried her over to the bed and dropped her onto her back.

  She laughed up at him. “Glad you lift weights. No guy’s ever picked me up before.”

  “Why do you think I do it?” He leaned over and jerked the panties off her hips in a single motion. He heard her gasp of surprise but didn't slow down until he saw all her dark curls and a hint of rosy flesh underneath. Her feet lifted off the bed, held together by the panties, and her thighs fell apart right under his gaze while she freed herself from the fabric. He shoved her knees wider and kissed his way up her sweet inner thighs until he had nowhere to go but down.

  She thrashed under him. “Oh, God.”

  He lifted his head, slid his hands between her thighs to delicately work her folds apart. Savoring the sight, he dipped a finger inside her, drew the moisture up. “You are so beautiful,” he said quietly. Then licked her.

  She arched her back. “Oh—Liam!”

  His mouth sucked, his fingers teased.

  “Ahh—” Bev's words melted into high, breathy sounds that drove him on. His jeans were killing him. He didn't know how much longer he would last—just so it was longer than her. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. Such soft skin, so sweet—he licked and savored the taste of her, feeling her climb the steep slope to climax, pushing her higher—

  “Not yet!” She pushed his head away. “I want you inside.”

  “Easy.” He glanced up at her wild eyes, slid his fingers in and around, circled with his thumb. “Let it happen.”

  “But—not yet—”

  He lowered his head and stroked her long and hard with his tongue, and she cried out and gave up the fight, throwing back her head, digging her heels into the mattress, abandoning herself entirely.

  Liam barely stayed behind long enough to tear off his jeans and get a condom on. She fell back to earth, eyes unfocused, but then saw his cock hard in his hands and said, “Hurry.”

  “Coming,” he said roughly. Thank God.

  He climbed up her body, straddled her, and rubbed his cock against her belly, risking it just once because he couldn't help it, then bent down to kiss her while he took her with his hand and with one last, sweet agony, shoved himself deep inside her.

  She cried out. He felt the surge of satisfaction at biting the forbidden fruit, claiming it at last, accepting the inevitable mistake.

  The feel of her legs clamping around his hips shot him higher, and he thrilled in the sight of her giving in to him, not holding back, her voice gasping with hot
, noisy pleasure, and when she raked her nails across his back, the pain drove him further into madness.

  She was everywhere and everything, drowning him. He held on as long as he could, flying wildly with her to the limits of pleasure and pain, with this creature that was woman and girl and mysterious wild thing, until they both shattered.

  “Bev,” he gasped, not letting go, and they fell together.

  Chapter 15

  Bev stared at the ceiling through the strands of his blond hair. He was heavy and warm, his skin slick against hers, and as much as she wanted to stroke her hands down the muscles of his back and take more of him, the moment was fading. The fun was over and now it was time to pay. Any second now one of them would utter the lie, the lie that they hadn’t just ruined something, that sex wouldn’t change anything, that they would be able to do it again.

  She slid her hands forward from their caressing perch on his broad shoulders and pushed him away.

  “Sorry,” he said, collapsing next to her. He kept his arm tight over her belly, buried his face in the thrumming pulse at her throat, tickled her with feather kisses.

  Inside her chest a fist wrapped around her heart and squeezed. She closed her eyes, savoring another second of him.

  This could not go on. She wiggled away, avoiding his gaze. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He held on to her waist while she sat up on the edge of the bed, and she heard him inhale sharply. “You are so beautiful,” he said, tracing her spine with a fingertip. A large, gentle hand brushed her hair to the side, and suddenly his mouth was on her neck, below her ear, soft and hot.

  She wasn't strong enough. His lips teased the nerves under her ear and around her hairline while his fingers caressed her shoulder. “Lemons,” he whispered. “God, you smell so good.”

  He was like a shark mistaking the surfer for a seal, dragging her from shore, preparing to consume her whole in the second bite. Her mind flailed around for something to make him let go, let her stagger back to shore, maimed but alive.