by Ember Cole
“Whatcha thinking?” he asks.
I’m never ashamed of sex—never—and I don’t want to start now.
Instead of answering him, I survey the carnage of my living room. There’s clothing everywhere, and my bra hangs over a lampshade like a bad Christmas decoration. I spot my shirt in the fruit basket with one arm yanked through the neck hole and a banana poking through the other sleeve.
The summer-school term paper I just finished is scattered across the floor like an upended deck of playing cards, and my sugar bowl is lying sideways in a powdery pile.
It makes me weirdly proud. “We kinda trashed the place.”
Adam follows my gaze and frowns. “Shit. What a mess.”
I giggle, not too worried about it. “Looks like we fucked the table about two feet closer to the kitchen.”
“I hope we didn’t break anything important.”
“Just my dead grandmother’s antique vase.”
His look of horror is too much, and I bust out laughing.
“I’m kidding, I swear.” I grab his chin and plant a kiss along his jawline. “Don’t worry, we didn’t do too much damage.”
His face relaxes, but his body doesn’t. He does kiss me, though, and it’s the softest, sweetest, most lingering kiss of my life.
Then he stands up and heads for the bathroom. I wrap myself more tightly in the blanket as he goes to wash his hands or do whatever the hell guys do in the bathroom after sex. I’ve never really known.
A few seconds later, he strides back into the living room like a goddamn Chippendales dancer taking the stage. God, this man is ripped.
He passes the sofa and heads for my dining room table, then sets the toppled vase upright. “Let me help clear some of this up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Nah, I insist.” He resurrects the sugar bowl, scraping some of the contents back into it. “The colonel drilled it into me that you always clean up any messes you help make.”
“Yes, sir!” I wriggle one hand out of the blanket and snap off a salute.
Adam laughs and bends down to grab my skirt out of a pile of spilled sugar on the floor. Damn, the man has killer shoulders. And arms. And—well, pretty much everything.
“I feel like kind of a lazy ass watching you tidy up,” I tell him as I snuggle deeper into the green blanket. “But I’m really enjoying the view.”
He shoots me a grin and does a hammy biceps flex as he snags my bra off the lampshade. The turquoise lace is a dainty contrast to those massive, manly hands, and I shiver at the memory of having those hands all over my body.
“You really don’t need to clean,” I tell him.
“Quiet, woman!” He barks the words with a smile, so I know he’s being goofy. “Just sit there and bask in the glow of my manly muscles.”
I laugh and do exactly that. Did I seriously just have sex with a guy built like a freakin’ Greek god? Everything about him is perfect, from those chiseled forearms to the muscular curve of his ass. I can’t believe I’ve had my hands all over him.
I can’t believe I want to do it again.
I totally slept with that guy! My subconscious does a little happy dance, throwing in an extra shimmy for effect.
I start to smile, then catch myself.
I totally slept with that guy.
A niggle of self-doubt creeps into my head, and my smile starts to falter. I shake it off as Adam folds my top and sets it on the back of the couch with the rest of my stuff.
“You’re missing a knob.”
I shake off my heavy thoughts and stare at my bra. “Huh?”
“Your cabinets.” He gestures toward the kitchen, and I admire his forearms again. It takes me a second to look past them to my cabinets.
“Yeah, it was like that when we moved in.” I fold my arm on the back of the couch and rest my chin on it. Naked male housekeeping should definitely be a thing. Adam could make a killing.
“It doesn’t really bug me, the no-knob thing,” I tell him. “I can still open the cupboard open just fine.”
“How about that patch of missing paint up there?” He points to the ceiling, and I swing my gaze to the spot above the sink.
“That was my fault. I was making salsa and stuck a spoon in the blender. It, uh, didn’t end well.”
“I can see that.” He bends down to pick up his jeans, which he folds on the arm of the couch. Nice ass.
“There was glass everywhere, and tomato goo.” I grin at the memory of Kymber running around shrieking like we were under attack. “I got salsa on the floor, salsa on the ceiling, salsa in my cleavage—”
“I like the sound of that.” He shoots me a grin as he straightens one of my dining room chairs. “You’re making me hungry.”
I totally forgot I was famished before we started humping like bunnies. Adam rounds the couch again, and I laugh as he drops onto the cushion beside me, making us both bounce. He tugs at the edge of the blanket and frees both my breasts. With a playful snarl, he buries his face between them, growling about salsa tits and how he’d like to dunk his chip.
“I tried to scrub the salsa off the ceiling,” I continue, giggling as I grab the back of his head. “But the paint started peeling and—”
“No problem.” He comes up for air and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I can fix the ceiling. I’ll even get you some new knobs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. On one condition.” He plants a kiss at the edge of my mouth, then tucks my hair behind one ear.
I wiggle the blanket back around my shoulders and give him an expectant look. “What do I have to do to get the knobs?”
“Have dinner with me.”
I blink. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” He tucks a different strand of hair behind my other ear and looks into my eyes. “It’s the meal that comes after lunch, but before dessert. Sometimes people get dressed up and play footsie under the table.”
“Dinner,” I repeat, still sounding like an utter moron.
And this is sounding like a date. My heart speeds up, and my palms turn clammy. I rub them across the green fleece, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
You both agreed this was just for fun. That this couldn’t be anything. And now you’re sitting here considering making dinner plans with the guy?
Why did I have to pick Adam to be my grudge fuck? Why not an asshole I didn’t care about? No, I had to go and choose a nice guy. The kind of guy who fixes things and makes dinner plans and calls when he says he will. Totally what I’ve been looking for, right?
It is. He is. But now is so not the right time for this to be happening. I’m sick of jumping from relationship to relationship, never knowing if my motivations are sound or if I’m just desperate. And with the day I’ve had, I wouldn’t trust myself to choose a houseplant right now, let alone make life decisions. This was supposed to be a fling, for crying out loud. We both agreed to that, and I’m hardly in the right headspace to go changing my mind.
Which means…
Congratulations, dumbass. You just used the world’s nicest guy like a kitchen sponge.
My breathing picks up speed, and claustrophobia closes around me, even though I’m sitting on my own damn sofa with the walls plenty far away. What’s happening here?
Stick to your guns. Stick to the plan. Don’t turn back into the flaky bimbo who starts naming your future children with a guy who doled out a few mind-blowing orgasms.
Even if in a few months you know he’s exactly who you’ll want to be with.
If Adam hears any of the crazy thoughts running through my head, he doesn’t show it. Maybe that’s because he’s picked up his phone and is looking at the screen. “Looks like the repair guys finished the job,” he mutters. “Probably need to take down that sign soon.”
“Sure,” I murmur. My mouth has gone dry, and my voice sounds weak.
Adam’s still not looking at me. Still hasn’t realized I’m freaking the fuck out. “I’m starving,” he
says. “You?”
He meets my eyes and gives me a puzzled look. Does he know something’s up? That crazy thoughts are parading through my head like a herd of dancing elephants?
I nod numbly, not sure I can form a proper sentence. My brain keeps hammering at me, keeps telling me I’m doing it again. I’m stumbling blindfolded from one relationship into another without pausing for breath.
I can’t do this. I can’t let myself get so caught up in the afterglow that I start making plans with my heart or my hormones instead of with my head.
Adam gives me a quizzical look, but says nothing. Just slides an arm around me and plants a kiss along my hairline as he picks up his phone again. “You mind if I order pizza? I promise this won’t count as dinner. We can do that next week or something.”
I nod like a robot, agreeing to pepperoni and sausage and a whole bunch of stuff that doesn’t really register. I can hardly hear anything over the voices raging in my head.
You’re a bitch. You’re such a bitch.
I come back to earth, conscious of Adam’s deep brown eyes watching me. There’s that puzzled look again, a crease between his dark brows. It’s a look that says he’s figured out something’s wrong. That not everything in my head is covered in a post-sex peachy glow.
I swallow hard, terrified by what I’ve just done. And what I’m about to do.
His eyes switch from playful to guarded, and he sets his phone down. I don’t know if he’s read my mind or just my face. Either way, he knows. He can see I’ve just jumped the train to Crazy Town.
“What?” he says slowly. “What’s wrong?”
8
ADAM
Dammit.
The instant I see the dazed look in Bekka’s eyes, I know her wheels are turning. And I know they’re rolling straight down the hill and into a stinking heap of regret.
“What’s wrong?” I repeat when it becomes clear she’s not going to answer.
She looks at me and I know. I know.
“Bekka.” Maybe I can stop the train. “Stay with me here—”
“You should go.”
I shut my mouth and stare at her. How the hell did we get from “best sex of my life” to “let’s order pizza” to “get the fuck out of my apartment”?
Never mind, I know.
This is Bekka we’re talking about, self-proclaimed queen of the emotional pendulum.
I’ve known her personally for a little more than an hour, but it didn’t take a lot to figure that out, even without her telling me as much. Her flair for the dramatic is one of the things I dig about her, but right now I’m not digging it so much.
“Hey, we don’t have to do pizza. I haven’t finished ordering yet.”
It’s a dumb thing to say, and I know that before the words leave my mouth. It’s not the fucking pizza that’s the problem here. What the hell was I thinking yammering on about date nights and pizza parties when I know damn well what this is between us?
Sex. Just sex.
Nothing more.
That’s what we agreed, right? What I signed on for before I let my brain get all fogged up from the afterglow.
She still hasn’t said a word, so I start again. “Look, Bekka. How about we just calm down and—”
Her eyes flash, and I shut my fucking mouth. That line bombed big-time in the elevator, so why would it work now?
“How about a granola bar?” I throw that one out there with a shaky smile, hoping the humor might help, but it’s clear it won’t. Not now, not when she’s this keyed up.
“I’m—I’m not hungry,” she says softly. “Not anymore.”
Is that a fucking metaphor, or has she seriously lost her appetite? I honest to God can’t tell. “You were starving an hour ago.”
“Well, now I’m not.”
Okay.
I rake my hand through my hair and try to think of what else to say. I’m not good at this shit. Sure, I can comfort a woman with my dick, but with feelings? I’m out of my depth here.
We stare at each other like we’re trying to figure out the next move in a chess game. I’m sure I look like a fucking idiot sitting naked on her couch while she’s wrapped up tight in her blanket, but I get the feeling she’s not in the mood to share. Not the blanket, and definitely not whatever’s going on behind those sea-glass eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She looks down at the blanket, not meeting my eyes anymore. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what?” I’m not totally clueless, but I need her to spell it out. “Have sex with me, or order me to evacuate immediately afterward?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She bites her lip and looks miserable. “I—I thought we made it clear that we weren’t getting involved. That this isn’t the right time for dating or—or whatever.”
She’s right. She’s completely right. I stupidly thought something shifted somewhere in the middle of the best sex of my life, but clearly that was just me. Bile tastes sour as it surges up the back of my throat, but I’m determined not to let her see my reaction. “No, you were clear.”
“I just thought—the pizza and the dinner and—” She stops and shakes her head, looking so unsure of herself that I consider throwing her a rope.
But she’s throwing me under the goddamn bus, so why should I bother?
I stand up and grab my pants, then remember that I never found my underwear. I toss the jeans aside and go hunting for them, grateful to have a task that doesn’t involve staring at Bekka like some pathetic, lovesick teenager.
Did my boxers get kicked under the table or something?
I stomp to the other side of the couch, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us. To keep myself away so I don’t reach for her again like a desperate idiot.
“I mean, I just broke up with someone,” she’s saying, though the words are just a dull echo in my head. “I wasn’t trying to lead you on or—”
“Have you seen my boxers?”
She doesn’t answer, which is beside the point. I just need her to stop talking. To stop acting like a longtime girlfriend trying to let me down easy. This was just a fling. I knew that going in. She was totally clear, and I’m the moron who started thinking something changed.
I pace around the living room, forgetting for a moment what I’m searching for. An article of clothing or my dignity?
You knew better. You goddamn knew better, and then you went and fucked it up.
“I think I just got carried away,” she’s saying, and I can’t bring myself to look at her. “You were so sweet and kind and—”
Goddammit, where did my underwear go?
I catch a glimpse of Bekka’s face on my way between the couch and the dining room table, and something twists in my chest. She looks sad and confused, and part of me wants to run back to the couch and wrap my arms around her.
But I don’t.
“Seriously, where the hell did they go?”
The sharpness of my words snaps her out of the trace, and she looks at me. “Where did what go?”
“My fucking boxers.”
Bekka bites her lip and pulls the blanket tighter around herself. “You seem pissed. Are you pissed?”
“Nope.”
“Pissed” isn’t the right word. “Hurt” is more like it, but there’s no way in hell I’d say that. What kind of dumbass gets butthurt when the girl he’s known less than half a day says she wants nothing more than a roll in the hay?
Whatever kind of dumbass that is, that’s me.
And she’s not just any girl.
“Look, it’s no big deal.” I drag a hand through my hair again, trying to convince myself more than her. “I told you to use me. You used me. End of story.”
I’m not looking at her. Can’t look at her.
I know damn well I’m not equipped for a casual fling. Not with a girl like Bekka, at least. But I’d gone and done it anyway because she looked like she needed it and I wanted her and I’m an idiot.
“You said to take
what I needed,” she says softly. “And I think I got confused about what that was.”
Yeah, me too. “It’s fine, Bekka.” I manage a tight little laugh. “Everything’s cool.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Now where are my goddamn boxers?”
I look up in time to see her wince, then get up slowly. She keeps the blanket pulled tight around her breasts, and I wonder if I could change the course of this conversation if I tugged it loose and kissed her like I did before. Like I did in the elevator, or when we first walked into this apartment.
But too much has changed since then. In just the tiny span of a few minutes. It’s plain as day on her face.
“You’re sure you aren’t mad?”
I shake my head and avert my eyes again. “I just hate it when I lose something.”
My underwear. My dignity. The hottest girl I’ve ever met.
Fuck it.
Screw the boxers, I need to get out of here.
I push past her and round the couch and grab my jeans off the floor. I unfold them with a snap, which makes Bekka wince again. “Forget it,” I mutter, tugging on the jeans minus anything underneath. I miss the right leg hole somehow and end up looking like a guy who’s never dressed himself before. I can’t meet her eyes.
She tries again. “I— Look, you’re a really nice guy.”
Is there anything worse than being told you’re a nice guy?
“—but I just don’t see us dating,” she finishes.
That’s worse.
Because obviously she saw us fucking. So did I, but then I saw more. I thought she did, too, but I was wrong.
It sucks to be wrong.
I zip up my jeans, nearly castrating myself before remembering I’m going commando. I do up the button with more care, then grab my T-shirt off the arm of the couch.
She’s gone quiet, and she sits back down on the edge of the sofa. She huddles there in her blanket tent, not saying anything. She fiddles with a thread on the hem, not looking at me anymore. I know I should say something, but I’m not sure what. So I shut the fuck up and find the rest of my shit.
Neither of us says a word as I pull on my socks and shoes. I can see Bekka looking miserable from the corner of my eye, so I order myself not to look at her.
