by Vicki James
“I mean, I have an excuse for being sexually frustrated,” I confessed with a small smile. “What’s the deal with you, Heat Magazine’s hottest man of the year?”
Presley scowled at me, confusion taking over until I signalled to his twitching fingers.
“They say when you peel the labels off your beer bottles, it means you haven’t had sex in a while,” I explained. “And you’re frustrated.”
“No sexual frustration here.”
“Shame.” Real shame.
Presley focused on his bottle, his own smile lingering on the edges of his mouth. “Sorry, Cherry.”
“For what? Getting laid?”
He shrugged a shoulder and glanced up at me. “That, and turning up here out of the blue. I know we promised each other that wouldn’t happen.”
“Promises were made to be broken, Pres.”
“Not mine.”
I hitched in a breath and pushed my bottle to my lips in a hurry.
“I didn’t know who else to go to,” he said. “The shit hit the fan this morning. I lost it. It’s been a long three years, you know? Too long.”
“You’re not enjoying it?”
“It’s the ultimate orgy,” he said as he stared at the bottle in his hands. “Do you know how quickly you can get tired during a fucking orgy?” He tilted his head again and looked up at me through sad eyes, one side of his hair falling free.
“What’s wrong, Presley?”
“I wish I knew.” He shrugged. “I just thought it would be… more. You know? I thought it would be more than this. The work hours are crazy, which I don’t mind. I live for the music. I live for the beat. I live for those drums. I love women.” That one stung like a direct punch to the gut. “They seem to like me.”
“You think?” I chuckled pathetically.
“I don’t pay for shit anymore. Nothing. And it’s only been three years. I never have to buy a drink, which means I’m never having to watch how much drink I consume. I never have to buy clothes. Goddamn fashion labels are offering me six figures to wear one of their leather jackets instead of my own. Six. Fucking. Figures. But I can’t take it because I wouldn’t be me without this on my back.” He grabbed the collar of his leather, tugged on it twice and then dropped his hand.
“I love that jacket.”
“Well, you practically own it. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Is my name still in there?” It was the one question I really was desperate to have an answer to.
“You’re there… always at my back. Everyone else is either shouting orders at me, offering me contracts I don’t want to look at, passing me drinks, drugs, or their pussy, and I just needed some fucking peace. I needed an escape. I needed…”
“To be home for a while.”
“You. I needed you.”
There went my heart again.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Have you ever watched Notting Hill?” he asked suddenly, throwing me off course. He leaned farther forward, rocking back and forth. “There’s this bit in there, where the woman…”
“Julia Roberts.”
“Yeah, her. She escapes to the guy’s…”
“Hugh Grant’s.”
Presley glared at me—he had the ability to warn me to shut up with just a simple, seductive narrowing of his eyes.
He smirked. “Hugh kinda lets Julia hang out at his for a bit, and for one day, she does normal shit, like take a bath. Eat cake. Watch a movie. Disappear from the media shit storm that she’s caught up in.”
I couldn't help it. My smile broke free like he’d just proposed, even though I knew I was about to march straight back into the eye of the storm and would possibly spend the next ten years of my life licking my self-inflicted wounds. There was a certain satisfied feeling in knowing that I—the girl who’d pined desperately for the hot boy in school—happened to be the one person he now wanted to escape to. The place he called home.
Or maybe he knew I was the only mug willing to drop my life for him and make him happy? Hugh Grant was a fucking mug in that film. Is that what Presley was trying to tell me?
Either way, I was taking it. Just like I’d taken it three years before. Just like I’d probably take it again in ten years if he decided to offer.
“I can be your Hugh,” I told him. “You can hide here.”
Presley’s shoulders relaxed instantly, and when his eyes met mine, I saw the silent thank you he was throwing my way. I only hoped that, while I took pity on him, he took pity on me.
On my weak little heart, too.
Chapter Nine
His jacket was strewn over the back of my sofa like it lived there.
With me.
With us.
In this apartment.
One happy little make-believe family.
Presley was leaning back on the same sofa. His body slouched down as he rested one leg over the opposite knee. He was watching the TV screen intently, absorbed in A Few Good Men and sipping on his fourth bottle of Peroni, while I just found myself alternating between looking at his jacket and his strong jaw. He was far too beautiful to be sitting in the middle of my mediocre world. He wasn’t meant to be here. This wasn’t the way things were meant to go.
Fuck, I hated living in denial.
Denial was an ugly black hole, filled with fog and confusion, but it felt warm being there for a while. You felt safe until someone shone a light on all your stinking truths and exposed denial for what it was: a dismal, barren land that made you want to choke on the smoke it produced from keeping your bullshit alight.
“If you stare any harder, I’m going to think you want a closer look,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes off the movie.
“This is the stare of a concerned friend. Not a sexual predator.”
“Liar.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“I can make you full of me, too, if you’d like?” He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine.
“You can’t talk to me like that anymore,” I warned him.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” I held up my free hand and quickly downed the rest of my beer. “Do you want another drink?”
I didn’t give him time to answer before I scurried out of my chair, making short, sharp, snappy steps to the kitchenette to avoid having that particular conversation.
Presley West didn’t like being kept waiting. Not the old version, or the new.
When I’d plucked two beers out of the fridge, stood tall, and turned around again, his body was taking up the small space that led from the kitchen to the living room. My eyes drifted down to his forearms, which were folded over one another and pressed against his chest.
“Why do you seem so different?” He scowled.
“Different?”
“Colder. Flatter. No spark.”
“I still have my spark,” I assured him, turning away and dropping the bottles to the counter surface, quickly uncapping them.
“Bullshit. Is it because of me?”
“Please.” I scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.” It’s all because of you, Presley. Everything I feel is because of you.
“I didn’t come here for flattery, Cherry. I get enough of that. I came here for your honesty. I’ll ask you one more time. Are you different now because of me?”
“No, Presley, for fuck’s sake.”
There was a moment’s pause, and I thought I’d silenced him, but his breath was soon against my ear, the warmth of his body not far behind.
“When you lie, you press your legs together, and you rock on your feet. When you lie, you can’t look me in the eye, and your voice breaks. When you lie, you don’t sound like you.”
“You smell like a brewery,” I said coldly, ignoring his close proximity, his shitty analysis, and the way it felt to have him so close. I busied my hands by reaching over for the dishcloth so I could wipe down the kitchen worktops.
He reached out to press his palm down on
my knuckles, stopping me in my tracks. That single touch seared my skin. He didn’t smell like a brewery. He smelt like Heaven in jeans and a white T-shirt. He smelt like a rebel dream I shouldn’t want to chase to the horizon.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered.
I dropped my gaze to his hand, staring at it as my breaths became heavier. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Is it so bad?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“It feels pretty good to me.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“No one but us.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the one thing I’ve got left that’s completely separate from that goddamn circus I live in.”
“You don’t have me. Remember? We made a deal.”
“No…” He leaned in even closer until his lips brushed my ear, making my skin burn. “You made that shitty deal, Cherry. Not me. You were the one too scared to deal with the after.”
“And you were the one who told me you wouldn’t ever be back after you left for London. What did you expect me to do? Sit around waiting?”
“I gave you other options, and what did you do in return?”
“Don’t…”
“You walked out of the door.”
I pushed him away, but before I could look at him, he’d turned his back on me and was walking through my apartment without a care in the world.
“You got a bath in this place?”
“What?” I snapped, scowling as I watched his retreating form highlight all the muscles in his broad back.
He spun on his feet, stared right at me, and continued to walk backwards. “I’m taking a soak.”
“Oh, are you now?” My brows rose high. “Sure. Make yourself at home. Why not?”
“Was going to anyway.” He winked. “Let me know if that spark comes back between now and me leaving. I’d really like to have a conversation with that cherry bomb who ruined me three years ago.”
Then he was gone, disappearing around the corner, leaving me standing there with nothing but my open mouth and galloping heart.
His place felt a solar system away on the tenth floor of a fairly new complex that sat on the outskirts of Hollings Hill.
Presley tossed his keys to the side—I had no idea where they landed. I was too busy looking out of the huge window that took up most of the far wall and showcased an inspiring view that went on for miles and miles and miles. It was open plan. A brown leather L-shaped sofa took up the wall to my right. To my left was a simple, glossy white kitchen with a breakfast bar jutting out, and two shiny black stools tucked neatly underneath it.
“How do you afford this place on your own?”
“I don’t.”
I turned to him and raised a brow.
“Dead dad—mum with a selfish streak that rubs up against her guilt chip.” Presley gestured to the place around him. “Abracadabra.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“Shit happens.” He swallowed subtly.
“Doesn’t stop it stinking.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those types.”
“What?” I grinned.
“Those who think they can dig through someone’s dirt to analyse the psychology of it all.”
“I don’t even understand my own dirt. I don’t have time to waste trying to save everyone else.”
“What dirt you got on you?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those types.”
His grin broke free. “Touché.”
“Yes. You can. You can touché me here…” I pointed to my lips and waited.
He was next to me in a breath, slipping his hand between my legs and cupping me firmly. “What about if I touché you here?”
Presley searched my eyes with an intensity that reached right down into my soul, making my stomach contract and my skin ripple.
“You really think you can break me before I break you tonight?” he asked quietly.
“I can have fun trying.” I grabbed the lapels of his jacket, curled my fingers into the leather, and tugged him closer. “Break me, but don’t ruin me, okay?”
“You’re not that fragile, Cherry.”
“You’d be surprised.” I pushed his jacket back over his shoulders, looking up into his heated eyes. “Now would be a good time to kiss me.”
Presley’s tongue swept through my waiting lips, licking and flicking me into a dirty low moaning mess of melting limbs. I’d never been kissed that way before. So hungrily. So unashamedly. So considerately.
The thud of his jacket hitting the floor had me moving my hand to his chest, and all I could feel beneath my skin were steely muscles protecting a rapidly beating heart.
His heart was beating that way because of me.
I smiled against his lips, my eyes still closed, and whispered between kisses, “You’re so going to lose tonight.”
I was still standing in place with my mouth agape when I heard the water begin to run into the bathtub, and Presley’s cocky, self-assured whistle ring out around the apartment.
He was whistling to the tune of Livin’ On a Prayer.
Bon fucking Jovi.
That weasel.
“Oh, you’re so gonna lose again, Presley. Game on.”
Chapter Ten
Go to him, the devil on my shoulder urged me.
Be careful, Tess, the angel warned.
Live your life. This may be the last chance you ever get to touch him.
Temptation is difficult to resist, yes, but you can do thi—
“Oh, shut the fuck up, angel,” I hissed, marching across the apartment in a few strides until I was standing outside the bathroom door. He’d left it ajar, so there was the smallest crack for me to peek through—the master of the tease. I grabbed the handle and leaned in to listen to him whistling as he tested the water and swirled it around with his hand.
“You coming in or what?” he asked suddenly. “Shit, these bubbles are everywhere.”
“What will happen if I come in?”
“That’s entirely up to you, Cherry.” The smirk in his voice made all my clothes want to drop to the floor.
“Are you going to behave?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I want you to stop answering my questions with another question.”
His throaty chuckle floated over to me before I heard him sink into the bath. “I’ll behave.”
“Are you covered up?”
“Fuck, it’s hot.”
“Presley!”
“You have no idea how it feels to dip your balls into boiling hot bubbles, Cherry. Give me a minute or you’re gonna walk in and see me cupping my balls in my hand and gasping like the way I made you gasp when I had my face buried in between your arse cheeks.”
“Holy mother of Bryan Adams,” I whispered to myself, carefully dropping my head to the door as quietly as I could manage. It definitely wasn’t safe for me to go in there.
“Okay, you can come in now.”
That’s probably when I should have turned and walked away.
I pushed the door open and let it bang against the white tiles of the wall. My eyes went everywhere; over his broad shoulders, tanned skin, perfect chest, ridiculously ripped stomach, down to his toned, muscly thighs before eventually rising back up to his face, where that cheeky smirk the world didn’t get to see too often was aimed directly at me. Presley had scraped his hair back into one of those man bun things I usually hated. Topknot wankers were a pet peeve of mine, but of course, this man in front of me rocked it like he’d invented it. A stray section of his hair had fallen from the front, making him look like sex in a bathtub.
“Want to get in?” He arched a brow.
Leaning against the doorframe, I folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t think the two of us would fit in there.”
“Feel free to sit on me.”
“I wouldn’t want to squash
… things.”
“Pretty sure we were created to slot together perfectly.”
“You love trying to make me feel uncomfortable, don’t you?”
Presley let his head fall back against the edge of the tub, his body sliding down farther before he rolled his face in my direction. “Nope. I just didn’t realise we had to pretend we’d never fucked when I saw you again.”
“Fucked? Nice.”
“Whatever you want to call it, it was still beautiful to me. Deal with it.”
I inhaled slowly, which forced my nipples to push against my T-shirt and my body to tingle. There was nothing I could say to that.
“Do you regret it?” he asked softly.
“Sometimes.”
“Ouch.” He winced. “My ego.”
“Sorry.”
“Why? Why do you regret it?”
“You know why.”
“Say it out loud for me because I’ve lived a lot since I was last with you and sometimes, I think I remember it all wrong. Sometimes I think that as time passed, I’ve morphed it into this thing that it wasn’t—into something bigger. Something I was there for, but you obviously weren’t, because if you’d have experienced what I experienced, there was no way you could have left me the next morning.”
“Is this why you’re back? To get validation?”
He shrugged beneath the surface of the water. “All I know is that as soon as my manager got me out of that police station earlier, I couldn’t stay with him. I couldn’t go back to my band. I couldn’t go to the record label. I couldn’t go to anyone but you. Everyone else either calls me a dick or sucks my dick. You’re the only one who could help me today. You’re the only one who’s ever felt real.”
His honesty shouldn’t have been such a surprise considering that that’s all he’d ever been with me, and nothing made my resolve crumble more than knowing every word he spoke would always be true.
Walking over to him, I slammed the toilet seat down and sat on top of it, leaning forward and resting my arms over the side of the bathtub to be closer to him. My fingers swirled around the bubbles near his shoulders—those shoulders—and I focused on them while his heated gaze made my cheeks flame.
