“Let’s go home,” he says, simple as that.
* * *
We wind up wrapped in sheets in his bed, an enormous pizza between us, and the cheesiest horror movie I have ever been subjected to playing on TV.
“They are not about to go toward that sound!” I protest, waving at the screen.
Beside me, Lark laughs and tucks me harder against his side. “It wouldn’t be a proper horror movie if humans didn’t act like they’d had their brains surgically removed,” he points out.
I elbow him playfully, and he leans over to tickle me in retribution, which makes me squirm away, although not before I grab another slice of pizza. “You’re the worst,” I tell him, then take an enormous bite. It makes a faint string of cheese melt down my chin, and Lark arches an eyebrow, watching me, amused.
“I’m the worst? You’re the one getting grease on my sheets.”
I flush, and glance down, worried he’s right, but he only laughs.
“Kidding. Anyway, if we do stain them, more reason to get the maid service in tomorrow.” He shrugs and leans back on the bed, stretching out, unconcerned.
After a moment more of hesitation, still a little paranoid I’ve spilled pizza sauce on his sheets, even though he clearly doesn’t mind paying to get them cleaned, I follow his lead and nestle back up beside him, just in time for the last remaining virgin on screen to be eaten by a monster.
I groan. “See? I told her not to follow that noise! Why do the women always die first? Women definitely would be the smarter ones in an actual apocalypse.”
Lark snorts. “But then how else would we motivate our leading male to go save the day? Clearly the ladies are just there as props for his growth.” Heavy sarcasm drips from his tone.
I smirk at him. “Someone’s a closet feminist.”
“There’s nothing closet about it.” He wraps an arm around my waist and drags me even closer to him, until I’m practically in his lap, pizza and all. I protest, but he ignores me and kisses my neck, my shoulder. “Women are the better half of the species, I’ve long since accepted this. And I treat them as such.” With another wicked grin, he reaches around me to press his lips to mine.
I sink back against him, a pleasant warmth flooding my belly, all the way out to my limbs.
I’ve never done something like this with a guy. Just hung out in bed and watched cheesy movies. There’s something about Lark that not only excites me, but also makes me feel like I can relax around him. Truly be myself. I’ve never felt this way with another guy—certainly not with Norman, or any of the other people I dated briefly here and there.
I can’t help but wonder… maybe this time, things really will be different. In a good way.
9
Cassidy
The next day, Lark refuses to let me work. “You just spent weeks breaking your back to meet all those deadlines,” he tells me, in between nipping and licking his way down my body that morning.
It’s my new favorite way to wake up, I have to admit.
“Today, you’re taking some time off,” he insists. “Not just for yourself. For me too.” He winks. Then he pushes his face between my thighs, and that pretty much settles it.
After a long, slow, languorous wake-up—which involves several failed attempts to actually make it out of bed—we finally get dressed and head out of the apartment. Lark won’t tell me where he’s taking me, but there are some clues. For one, the big cooler of drinks he packs, along with a blanket. For another, the towels I spot rolled up in his trunk, beside which he tucks everything.
We live near the shore, but I never actually go to the beach much. I mean to, especially in summer, but it’s always such a production to do it—and I’m always so busy with work—that I rarely get around to it.
Which is why it surprises me when Lark drives us further up the coast than I’ve ventured before, past all the familiar and touristy beaches that I’m used to visiting.
“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” is all he’ll tell me, whenever I ask.
The further we drive from the city, the fresher the air outside feels. I roll it down, and we both sing along, out of tune, to the songs playing on the radio. Every time I steal a glance over at him, I catch him doing the same to me, and we both laugh, hearts lighter than I think they’ve ever been. At least I know mine is.
When he rests his hand on the gear shift—because of course his fancy BMW is manual, and he goes on at length about how much better they are to drive and handle—I let my hand rest over his, and he turns his palm up, laces his fingers through mine.