“I can’t believe we did that,” Joe says. He’s picking up the money, sorting it. He tries to hand it to me, but I wave him off. “No way. This was my pleasure. You guys keep that.”
Navid grabs my hand and pumps it. “Seriously, thanks. It was … fucking cool.”
We all laugh. “Yeah, it was,” I agree.
And then Stella walks toward me with a wide grin on her face. I might have lost sight of her a time or two, but she’d been with me all the way, a presence in the back of my mind, holding me steady. With two strides, I reach her, gathering her up. She whoops in surprise, her legs wrapping around my waist.
“Well, hello to you too,” she says with a smile. “You did great.”
I kiss her hard and quick, then haul her up higher, get her comfortable as I head out of the park.
“You gonna carry me all the way,” she asks.
“Yep. Or as far as the nearest cab.” There’s one rolling our way. I flag him with one hand while I hold Stella up with the other. “Then we’re going home and making out. A lot. Later, I’ll cook you dinner.”
Her lids lower as her arms wrap around my damp neck. “I can get with that plan.”
Goddamn, I like this girl. I like my life when she’s in it. I hold onto her a little tighter. “Thought you might.”
Chapter Nineteen
Stella
* * *
As part of his “woo Stella” plan, John proposes we continue to introduce each other to something that the other hasn’t done before. “You know, take each other out of our comfort zones. Kind of like you did with me in the park.”
“Non-sexually speaking?” I ask over the breakfast John takes me to. Breakfast being Cereal Milk ice cream with cornflakes on top at Milk Bar. I have to give him points for creativity and cheek.
He bites his bottom lip before grinning. “You’re fixating, Button. I’m not talking about sex.”
I’m horny; sue me. For the past few weeks, John and I have spent our days together doing whatever catches our fancy. Our evenings are spent on the couch, kissing.
When I say kissing, I mean just that. No touches below the neck, just kissing. Soft, slow, wet kisses. Drugging kisses. Frantic kisses. Little pecks between laughing and talking. Suckling kisses. Deep ones that make my back arch and my body shiver.
We kiss until my lips are sore and my jaw aches. We kiss until my body is one big, hot throb of want and a single touch to my clit would set me off. But he never touches me there. And I don’t trail my hand down his firm chest to squeeze the cock I know is rock hard. Even when I know he’s as primed as I am. Even when he’s leaning into me, his big body trembling, his skin damp with sweat.
God, those moments get to me more than anything—seeing John a touch away from coming in his jeans. It’s hot as hell knowing how worked up I’ve gotten him. We’re torturing each other, taking it slow this way. But if feels so damn good. And there is something to his mad methods—we are learning each other. He’s getting under my skin, becoming necessary.
“What exactly haven’t you done before?” I ask him, a rough edge to my voice.
John drags a spoonful of ice cream over his tongue, a golden bit of cereal lingering on his lip before he licks it away. Only John could make eating ice cream look carnal without trying. “That’s a tough one. I’ve done a lot.” His green eyes glint. “But not with you.”
“Hmmm … My list of exciting experiences is fairly small.”
He winks at me, his expression cheerful. Today, he’s full-on rock star, vintage Patti Smith T-shirt faded to gray, black jeans that hug his tight thighs and hang low on his lean hips. “You ever ridden a motorcycle, Button?”
I pause, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Death on two wheels? Nope.”
John laughs. “It’s fun.”
“Do you know what happens if you crash?” I shudder dramatically. “Skin puppet.”
He leans in and nabs the ice cream on my spoon. “Mmm, creamy.”
“Eat your own!” I swat at him and scoop another bite.
“But I want your cream,” he says with a wink.
“It’s a good thing you’re hot, or I’d be making a gag face right now.”
“You love it, Stella Button. You know you do.” John rests his chin in his hand and watches me like I’m high entertainment. A thick leather band circles his wrist, drawing my attention to his forearms. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to stroke the silky skin on the bottom of a man’s forearm this much in my life. “I want to take you on a ride on my bike,” he says.
“Of course you have a motorcycle.”