She smiles at me, all sex-drunk and satisfied. “That was . . .” she begins, and I expect her to say amazing, but instead, she finishes with a cheeky, “. . . not too bad.”
Pretty sure her ability to knock me down a peg is another reason I like her so much. “You were pretty adequate too, when you blew me.”
I flop next to her, and she laughs softly from where she’s starfished on my bed as if she’s unable to move. Fine by me. I like her on my bed. I like her in my apartment. Don’t want her to leave at all, and that’s an unusual wish post-sex.
But I go with all these new feelings, having fun with Bellamy. “I might need you to suck me off again and try a few new things,” I suggest drily. “Just to see if anything improves.”
“I was going to say the same. You could benefit from a few more times between my thighs,” she says.
I turn my head, glancing at her, smirking. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Sign me up.”
Scooting closer, I wrap an arm around her shoulders, then plant a soft kiss on her cheekbone. This post-orgasm moment is so damn necessary, and I don’t want it to end, but something nags at me, so I put it out there. “Is this going to affect things with us?”
“This being orgasms? More orgasms? Or your post-orgasmic cuddling?” she counters.
I will never be a step ahead of her. “All three. Will all three affect things?”
“Things being our bet, you mean?”
“Yes.”
She shrugs. “Why would they? We can have orgasms on one hand and a bet on the other.”
But there’s a bit of an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before. Is she bothered I asked? Still, I needed to ask. We have a working relationship and, it seems, a bedroom one. Better to navigate these twin tracks with some honesty.
“I only ask because I thought you didn’t want to complicate things,” I say, reminding her of the words she threw my way the night she walked out of Spencer’s bar.
She smiles slyly. “This is already complicated.”
“That is true.”
“And life is complicated. Orgasms don’t have to be,” she says, patting my chest. That sharp edge to her tone is gone, replaced by acceptance. But then she scoots away, and I’m sure she’s about to make a fast exit.
Instead, she props her head in her hand. “Is this because of Anna?”
Ahh. I figured she’d come up eventually. I don’t like to talk about her with women who share my bed. And yet, I want to tell Bellamy. But how to start is the question. One I haven’t grappled with before—maybe because I haven’t reached the point where someone deserved to know.
“We don’t have to talk about it, Easton,” Bellamy offers. “It’s just that your grandmother showed me her picture. I know from my podcast research that you started Carpe Diem with her. Beyond that, I haven’t asked because I didn’t want to pry.” She sits, scans my room for clothes, I presume. But the thought of her leaving is horrifying. I have no choice but to tackle her, drag her close.
“Don’t go. Please.” My request borders on a plea and my tone makes that clear.
She softens in my arms. “Make it worth my while to stay.”
I’ve never met someone like her. Someone who asks for what she wants. Who knows her worth. Bellamy Hart’s attitude is wildly appealing, and it unlocks my story.
“I was with her for three years. I was going to propose,” I say. These are the details that aren’t available online in my bio.
“Oh wow. That’s intense.”
“We’d just started Carpe Diem together. We were making preps for one of our first parties. She had some lights to pick up. Those flickering ones that you hang all over a window?”
“Window curtain lights, they’re called,” Bellamy supplies. “They make everything very romantic.” Her voice is soft and wistful.
“I was supposed to pick them up at a party supply company, but then I got last-minute tickets to a baseball game with my friends. My friend TJ’s brother pitches for the San Francisco Cougars, and they were in town playing the Comets. Anna insisted I go, and she went to pick up the lights instead.” A pang of guilt lances through me as that day flashes before my eyes, the memories sharp and clear.
Bellamy frowns, sadness flickering in her gaze. “And what happened?”
I take a deep, fortifying breath. “She was killed by a driver who was texting.”
Bellamy pinches the bridge of her nose, then lets go. A tear slides down her face, and she reaches for my biceps, squeezing. “I’m so sorry.”
“She died right away. On impact, thank God.”
“Thank God,” she echoes.
“And after her death . . . well, it was just . . . it was really hard,” I admit, remnants of the pain resurfacing as I tell her details only my closest friends and family know. “I kind of checked out for a while.”