His eyes squint. “Why are you feeding me my own lines?”
“So that’s a yes?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m having fun with you.”
I rise on my toes, grateful for some semblance of an answer so I can finally stop wondering, and I press my mouth against his again.
There’s nothing wrong with having fun.
Nothing at all.
“We’d be the worst couple, right?” I ask between kisses, opting to avoid the question, “What kind of couple do you think we’d make?”
His hands slide down my sides, cupping my ass, and then he lifts me to the counter, beside the sink of dirty dishwater. A moment later, his fingertips slip beneath the hem of my shirt, brushing against my stomach.
Our eyes lock as he peels my shirt over my head and throws it to the side. Sutter’s mouth presses hard against the bend of my neck, and for a moment, I almost expect him to bite me.
“The worst …” I continue. “Can you even imagine?”
Pressing his hips into me, I release an anticipatory sigh when I sense the hard outline of his cock.
He’s hard. For me.
He wants me.
And I want him.
Oh, god, do I want him …
“Even if we did … you know …” I start to say as his fingers tug at a bra strap. He lets it fall down my bare shoulder, kissing my hot flesh and leaving pricks of goosebumps everywhere he touches. “It would complicate things … being roommates and all.”
I tilt my head back as he unfastens my bra and toys with my nipples. First his fingers and then his tongue, swirling, taking his time.
“Melrose?” The way he says my name, low and gravelly in his throat, an implication of animalistic need, makes my sex pulse with a delicious ache.
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking.” With that, he scoops me into his arms, and I wrap my legs around him, holding on tight as he carries me to his bed caveman style.
TRAFFIC IS A CRAZY bitch this morning.
I was going to tell Melrose how I felt last night … or at least start by dropping a hint or two. The opportunity was there. She was standing over the sink, doing the dorkiest dance to some stupid 80s music as she washed dishes, completely in her own little world. Her ponytail bobbed and her hips swayed and I found myself craving the sweet taste of her lips.
So I kissed her.
And she kissed me back, body melting against mine, soapy hands in my hair.
And then all of a sudden she wouldn’t shut up about us just being friends and this not being anything, completely killing the opportunity. She kept asking questions and then adding, “right?” Almost as if she wanted me to say “yes.”
It didn’t hit me until the drive to work this morning that there could be someone else. We’re having fun together, sure. But there’s got to be a damn good reason she’s suddenly wanting to ensure that this doesn’t go beyond the physical.
Who else could it be?
She doesn’t bring guys around, at least not after the Robert McCauley incident. She’s always going on auditions. The only guy I’ve ever seen her talk to regularly is Nick.
The image of Melrose’s face lighting up when Nick called her a couple weeks back fills my head, and I almost run a red light.
It’s him.
It has to be.
She’s holding out for Nick.
I get that they’ve been best friends since they were kids and they have a history, but Nick doesn’t deserve her. And it’s not because I want her.
Up until he got that tour gig, he’d never once mentioned her.
Every girlfriend he’s ever had, he’s fucked around on. And I only know this because he brags about it every time he gets hammered on his Old Milwaukee piss water.
His rent is almost always late—not because he doesn’t have the money, but because he’s too lazy to write a check or drive to the nearest ATM.
Dude can’t do a load of laundry to save his life. I don’t know how many times I re-washed the musty clothes he’d leave sitting in the washer for days at a time. That sexy, grungy look he was always rocking? Wonder if the girls would be all over him if they knew he wears his shit at least five times before finally washing it.
Sure, Nick’s a good-time guy. He’s a musical genius, can throw a hell of a party, and has never had to want for sex in his life, but that’s where his redeeming and impressive qualities end.
By the time I arrive at the job site in Santa Monica, my crew is already there. Two of them look at me like I should have a box of Krispy Kremes or coffees in my hand as I head up the walkway to the ostentatious beachside mansion we’re wiring for some mega real estate developer based out of Orange County.