A Not So Meet Cute

I stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom, my mind drifting to last night.

What I wouldn’t have given to have Huxley come to my room again, to taste his lips one more time, to feel him driving between my legs with his magnificent cock.

I groan in frustration and sit up, not bothering to adjust my swimming cover-up that I put on before I flopped on my bed. If Huxley hadn’t already seen me naked, I’d consider skipping the cover-up, because the swimsuit he provided me barely covers my nipples.

This morning, he was out on a run when I went down to the kitchen for breakfast, at least, that’s what the note on the kitchen island said. It was a plain note, nothing special about it. It just said “on a run.” His staff doesn’t work on the weekends anymore, so I had his house to myself. I grabbed a yogurt parfait Reign had made the day before, devoured it, and then worked on our website for a bit before spending a decent amount of time putting my hair into French braids and then pulling on one of the provided swimsuits. I went with a simple black one.

I need to get some sun. Clear my head. Get the hell out of this room where I’m reminded of how amazing it felt to have Huxley’s five o’clock shadow roughly rub against my inner thighs.

The sides of the cover-up flap open as I snag my sunglasses from the dresser and head for the stairs. I leave my phone behind because I don’t want any distractions. I want it to be me and the sun.

I take the stairs down to the main floor and glance around, noticing that the space looks untouched, and then head to the back of the house, where I open one of the overly large sliding glass doors. Of course there are towels folded neatly and stacked in an outdoor linen closet, along with anything else you might need while swimming—goggles, sunscreen, and even those little plugs for your nose.

From the closet, I snag a towel and take it to one of the black-and-white striped lounge chairs bordering the pool. Undoing the ties of my cover-up, I let the fabric fall to the ground, then set my sunglasses over my eyes. The California sun is relentless, making it great tanning weather, which makes me think . . . I glance around, knowing damn well I’m alone in this incredibly large house, so I reach behind and undo my bikini top. Oops, would you look at that, completely topless. That’s more like it. I revel in the way the heat of the sun immediately warms my nipples.

Should I strip down completely?

I glance around one more time and then think, why the fuck not?

Once my bottoms are pushed down to my feet, I step out of the fabric and place the bottoms with my top.

Nude.

And it feels so good.

There’s a white lounge float in the pool calling my name, so I walk over to the edge, reach for the float, and pull it toward the stairs to carefully get on. The cool water against my heated skin is a wonderful contrast that my body appreciates. Once I’m situated on the float, I adjust my glasses and then sink into the comfort of floating on the water as the sun heats my naked skin.

Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone skinny-dipping.

I close my eyes and listen to the subtle breeze swishing through the palm tree leaves, offering a relaxing soundtrack to my mid-morning swim. Yes, this is just what I needed.

Eyes shut, I’m just about to doze off—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Huxley.

And from the tone of his voice, he’s not happy.

I open my eyes and lift my sunglasses to see him at the edge of the pool, wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts and running shoes. His thick, bare chest is covered in sweat, and his hair is soaked, wet strands clumping together.

God, he looks yummy.

I shift on the raft—I’m not shy at all, the man has seen it all already—and say, “Floating.”

“You’re naked.”

“Am I?” I ask, glancing down. “Well, would you look at that, I am.” And just for the hell of it, I spread my legs wider than the raft and let my feet dip into the water.

“Why?”

I fix my sunglasses over my eyes. “Because I wanted to. Because you’ve already seen me naked. And because your staff doesn’t work on weekends anymore.” I tilt my head toward the sun. “God, I love skinny-dipping. Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“Really? You have a pool. You should at least try it once.” I wave toward him. “Come in, join me.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I crack my eyes open to see what he’s doing. I find him standing on the edge, but now his hands are balled into tight fists at his side.

Someone needs to relax.

The man is a pent-up ball of stress, ready to explode any minute. He’s had small moments here and there where he’s allowed himself to relax, but he hasn’t fully unclenched yet. Maybe slowly but surely, I can help him do that.

“I won’t bite. Promise.” I dip my fingers into the water and splash them around before bringing them up to my chest, where water drips from my fingers and onto my breasts. I’m tempted to circle my nipple but I’m not looking for him to come in here sexually charged. I’m just looking for him to relax.

When he still doesn’t move, I sigh in frustration and shift my body off the raft and into the cool water. My nipples harden immediately from the shock of the temperature change to my skin, but I power through and make it to the stairs.

Huxley’s eyes stay fixed on me, pulsing through me with such intensity that my stomach bottoms out momentarily as I grow close to him.

With a shaky hand, I take his in mine, guide him to a lounge chair, and forcibly make him sit. When he doesn’t protest, I kneel in front of him and remove his socks and shoes. I can feel his gaze on me the entire time, watching my every move. When I’m done, I stand and take his hand in mine again. I leave him in his shorts, because those are easy to swim in, and after I’ve checked for his phone and wallet, I guide him to the steps of the pool.

Oddly, even though I’m completely naked, I don’t feel self-conscious in front of him. I don’t even feel as though I’m naked. He makes me feel comfortable in my skin. He hasn’t quite voiced his appreciation for my body as much as one would think, given the confidence I have around him, but it isn’t about what he says, it’s about how he acts when I’m exposed to him. The way his eyes rake over me with desperate gratitude. The firm grip whenever he places his hands on me. The domineering commands when we’re in the moment.

Not to mention, how he gets so incredibly hard anytime we’re intimate.

I step into the water and bring him in with me. He doesn’t protest, so I keep moving forward until I reach the raft, which is definitely big enough for the both of us. I pull it closer and say, “Get on.”

He scans the raft and then looks at me. “Are you going to join me?”

“Yes,” I answer.

With that, he gets on the raft and then helps me on. With the added weight, we sink lower into the water, but we’re still floating, just the occasional splash of water lapping up over the edge. I situate myself so I’m facing him, while he lies on his back and places his hand behind his head.

“See? No need to get your panties in a twist. Isn’t this nice?”

In a gruff voice, he says, “My panties weren’t in a twist.”

I press my finger to his brow and say, “This was all scrunched up.”

“You’re naked.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with that last night.”

His eyes shoot to mine. “You weren’t outside.”

I can’t hide the smirk that pulls at my lips. “Afraid someone else might see me?”

“Yes,” he says.

“You act as if you care.”

His eyes flash to mine again and he stares at me for a few breaths before he turns and faces me on the raft. His hand falls to my hip, and from that little possessive touch, my entire body heats up from the inside out.

“I do fucking care.” His thumb rubs over my skin. “This is for my eyes only.”

I twist my lips to the side, trying to tread the line carefully as I ask, “Was my body contracted to you as well? I can’t quite remember that part.”

He wets his lips and drags his hand up my side, down my arm, and then straight to my breast. His fingers connect with my nipple, and casually, as if this is what he does on Saturdays, he rolls my nipple between his fingers.

But the feeling pumping through me from his touch is anything but casual.

“Did I or did I not have my mouth all over your cunt last night?” He twists my nipple and I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath stolen from me momentarily.

“You . . . did,” I answer.

“Then that means I laid claim on this body.” He pinches me. “Understood?”

A hiss escapes past my lips. “Yes,” I answer.

“Good.” He releases my nipple and I can’t help but utter a sound of protest. The smallest of smirks passes over his lips and I glare at him.

“You think that’s funny? Teasing me like that?”

“Not funny . . . more enticing. Makes me want to do more. Seeing you like this, naked in my pool, makes me want to do so much more.”

“Like what?” I ask, intrigued. After the last couple of encounters with him and the mind-blowing orgasms he’s pulled from me, I’d pretty much let him do anything to me. And I mean anything.

“Bend you over the side of this pool, spread your ass, and eat you out.”

Oh.

Jesus.

My legs grow tight as a dull throb pulses between them. I can’t imagine what that would feel like, but now I’m wondering just how good it would be.

“Have you ever done that before? Ever done anything with anyone in your pool before?”

He glances to the side, avoiding eye contact with me. “Yeah.”

For some reason, that disappoints me. I know I shouldn’t care and I have no right to care at all, but a small part of me wishes that I was the first woman he had in this pool.

But playing it cool, I ask, “Oh really? Was she any good?”

This time his eyes flash to mine. “No.”

Well . . . that, uh, that makes me want to smile.

“Interesting,” I say, keeping my smile to myself. “Why wasn’t she any good?”

He runs his fingers over my breast again and then passes his thumb across my nipple. “She was aggressive. Over the top. It was as if she was trying to impress me.”

“When she did the exact opposite.”

He nods as he rolls my nipple between his thumb and index finger. A small moan falls past my lips. I’m unable to control it, control how he makes me feel. This is the first time in my entire life that I can say that when I look at a man, all I want is his mouth on mine, his hand between my legs, his body commanding mine.

Every.

Single.

Time.

“I don’t appreciate theatrics,” he says softly, his eyes fixed on my breasts. “I want real when I take a woman to bed.”

“Do you think I’m being real?” I ask.

His thumb releases my nipple and he moves his hand back to my hip, stroking me gently. I’m turned on and want so much more. And yet, I also want him to relax, and that’s what he seems to be doing. “Yes, I do think you’re being real. You hate me too much to pretend I’m giving you pleasure. If I wasn’t turning you on, you’d let me know.”

He’s very much right about that, but there is one thing he’s not entirely correct in stating.

“I don’t hate you, Huxley.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says softly. The tone of his voice is more teasing than accusatory.

“I mean, there are moments when I hate you, I’m not going to lie about that. But I don’t have an overall hatred for you. I actually appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

“It’s a mutual appreciation,” he says before he closes his eyes.

His breath evens out as his grip on me relaxes. Is he . . . taking a nap? With me naked like this?

When he doesn’t move, but continues to lie there, eyes closed, hand on me, I realize that’s exactly what he’s doing.

And maybe, in other circumstances, I’d take offense to this. I’m a naked woman lying right next to him. I’d expect him to want to take advantage of the situation, but Huxley doesn’t need to. He can lie here in comfort, knowing that I’ll probably lie right here with him.

Which I will, because this moment feels comfortable. It feels normal.

I close my eyes as well and let out a deep sigh as I allow the raft to float us around the pool. The incoming clouds slowly block the sun from crisping up our skin, giving us the opportunity to just enjoy the warm heat.

I’m not sure how long we stay like this.

I can’t be sure how long we nap, but it isn’t until I’m being carried up the stairs of Huxley’s house that I realize I’m no longer on the raft.

In a haze, I open my eyes and blink a few times. “What’s happening?” I ask, confused.

“I didn’t want you to get burnt. The sun came out again,” he whispers softly.

Carrying me down the hallway that leads to our bedrooms, I half expect him to kick open the door to his bedroom, but he doesn’t. He opens my bedroom door and then softly places me on my bed, rolling down the blankets and then slipping them up over my naked body. When he straightens, he grips the back of his neck and asks, “Can I get you anything?”

Caught off guard from his one-eighty in attitude, I shake my head. “No, I’m . . . uh, I’m good.”

He nods and takes a step back. “Sorry about that back there.”

“Sorry about what?” I ask.

“Touching you. I shouldn’t have. I’m just having a hard time keeping this professional, especially when I walk in on you naked. You’re damn hard to resist, Lottie.”

I tilt my head, trying to understand him. “When has touching me ever stopped you before?”

“I’m trying to respect what we have, not fuck it up.”

“Do you know how you can fuck it up?” I ask.

“How?”

“By closing yourself off.”

He grips his neck even harder. “I’m trying, Lottie.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say. “And I appreciate you opening up and talking to me. Answering my questions. It means a lot to me. It makes this situation easier, and honestly, I like getting to know you, Huxley. You’re a . . . neat guy.”

His brow quirks up while a slight smile pulls at his lips. “Neat?”

I smirk. “Yup. Neat.”

“Pretty sure no one has ever called me a neat guy before.”

“Such a shame.” I remove the covers he placed over me and stand from my bed. As I walk toward my bathroom, I feel his eyes tracing my every move. I walk into the walk-in closet and grab a fresh pair of underwear—if that’s what you want to call them. The fabric barely covers my ass. I look for an oversized shirt but remember all of my clothes are in storage. Groaning, I walk back out. His eyes immediately rake over me, from head to toe. It’s a heated gaze, reminding me that he might not have done anything with me this morning, but there’s no doubt in my mind that he wants to. “Can I borrow a shirt?” I ask. “I really just want to wear something oversized and comfortable.”

“You want to borrow one of my shirts?” he asks.

“Yeah, do you mind?”

His eyes grow darker and he pauses before answering. What’s the big deal? It’s a shirt.

I’m about to tease him, when he says, “Sure.” He turns away from me and heads into his room. I follow behind him, not caring at all that I’m topless. What’s the point in covering up now?

He goes to his dresser drawers and pulls out a faded black T-shirt. “Don’t lose it. It’s one of my favorites,” he says before handing it to me.

I take the threadbare shirt from him and unfold it, revealing a picture of Creedence Clearwater Revival. I quickly look up at him. “CCR? You have a CCR shirt?”

He nods. “They were one of my dad’s favorite bands. I only have a few memories of my dad, because he divorced my mom when we were young, but the memories I do have of him always involved CCR playing in the background.”

I slip the shirt on, loving how it smells like him.

He takes a step forward and tugs on the sleeve. “You’re swimming in this.”

“The way I like it.”

He nods again. “Yeah, you look pretty damn good in it.”

I hug myself. “It’s really comfortable. I might steal it from you.”

That playful brow of his quirks up again. “You better not.”

Teasing him, I say, “You shouldn’t have offered up this shirt if you didn’t want me stealing it.” I move past him, only for him to grip my wrist and pull me against his chest.

He tilts up my chin and says, “Don’t make me peel that shirt off you right now.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat? Feels more like a reward to me.”

His lips thin as they press together. His eyes search mine, bouncing back and forth, and I wait for his next move. His comeback. But he doesn’t say anything. He just . . . shakes his head and then laces his fingers with mine to bring me back downstairs to the kitchen, where he spins me toward the counter and lifts me up onto the island. The cold surface makes me squeal for just a second until my skin becomes acclimated.

“What do you want for lunch?” he asks.

“I thought you can’t cook.”

“I can’t,” he says. “But a sandwich is in my wheelhouse.”

“Is it now?” I cross one leg over the other and lean my hands back on the counter. “What kind of sandwich? Grilled cheese? Or is that asking too much?”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “That’s asking too much.”

I snort and cover my nose at the same time. “You poor wealthy man. Can’t even make a grilled cheese. Let me show you how it’s done.”

I hop off the counter and go to the fridge to find the cheese. Butter is on the counter in a crock, and I turn to find Huxley handing me the bread.

I know the pots and pans are in the island cabinets so I open one of the doors and find exactly what I’m looking for.

When I turn toward the stove, I feel Huxley crowding me. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to break anything.”

“I’m not worried about you breaking anything,” he says. “I’m hoping you teach me.”

I pause. “You really don’t know how to make a grilled cheese?”

“Never made one before.”

“Oh God, why do I find that so endearing?” I ask.

His hand falls to my lower back as he moves to my other side. “Maybe because it’s a weakness of mine and you enjoy watching me struggle.”

I chuckle. “I do like seeing the almighty Huxley Cane having to come back down to earth.” I elbow him, showing him I’m teasing. And when he glances in my direction with a smile, I can feel all of my anxiety wash right out of me.

With one simple look.

That’s all it takes.

“So, how do we make these things?” He holds up two pieces of bread.

“You really are helpless.” I turn on the stovetop, warm up the pan, and then grab a plate and a knife, which I hand to him. “Do you know how to butter bread?”

He gives me a mocking look. “I’m not completely inept.”

“Just checking.” I smile widely. “Butter one side on each slice of bread.”

He lifts the top to the butter crock and swipes butter over the bread. He’s not smooth about it by any means. He’s actually quite clumsy, which I find adorable, and at one point, he pierces the knife through the bread, making it seem as though I’m sitting in the front row to an awful infomercial where they don’t know how to do simple things like cut a slice of cheese.

When he’s done with the butter, I hand him the cheese. “Put that on the sandwich and then, with the butter facing out, set the sandwich on the pan.”

“Easy enough,” he says, though he gets butter all over his fingers in his attempt to put the sandwich on the pan. I hand him a towel, which he uses to wipe his hands. “Now we wait?”

“Yes. I have the heat on medium and we’re going to cover the pan with this lid so the cheese melts, and then we’ll check on it in a minute or so.”

He stares at the pan and then runs his hand through his hair. “This seems far too easy. I’m looking like an asshat right now.”

I let out a loud laugh. “No, just . . . interesting, is all. If no one showed you, how would you know?”

“I could ask.”

“Which you did.” I pat his bare chest. “You asked me. Aren’t you lucky to have me as your teacher?”

“Very,” he says, his eyes serious.

Well . . . okay then.

Uh, let me just go, uh, get something so I don’t have to feel like a wilting flower under this man’s strong gaze.

I smile awkwardly and then head into the pantry to get some chips I saw in there the other day, as well as two bananas.

I don’t know what’s with the change of attitude on his end, but I’m going with it, because this is a Huxley Cane I could very much get along with. And given the man fell asleep with me on a pool float and then carried me upstairs to rest, I think I’m the Lottie Gardner he could get along with too.

“IT DOESN’T TASTE that bad after you scrape off the burnt parts,” I say, examining the sandwich.

“You realize this is your fault, right?” He takes a bite of his partially burnt grilled cheese.

“How is this my fault?” I ask.

We’re sitting at the outdoor dining set, a small bowl of chips between us, as well as pre-cut veggies from Reign. I must say, the personal chef thing is pretty nice, a luxury I’ll miss when this is all over.

“You left me in charge while you went to the bathroom.”

“I told you to check it in a few seconds to see if it was done and then to take it off the heat. You turned up the heat.”

“Something the supervisor should’ve been there to watch.”

I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair. “Keep telling yourself that, Hux.”

He sets his sandwich down and picks up his water. Casually, he leans back in his chair as well and looks out toward the pool. “Do you have any questions for me today?”

“I always have questions.”

“Fire away,” he says, looking way more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Which means, he very well might be open to answering some hard-hitting questions.

Don’t mind if I do.

I rub my hands together and ask, “What was your first impression of me?”

He takes a sip of his water and keeps his gaze forward as he speaks. “First impression. Well, you were wearing leggings and a sports bra that made your tits look amazing. It was hard not to think right off the bat how hot you were.” He stuns me with his stare. “But then I quickly realized you were a lunatic.”

My mouth falls open in amusement. I poke at his arm and say, “And yet, you still asked me to be your fake fiancée.”

He scratches the side of his cheek. “Desperation does crazy things to a person.”

“Aren’t you a charmer today.” I bring my feet up on my seat and hug my knees to my chest, getting more comfortable. “Go ahead, ask me a question.”

Studying me, he tilts his head to the side and asks, “Your dream man, who is he?”

Color me shocked. Didn’t expect that kind of question to fall past his lips.

“You seem surprised,” Huxley says.

“Yeah, wasn’t expecting that. Almost thought you were going to ask me what my first impression of you was.”

“I already know that. You’ve been quite vocal about how I was a different man on the sidewalk and in Chipotle.”

Yeah, I have.

“Okay, then. My dream guy? Hmm . . . I’ve never really thought about it before. I know I want someone who cares for me, like Jeff cares for my mom. He thinks she’s an absolute queen and treats her like it. I’d also like him to have fun with me. We don’t have to have everything in common, but I’d love to be able to just let loose, have fun with him. But also, a man with a good head on his shoulders. I’m barely keeping my head above water, I don’t want someone I have to babysit, if that makes sense.”

He nods.

“And then, of course, the obvious—he has to be a killer in bed. I’ve had my fair share of bad lovers. I’ve paid my dues. Whoever I end up with needs to be able to get me off with barely trying.”

“Is that it?” he asks.

“I think so. You caught me off guard. I’m sure there are other things, you know . . . like celebrating my wins just as much as we celebrate his. Respect. The usual items.”

“Think you’ll ever find him?”

“Is that your second question?”

“Yeah, it is.” He props his chin on his fingers as he leans further into his chair.

“Will I ever find him?” I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe, if I’m lucky. I’ve never been a super-romantic person, so I don’t really give any of this much thought at all, but would I like to have a dream guy by my side one day? Yeah. I’ve seen my mom alone and I’ve seen her with someone who truly adores her. She’s so much happier, stress free. I want that for me one day. Not saying I need it now, but someday.” When our eyes connect, I ask, “What about you? Think you’ll find your dream girl one day, settle down?”

He doesn’t waver when he says, “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Care to elaborate on that answer?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re infuriating.”

He chuckles. “I don’t know what you want me to elaborate on. Do I think I’ll find her? Yeah, I fucking do. Do I think I’m ready for her? No. But life doesn’t really work like that, it doesn’t wait for when you’re ready. So, whenever she comes along, I know I’m going to scramble to figure out how to make her happy, to try to keep her.”

“Here’s a hint—don’t be a dick to her.” I wink at him. “That will give you a fighting chance.”

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

TIRED, I close Kelsey’s laptop and flop back on my bed. Since I spent a good portion of my day yesterday doing absolutely nothing, I figured I’d try to get some things done today before I go to Kelsey’s tomorrow morning.

But I’ve been working on the website for a good three hours now and I’m over it. I need a break.

Wow, it’s gotten dark in here. What time is it?

I wake up my phone to see it’s only four in the afternoon, so I glance out the window and take in the dark clouds and the early signs of rain.

A rare day in California when it rains.

My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen.

Angela.

My nostrils flare as I angrily pick up my phone and unlock it so I can see what she has to say. Honestly, she’s so delusional that she thinks she can just text me as if she didn’t fuck me over. Why I haven’t already blocked her number is beyond me.

Angela: Hey, girl. Didn’t get your RSVP for the reunion. Should I count on you coming solo?

Why would she just assume that when I had Huxley’s enormous rock on my finger?

Probably because she believes Huxley is way too good for me.

Which, yeah, she might be right about that. I’m not necessarily the dream girl he’s searching for, even though he didn’t describe her. I know I don’t quite fit into his high-profile life. I’m not an idiot, but for Angela to just assume . . .

What a wretched bitch.

Should I even bother with texting her back?

If I don’t, she’s going to assume she got the best of me and I don’t want that, so, out of pure anger, I text her back.

Lottie: Sorry, been totally busy with Huxley. Count us in for two.

There, that should set her fake-blonde roots on fire.

Smiling to myself, I lift off the bed—still in my robe from my shower earlier—and go to my closet. I throw on a pair of lace pajama shorts and matching bralette. It’s actually one of the more comfortable sets, and I’ve worn every color besides this white one so far.

My phone buzzes and I quickly read it, wanting to see the kind of snarky response Angela has for me.

Angela: Oh, you’re together still? Huh, I thought I saw him with someone else the other night.

What a fucking liar!

I’m not stupid enough to fall for that shit, nor am I insecure enough to even question Huxley’s intentions. He’s told me, point blank, I’m it while we’re in contract. And if anything, I know when Huxley talks business, he means it.

I walk into my bedroom and start pacing as I furiously text her back.

Lottie: Funny . . . he’s been with me every night. Are you trying to start drama, Angela?

There, call her out on her bullshit. It’s not as if I have anything to lose.

Angela: Why on earth would I want to do that?

I laugh out loud. She must think I’m a complete dumbass.

And maybe I am in her eyes, since I’m the idiot who’s followed her around and been at her beck and call only for her to turn her back on me.

Not anymore.

Lottie: Because you’re jealous.

Angela: Jealous? Of you? Oh, honey, that’s cute.

I don’t think I’ve ever despised someone as much as I despise her.

I’m about to text her back when there’s a knock at my door and then Huxley cracks open the door. When he catches sight of me, his eyes heat up, and he gives me a strong perusal before he pushes the door all the way open.

“What are you doing?” he asks. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so casually dressed. Shorts and a T-shirt, his hair a rumpled mess, and he didn’t bother shaving today. He looks . . . yummy.

“Texting with Angela. Did you know I hate her?”

“Yeah, I did.” He walks up to me, removes my phone from my steel grip, and tosses it on the bed. He then laces his fingers with mine and guides me toward the hallway.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“It’s raining.”

“I noticed.”

He pauses and says, “When I asked you what you’d want if it was a perfect world, you said to work with your sister, move out of your mom’s house, stick it to Angela, erase your student loans, and to have a place where you can lie in the rain without judgment.”

He remembered that?

He tugs on my hand. “I told you I’d take care of all of it. I’ve come through on everything else. This is the last thing.”

He pulls me down the hallway, to the opposite side of the house, and to a door I’ve never explored before. When he opens it, we’re greeted by another set of stairs.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask as we ascend the stairs.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, when we reach the top, he opens the door to a surprise rooftop deck.

What on earth?

It’s not very big at all, and he’s done nothing with the space. Just four short walls to prevent you from rolling off the side.

“Here you go,” he says, “the perfect spot to lie in the rain without judgment, without being disturbed.” He nods toward the teak-covered floor. “Does this work?”

“This more than works.” I glance up at him. “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

“You’re welcome,” he says softly and steps aside so I can make my way out into the rain, just as it starts to pick up.

When I get outside, I spread my arms wide, tilt my head back, and let the rain soak through my clothes and into my skin. When I open my eyes, I smile at Huxley, who’s watching me intently. I motion for him to join me.

He doesn’t skip a beat and steps out into the rain with me. I take his hands in mine and spin him around. He chuckles lightly, letting me be goofy with him.

“Don’t you love it? The rain?” I ask.

“Not as much as you do.”

“You clearly don’t know how to appreciate it.” I guide him to the ground and lay him out next to me, keeping my hand in his as the rain pelts down upon us. Eyes closed, I say, “The sound, the smell, the feeling of not caring if you get wet—isn’t it the best feeling?”

He doesn’t answer right away but, I feel him take a few deep breaths. “I’ve never stopped to feel the rain.” I turn my head, open my eyes, and see him staring back at me. “Thank you.”

He’s so genuine in this moment.

So real.

There’s no domineering asshole trying to control me.

There’s no sign of the man who’s been playing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

This is Huxley.

The true man.

And it feels like a bullet to the chest. I like this side of him. I like him like this more than I probably should.

Together, we lie in the rain, letting it soak us to the bone and gather on the rooftop surface. The plops from the water hitting the hard surface fill the silence between us, while the smell of wet blacktop wafts around us.

Pure perfection.

“When did you start doing this?” he asks, turning toward me.

I turn toward him as well. The rain has let up so it’s more of a sprinkle now. “When I was in high school. I’ve always loved the rain, especially since it rarely rains here in California. I loved the feeling of being caught up in something other than everyday life. Especially when I was hanging out with Angela. I felt out of control at times. The rain would help me slow down.” Being with Angela often felt like being in a dark, unwelcome storm. But the rain, by contrast, was soft. Safe. Clean.

He reaches out and places his hand on my cheek before wiping away a few droplets of water with his thumb. It’s a sweet, intimate gesture, and instead of shying away, I lean into it.

“How often do you come up here?”

“Not often enough,” he says. “I’ve probably come up here once or twice. But when you said you wanted a place to lie in the rain, I knew exactly where I’d take you.” Seeming insecure, he asks, “Do you like it?”

I nod. “I like it a lot. It could use a piece of furniture.” I chuckle. “But I think it’s perfect. Thank you.”

When he doesn’t say anything, but instead continues to stare at me, I take that moment to scoot closer to him. The heat of the day doesn’t quite break through all the rain, so my body is slightly chilled, but not chilled enough to force me to leave. I just need a little warmth.

Noticing my intention, he lifts his arm, and I scoot in even closer until he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against his side. And, oh God, does he smell good. Like fresh, masculine laundry—if that makes sense.

“Should’ve put on something warmer,” he says.

“I didn’t know I’d be out in the rain, and these are the clothes you provided me.” I look up at him. “I’ve come to realize you’re a pervert.”

He lightly chuckles. “I’m not a pervert.”

“Everything in that closet of mine is scandalous. I’m going to start working my way into your dresser drawers and taking all your shirts.”

“Have whatever you want. You look sexy in both.”

I lift up, my hand on his chest as I stare at him. “Was that a compliment, Huxley?”

“Want me to take it back?”

“No.” I shake my head and press my hand to my heart. “I need to cherish this moment. Huxley Cane complimented me. Not sure this moment could get any better.”

“It can,” he says and pulls me on top of him. Compared to his tall and muscular stature, I feel so miniature, so petite. Both of his hands fall to my lower back and then slip an inch under the waistband of my shorts.

“Is this comfortable for you?” I ask him.

“Very,” he says.

“And I thought you wouldn’t appreciate having a shrew of a woman draped across you.”

He laughs, and it’s such a beautiful sound. “I might enjoy the shrew more than I thought.”

This causes me to sit all the way up until I’m situated on top of his lap. “Are you saying you enjoy my company rather than despise it?”

His hands fall to my thighs, and he moves them farther north until they connect with the insides of my hips. It’s a small touch, but it carries a large impact as a bolt of lust shoots right up my spine.

“I never despised you. You have to stop thinking that. Did I find you mildly irritating at times? Of course.”

I laugh. “Such a charmer.”

“Wasn’t aware I needed to charm you.” His eyes speak of pure playfulness. “Do you need charming?”

I pretend to fluff my wet hair. “Wouldn’t hurt you to throw a little charm this way.”

He wets his lips even though they probably don’t need it because of the rain. “What do you consider charm? Words or actions?”

“Both can qualify.”

He glances at my chest and then back up at me. “So, if I were to say your tits look hot in that see-through lace top, would that charm you?”

It’s see-through?

I glance down and see the clear definition of my nipples. Well, I guess it is see-through when it’s wet.

“I guess that would charm me marginally, but I believe you could probably do better.”

“Yeah?” His hands snake up my sides until they loop under my bralette and pull it up and over my head. He tosses the drenched fabric to the side and then brings his hands to my thighs. “What about now? Charming?”

I sit there, on his lap, topless, in the rain, and to any other person, this action could be defined as “horny man.”

But, God, with one blink of his eye, he could charm these shorts right off me.

“From your silence and heavy breathing, I’m going to take that as a yes.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself. It’s sexy and also vaguely annoying. The annoying part causes my next action.

I rest my hand on his stomach and shift my pelvis over his lap. His playful eyes immediately turn dark, seductive.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you what charm really is.” I rotate my hips again, and this time, I’m rewarded by him growing harder underneath me.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want his cock. After giving him head in the shower, there’s nothing I want more than to experience him driving into me over and over again. But he’s also a bit of a flight risk, and while we’ve made some progress this weekend—progress toward what, I’m not sure, but at least he’s engaging with me—I don’t want to push him too far, just enough.

Water drips down my face as I smile at him. “You see, Huxley”—I rub my center over his erection in a continuous motion, finding just the right spot for both of us—“charm can easily come in the form of dry-humping.”

He lets out a roar of laughter right before the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face. God, he’s beautiful. Sexy and hot, yes, but right now, I see a boyish cuteness to him as well.

“I had no idea charm could be translated through dry-humping. I always thought the universal translation for dry-humping was . . . ‘hey, I’m horny.’”

I steady my hands on his stomach, which causes my breasts to press together. “It can mean both.”

Still smiling, he reaches up to my breasts and rolls my nipples with his fingers. “Good to know.” He then envelops my right breast in his hand, squeezing, massaging. “Have I ever told you how fucking hot your tits are?”

“Mmm,” I moan, picking up my pace just a notch. “I can’t remember. Maybe. But tell me more.”

“They’re sexy as fuck, Lottie. Not too big, not too small, tight little nipples that beg me to touch them. I could spend hours just playing with your tits.”

“Hours seems excessive.” My head falls back as he sits up and brings his mouth to my breast. He sucks tightly on my nipple and . . . that’s it. The scruff of his jaw rubbing against my sensitive skin combined with the intimate feeling of his lips on my nipple sends a crazy rip of pleasure down my spine and all the way to my curled toes.

“Hours are necessary.” He moves his mouth to my other breast and pays as much attention to that nipple as he did the other.

My hand floats to the back of his head, and I hold him in place, not wanting him to stop doing what he’s doing, because it lights me up, makes me feel alive.

The patter of rain around us heightens the mood, as well as the way the water runs over our two bodies, soaking our clothes, our hair, our skin. It’s erotic. The only thing that could make this better would be if we were both completely naked.

“God, Huxley,” I groan when he tugs on my nipple with his teeth. “I want more.”

He takes that as a sign to flip me to my back, laying me across the cold, wet surface of the teak-wood flooring. His gorgeous body hovers above mine, blocking the rainfall from hitting me in the face. His chest ripples above me, his hair’s wet with droplets, and his eyes are so intense with need that I find myself spreading my legs.

He positions himself between them, his large frame causing me to make even more room. He lowers his pelvis to mine, and when they touch, immediate gratification strikes me in the chest.

Yes.

He feels so much better like this.

Heavy against me.

Hard as stone.

But he’s the one in control, something I’ve come to love when he touches me. I want him to own me, own my body, and make me forget everything around us.

“I want your shorts off,” he says in a tortured tone.

He pushes his hand through his hair, sopping the water away, and lifts off me only enough to pull down on my shorts. I help him remove them with a lift of my hips, and once they’re off, he drops them to the side and positions himself against me again.

I’ve never been naked in the rain.

And I’m going to be honest, it might be my new favorite thing.

It’s exciting.

Daring.

Erotic.

Huxley hovers over me, the only thing between us his shorts, and they do nothing to hide his massive erection.

“I love seeing you like this,” he says, “submitting to me. I’ve never seen anything sexier in my life. This is it, right here, you naked, wet, legs spread, waiting for me.” He wets his lips. “How much do you want me?”

“More than I care to admit,” I say, looping my hand behind his neck.

“Still hate me?”

“No.”

“Still want to help me?”

“Do I even have a choice?” I ask, wondering where this questioning is coming from.

He flashes his eyes to me. “Even if I don’t want to admit it, you always have a choice.” He rubs his length along my aroused clit. Oh God, that feels too freaking good. My hand trembles against his neck as he reaches up to my breast and teases it with his fingers. Looking me in the eyes, he says, “If you told me, tomorrow, you want out, I’d destroy the contract.”

He thrusts against me.

“What?” I gasp as he pushes again, and again, and again. “Oh God,” I moan, his pace stirring pleasure deep within me. “Wh-why?”

“Because,” he says, thrusting again. I catch the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding back. From the thick veins in his neck and the tight clench of his jaw, he could give more, wants to give more. “Even though you might not believe it, I want you to be happy.” He thrusts again, and my back arches as my body pulses. Begs. “I don’t want to trap you.” Another thrust. Two more, that’s all it’s going to take. “I don’t want you to feel trapped.” Thrust.

“Yes, God, yes, Huxley.” I grip him and meet his thrusts with my own. I’m right there, on the edge. Pleasure pools at the base of my spine, this euphoric feeling amplifying with every push of his erection against my clit.

So close.

God, I’m so close.

“I just want you happy,” he says, and I hear him.

I’m listening to everything he’s saying to me, but it’s not quite registering in my head.

His words aren’t making sense, because all I can focus on is teetering on the edge of my orgasm and wanting to fall over. I want to fall over with him.

“How close are you?” I ask him.

“Right . . . there,” he groans.

“Then take it, take me. Harder, Huxley.”

He smooths his hand down to my ass, where he grips me tightly and pulls me all the way against him, intensifying the connection. That’s all it takes.

One thrust and I’m done.

Every last ounce of pleasure gathers, coils, into the center of my body, only to be ripped into millions of joyous pieces as my body combusts underneath him.

“Oh, fuck,” I yell. “Yes, Huxley.”

“Jesus,” he mutters as he drives harder and harder until he stills, groans loudly, and then collapses on top of me.

He props his weight up with one arm on the ground, but his head tilts down, our foreheads connecting. It’s as close as our mouths have been this entire time, making me realize that the man might have just dry-humped me to completion, but he never once laid his lips on mine.

Why?

My eyes search out his and I catch him taking a few large breaths before making eye contact with me. Rain continues to fall on us, and in the distance, I hear the rumble of thunder for the first time since we’ve been out here.

Huxley wipes the water off his face before blinking a few times. “We should, uh . . . get back inside.”

“Yeah,” I say, breathless, still staring up at him. The pull between us is so damn strong that I want nothing more than to cling to him and be carried to his bed.

But when he stands and offers me his hand to help me up, I notice a change in him. Hesitation. Uneasiness.

And I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Huxley tugs me quickly toward the door, opens it, and hurries me inside. Then he snags my garments and guides me down the stairs carefully, making sure we don’t slip. When we reach the hallway, he takes my hand and maneuvers me toward our bedrooms. I’m curious which way he’ll take me—maybe to his shower so we can warm up?

But then he stops in front of my bedroom door and lets go of my hand. Our time is up. With a step back, he grips his neck and scans my naked body. “You should take a shower, get warmed up.”

“Yeah,” I answer awkwardly.

“Do you need anything?”

You.

A conversation.

Some understanding of what the hell we’re doing.

Maybe a brief recap of the things you said up on the roof.

“Um, I don’t think so,” I answer.

He nods. “Okay. If you want, I can order something for dinner.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’m not very hungry.”

“Sure.” He takes another step back, and my hope plummets as I see him retreat once again.

Why?

Why does he do this?

Why does he take one giant leap forward only to take two steps back?

And why do I even care?

Yeah, I know . . . I know.

Everyone knows. Because somehow, someway, I’ve started to care about him.