Wicked Sexy Liar

London

THE STAIRS LEADING down the front of Luke’s little La Jolla house seem a lot longer than they did going up. It’s like I can’t move fast enough and end up taking them two at a time, skipping the last one entirely and landing a little too hard on the pavement at the bottom.

Like last time, my legs are less than steady as I cross the yard, my muscles shaky and the words What the hell am I doing? playing on a loop inside my head.

How on earth does someone like Luke hook up with me, get car head the next night, and then show up at my favorite Mexican place looking completely gorgeous and being totally funny and interesting and charm his way right into my pants?

Again?

My car is parked at the curb and I look around at the other houses as I unlock the door and climb inside, suddenly conscious of the fact that I’m wearing different clothes than when I went in—Luke’s clothes—that my hair is still damp and drying in a tangled mess. That I just left a booty call.

I said I wasn’t going to do this again, and yet here I am, doing the walk of shame like it’s my job, after having sex so good I doubt I could walk without a limp if I tried. No wonder his phone is always blowing up.

I check my mirrors and pull out into traffic, and try not to replay exactly how good it was. I try not to dwell on the fact that he drives his sister and grandmother around on the weekends, that he can name the stores they shop in, and that every time I’ve been around him, he’s actually really nice. I’m definitely not thinking about the way I left him standing in his kitchen with only a blue towel tucked low on his hips, or that I can still smell his soap on my skin.

“Complimentary shampoo,” I mumble, checking my mirror again before switching lanes. “What a jerk.”

And the closer I get to home, the more the thing with Mia starts to bother me. I knew she’d had a boyfriend for a long time, but we never talk about him. It’s not an omission for a reason; it’s just not part of her day-to-day reality anymore. I’m not sure I’d ever heard his name. If I had, it was ­really forgettable, apparently.

At the bar he’d said they grew up together, not that they were together for seven fucking years. It’s not really common for people our age to have someone they were with for seven years—it’s huge. He knew Mia and I are acquaintances, at least, and didn’t even think to mention it?

But to be fair . . . I haven’t exactly been forthcoming during the get-to-know-you game, so he’d have zero way of knowing it would even be a thing, or that he should talk to me about any of his past relationships. I certainly haven’t. We hooked up, that’s it.

Still. I asked, and he deflected with an outright lie. And I am friends with Mia. Not best friends or as close as I was with Ruby before she moved to England, or even Lola and Harlow, but friends nonetheless. There are a few cardinal rules every girl should live by: always tell another girl when she has something in her teeth or her nose, or when her dress is tucked into her panty hose. Always provide tampons to a fellow female in need and, by extension, alert them of Shark Week accidents. If another female is drunk and needs a friend, help her.

And never, ever go after a friend’s ex.

Basic Girl Code.

I know Mia is happy and she and Ansel are the picture of wedded bliss, but I need to call her. Today. Before I lose my nerve.

Lola’s on her way out when I step into the loft, and I feel a shiver of guilt make its way up my spine.

“Hey, you,” she says, checking her wallet before dropping it in her purse.

“Hey.” I slide the door closed behind me, drop my keys on the table, and lean against the wall. “How was L.A.—wait, are you leaving again?”

“I have this . . . thing,” she says, “back up there. Oliver’s driving with me because I will cry the entire drive if I have to do it alone again.”

At the sound of his name, Oliver rounds the corner, smiling when he sees me.

“London Bridge,” he says, and bumps my shoulder as he passes. “I gave out one of your cards today. A regular who runs a couple breweries asked who did my site, and I told him about you.”

“Thanks, Olls,” I say.

As a general rule I don’t do commissions for family and friends—things have a tendency to get weird whenever money is involved, and so I try to steer clear—but to this day, Oliver’s site is one of the best things I’ve ever done. And it paid well, too. A few more jobs like that and I’d be well on my way to a kickass portfolio.

Lola closes her bag and does a quick inspection of what I’m wearing. “If I had to guess, I’d say those aren’t your clothes.”

Crap.

“How do you know I don’t wear men’s basketball shorts and T-shirts when you’re not around?” I deflect, going into the fridge and grabbing the last Red Bull. I have a long night ahead of me. “I have a very eclectic style.”

She takes a step toward me and pushes my hair behind my shoulder, so she can read whatever’s written across my chest.

“I don’t. But I do know that you aren’t now, nor have you ever been, a member of the UCSD Water Polo Team.”

Double crap.

I turn, waving her off, and put down my drink so I can pretend to sort through the mail. “Borrowed it from one of the guys at the beach,” I say.

“Uh-huh. I’d question that, but since you’ve sworn off men, and I’m in a hurry, I’ll take you at your word. For now,” she adds meaningfully, and loops her purse over her shoulder.

With this little dig I’m reminded that Luke basically called me a man hater, and made some little crack about my “Barfly Box of Shame.”

Luke’s wrong, of course. I don’t think all men are assholes. Finn, Ansel, and Oliver are pretty great. My dad can be fun—when he’s not cheating on my mom—and I’m quickly beginning to adore Fred. But now I’m irritated all over again and still have to talk to Mia.

Lola and Oliver leave and I shower again, knowing the conversation might be a little easier to get through without the scent of Luke’s shampoo clinging to my hair.

I’m suddenly starving and eat a tuna fish sandwich while standing at the counter.

I decide to rearrange and fix a hinge that’s been squeaking, and check my bank balance on my phone. Basically, I stall.

With the loft paid for and only a few small student loans looming, I’m pretty good for money in the short term. Can I afford to surf all day and work at Fred’s at night and get by? Sure. Is there any left for much else? Not really. I wasn’t completely joking about the car fund because I actually do need to replace my car, and there’s a new graphics program I’d like to get my hands on—one that will let me do bigger sites with more complicated plugins—but there’s no way it’ll happen if I’m just working at the bar.

Luke has a way of finding all my buttons, and pushing them while wearing that goddamn infuriating smile. Asking why I’m still tending bar is definitely one of them. He’s right, I don’t need to, but people don’t like to pay for design work from someone without a ton of experience. My port­folio is shaping up, but it’s not enough. Not yet. Unfortunately, Fred doesn’t have any more hours to give me and I’d rather shave off my eyebrows than ask my parents for money. A second job would definitely help and I make a mental note to ask some of my bartender friends about extra shifts at one of the local clubs.

That could be a good thing. I’ve gone home with Luke twice now; I definitely have too much free time on my hands.

Which brings me back to what I’m supposed to be doing: calling Mia.

I decide to woman up, and scroll through my contacts, stopping on Mia’s name. I don’t normally call Mia out of the blue—I might call to track down one of the other girls, or to clarify plans—so she doesn’t even have a contact photo next to her name.

She picks up on the second ring and after a moment of frozen, startled silence, I realize I have no idea exactly how to have this conversation.

“Hello?” she says a second time, and I snap back to my senses.

“Hey,” I say, pacing the floor of my living room and thankful beyond reason that Lola isn’t here to see me. “This is—”

“London! Hey, how are you?”

“I’m really good,” I say, and twist a piece of hair around my finger. “How are you guys?”

“We’re great!” she says, and she really does sound great, happy, so much so that I have an image of the word actually bursting out of her. “Ansel is all settled in at UCSD, and my dance classes are so fun. The kids are adorable.”

“And the house?”

“The house is awesome. We started talking about what we’re doing for the holidays this year and it hit me all of a sudden that we are grown-ups who are married and own a home together. Will this ever stop feeling like someone else’s life I’m living?” she asks rhetorically. “What about you, what have you been doing? I saw you the other night but you were gone before I could come say hi.”

How am I? I finally figured out how to turn on the TV, the sound system, and the cable box, all with the same remote. I mainlined the entire first two seasons of Veronica Mars in a single day and thus didn’t leave the house once that weekend. Oh, and I haven’t had to use my vibrator in a week because I’ve been having sex with the boy you lost your virginity to.

Gah.

I drop down into a chair and scrub my hand over my face. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say. “Who I’ve been doing”—I freeze and my eyes go wide in ­horror—“What I’ve been doing.”

Mia’s adorable laugh bursts forth. “Okay?”

“So, listen, I didn’t realize it at the time, but I started—” I stop because I started what? Going out with? No, that’s definitely not what Luke and I have been doing. “I started hanging out with this guy,” I say—and yeah, that’s better, not too subtle and technically not a lie. “The thing is that when I started . . . seeing him—this guy—I had no idea you two had dated.”

“Who I dated?” She goes quiet, and then her voice comes back a little smaller. “Wait, are we talking about Luke?”

I briefly consider lying or just hanging up all together, but I know this is something I have to do. “Yeah. I saw you two talking the other night, but didn’t really make the connection until today.”

I don’t know what I expected, but I know what I’d hoped for: a laugh, an immediate reassurance. Something to let me know this isn’t as big a deal as it feels.

Instead I get a stunned: “Oh my God. You’re seeing Luke?”

“I’m not really seeing him,” I clarify. “It just felt weird when I found out about your history, with us being friends and all.”

“I mean,” she starts, and then laughs once, breathily. “Sorry, this just surprised me. It’s fine—we’ve been over a long time, London—it’s just a surprise,” she says again. “I think my brain needs a second to catch up.”

“Mia, just so you know, it’s really not a thing between us at all.” I’m not sure if this helps my case because now I’ve basically admitted we’re only fucking. “It was this thing that sort of happened; he didn’t even have my name right at first.”

Oof. Stop talking, London.

Her laugh is stronger this time, more convincing. “No, no. I mean, you don’t have to explain how Luke is. He’s been with girls I know before, it’s just . . .” She falls silent, and I can tell we’re both struggling to find the best thing to say.

“Weird to hear about it, I’m sure,” I finish for her.

“Yeah, a little.”

I think of Luke’s phone constantly going off, of watching him leave with the brunette. I imagine what it must be like for Mia to see that over and over. And now I feel worse.

“Look, I know you don’t know all the details but I’m actually okay now,” she continues. I’ve heard stories of what a mess Mia was, both physically and mentally, in the years following her accident. But that Mia bears no resemblance to the one I met when she returned from France late last summer. The one who was so in love with her husband I have a hard time believing she’d ever been with anyone else at all. Mia sighs through the line. “We just—me and Luke, I mean—we went about things so differently afterward, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. Mia went on to marry the love of her life, and Luke is bringing home random girls every other weekend.

Luke might be all smiles and seem like he’s moved on, but a part of me wonders whether he truly has.

“I want him to be happy,” she says. “He’s a great guy and deserves to find someone a bit more . . . settled. And honestly, London, if he ended up with someone like you and was happy . . .”

I feel my eyes widen and I stand from the couch. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “Luke and I . . . we’re not a thing. We hung out a few times but that’s as far as it went. As far as it’s going to go.”

She laughs. “I’m just saying, I don’t want you to stop seeing him because of me. You haven’t broken some kind of Girl Code. Ansel is my husband, and my whole world. I do appreciate you calling, though.”

I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. I’m not sure I really feel any better. “Well, like I said, I wanted to be up front with you. Luke seems to keep popping up at Fred’s and I wanted to avoid any awkward.”

“I have noticed him hanging around a bit more,” she says, teasing now. “Wonder why that is . . .”

“I see what you’re doing,” I say, smiling uncomfortably and sensing my exit from this awkward phone call. “And on that note I’ll let you go. I should get to work.”

THANKFULLY, I DON’T see Luke for a few days, and by the next weekend—just like I hoped—I’ve managed to land a second job at a club downtown. It’s a bigger place, with celebrity DJs and the occasional pop star. It’s a lot sexier and younger than Fred’s, which means I’m expected to wear something on the skimpier side; there are more students and more young guys, and probably the need for another dimple jar.

It’s also a lot bigger, so there are four of us behind the bar at all times, and at least half that many barbacks running around. The girls get hit on—the guys, too—but it’s easy enough to put up with because the hours are exactly what I need, the tips are great, and if I can manage both jobs for a couple of months, I’ll have the money I need for a car and better software before I know it.

Drunk people who are about to get laid are great tippers.

If Lola thought I was gone all the time before, it has nothing on the first week I’m juggling both jobs. I work almost every day while I learn the ropes, and by the time my only night off comes, I’m nearly comatose on the couch, surfing through channels for what has to be the third time. A forgotten Lean Cuisine congeals on the coffee table next to my laptop; if I had a cat on either side of me this Single Gal picture would be pretty much complete.

My phone rings at my side, and I wince when I see my mom’s face flash on the screen. I consider ignoring it—I have never finished a call with my parents and felt anything other than disappointed in myself—but know that that’s only prolonging the inevitable. If she doesn’t talk to me tonight, she’ll call tomorrow, and the day after that. It’s probably better to get it over with while I’m in close proximity to the kitchen and that brand-new tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“London, honey. How are you?”

“I’m good. How are things at home?”

“I’m fine. Busy helping Aunt Cath plan the wedding. Your father’s out of town, so it’s nice to have something to do.”

“Right. Out of town,” I say, feeling my face heat. If my dad’s out of town, then he’s probably with his secretary—a woman he’s been cheating on my mom with for years—and it’s a subject I’ve learned isn’t worth touching.

“You’re not working tonight?” she asks.

“Nope, it’s my night off.”

“I called to see if you were absolutely positive you can’t come out for Andrea’s wedding. But if you’re busy I can call back tomorrow.”

“I’m just hanging out at home. And no, Mom, I just got a second job. There’s no way I can make it.”

She hums, disapprovingly, and I expect her to push but instead she asks, “Why are you at home on a Friday night? You’re still not seeing anyone?”

I take a deep breath and count to ten in my head. “Nope, not seeing anyone.”

“I worry about you out there all by yourself. London, you know you’ll never meet anyone sitting at home every night. I wanted you to come out so I could introduce you to Paige Halloway’s son. He’s a few years older than you but—”

“Mom.”

She sighs again. A long, drawn-out why-do-you-always-make-this-so-difficult sigh. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Justin is getting married.”

The words fall like a sheet of ice across my skin. “He is?”

“He is, honey, and I just don’t understand why it isn’t you.” When she says this, I feel something in me crack wide-open and spill every drop of hope for this conversation, and a hundred others like it. I want to give her a chance, always. And always, I realize too late why I shouldn’t.

I put my fist in my mouth so I don’t end up yelling. I keep it there because I know what is coming next, her quietly disappointed: “Why you broke up with that boy, I’ll never understand.”

No, you won’t, I think as soon as the words are out of her mouth. I’ll never tell you because it’s so much easier to let you think he’s the good guy than to let you know how long he cheated on me, and risk hearing you tell me it was my fault.

“I know, Mom,” I say as gently as I can. “It’s just all really complicated. But look. I’ve got to go.”

I hang up, and make a beeline for the ice cream.

AS FAR AS nights off go—with the obvious exception of the phone call with Mom and the news of Justin’s impending ­wedding—there’s not much I would change. I needed to sack out and do nothing. It’s why Lola didn’t argue when I declined the invitation to join her and Oliver for dinner.

But now, with the apartment empty, I’m bored. Bored and strangely restless. And if I’m honest, I’ve been like this all week whenever I have a second to breathe. I thought talking to Mia would ease my mind, but if anything, it’s made things feel more complicated. At the end she seemed almost encouraging about me and Luke, but she was assuming something different about our relationship, I think. And I just don’t know if I can handle him—or handle myself, with him.

With a look at the clock, I groan and sink farther into the couch, realizing it’s only seven. I consider going to bed for a little quality time with Old Blue, but even that doesn’t seem as appealing as it used to. I want to simultaneously strangle and congratulate Luke, because it’s a sad day when my favorite vibrator is no longer man enough to do the job.

On a whim, I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. Ruby’s still in London and with the time difference it’s only three in the morning there. Harlow is with Finn, and if I text Lola she’ll insist I put on actual clothes and meet up with them. I could meet up with Not-Joe, but we usually only hang out solo at the beach, and if we’re doing real talk here, he’s not the guy I want to talk to anyway.

Luke’s number isn’t in here, but I remember seeing it on a scrap of paper tucked into my purse. It takes another five minutes of inner monologue and rationalizing before I’m dropping back onto the couch, looking at a new text box.

I’m not actually sure what to do here. Even if I don’t have sex with Luke again—which I’m definitely not—I like him. He’s funny. He knows how to laugh at himself. He takes his grandmother shopping.

There’s nothing wrong with friends texting friends on a boring night alone, right?

Why did the snowman have on a happy face? I press send before tossing my phone to the side like it might actually burn me. I have definitely lost my mind.

It takes less than a minute for his reply, Is this my favorite dimpled bartender?

I roll my eyes as I type out, You’re supposed to say, “Why, Logan?” You’re not very good at this game.

I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me saving your cell into my contacts. Why, Logan?

I’m already laughing at my terrible joke. Because he heard the snow blower was coming.

A short pause. Wow. That was really terrible. I might have to delete your number now.

It was not, I insist. That joke was pure genius.

Ok. It did make me laugh, he types. Per usual.

Usual, I scoff. We’ve seen each other four times.

Want to make it five?

No.

Ok. What are you doing?

Well, that wasn’t the response I was expecting.

Cleaning my guns and researching vasectomies, I type.

My dad had a vasectomy because it made sex a lot more spontaneous, he tells me. My sister told me that on my 21st birthday because I backed into her car.

I blink down at my phone. I feel like I really get your sister, on a spiritual level, I reply.

Luke is an idiot. He is not my type. Why am I still smiling?

I know, I’m actually a little afraid of you two meeting.

So what are you doing tonight? I ask.

Same thing I did last night and the night before that, googling Titanfall cheat codes so I can kick your ass. When is my rematch?

That actually . . . sort of . . . sounds fun. I don’t answer for a few minutes. I walk to the kitchen and throw away my dinner. I rinse out a few dishes and tidy up again. And then I walk back to the couch and without thinking type, 20 minutes. Prepare for annihilation.

AS I CLIMB the stairs to Luke’s house, I’m overcome with a sense of déjà vu. I’m not here for sex—as I keep reminding myself—but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it since the last time I was here. I’ve never really had a regular booty call . . . is this how it happens?

Not that that’s what this is.

Luke’s street is quiet and lined with small, tidy ramblers, the windows all lit from within. I look around again as I knock on the door. There’s a large pot of daisies near the rug at my feet, and I don’t know which idea I like more—that his sister or mom put them there or that Luke did it himself.

A dog barks off in the distance and I can hear the hum of Luke’s TV through the open window. I know he’s probably in the kitchen from the sound of his steps as they move from tile to carpet and then tile again, and remember that the lock sticks the tiniest bit when you turn it. I have no idea when I noticed any of these things.

The porch fills with light and then Luke is there, smiling down at me. I feel the eye contact in my belly, like the low hum of electrical feedback. Adrenaline seeps into my veins and I consider turning and racing all the way down the stairs. Friends aren’t supposed to make you feel like this.

“Hey, you,” he says, still smiling, and it’s enough to send goose bumps along my skin. Taking a step back, he motions for me to come inside.

He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and has a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. The house smells faintly of bread and tomato sauce and my stomach quietly growls. I’m ambivalent about Luke being a better grown-up than me, cooking an actual dinner and cleaning it up while I could barely manage to peel the plastic wrap all the way off of my Lean Cuisine.

“I’m just finishing cleaning up,” he says, tilting his head for me to follow him.

His kitchen is bigger than one would expect given the size of the house, and it’s clear he was loading dishes when I interrupted him. I sit on a stool and he turns to me, a plastic-­wrapped bowl in his hand. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks. He opens the fridge and sets the dish inside. “I have beer, juice, milk, water, and—”

“Beer’s good,” I tell him. His laptop is open and on the counter and sure enough, a tab filled with Titanfall tips fills the screen.

He reaches for two bottles and sets them on the counter. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” I say, but reach for a leftover piece of garlic bread on a cutting board anyway. I smell it before tearing off a corner and popping it into my mouth. It’s fucking amazing. “Who taught you to cook?”

He smiles. “One: I know how to use a cookbook and I have access to the Food Network. Two: my mom and my Grams. They would kill me if I ordered pizza every night.”

“Pretty impressive, considering you had a fridge with nothing but Sriracha and celery before,” I tease.

He bends to close the dishwasher door and my eyes drag across his body. No, definitely doesn’t look like he’s eating pizza every night.

“There was string cheese,” he says with a smile. “And in my defense, I’d been crazy busy and hadn’t had time to shop. Strangely enough, I’ve had loads of free time this week.”

I don’t miss the subtle dig that I’ve been avoiding him, and wonder if free time means he’s actually been sans companion. Thankfully my mouth is full of garlic bread and I’m saved from asking.

“Titanfall or TV?” he asks casually, removing the tension from the moment. “I think there’s a Buffy marathon on Syfy tonight.”

I’m so grateful for his easy manner right now that I nearly want to launch myself over the counter. And the fact that he likes Buffy, too. Honestly: fuck him.

“TV,” I say instead.

I follow him into the living room and sit on the couch. The TV is on some sports channel and he takes the seat next to me and hands me my beer. “Can you grab me that remote?” he says, and I do, watching as he takes a drink from his bottle before setting it on the coffee table in front of us. Now that I’m here, I’m not really sure how much TV we’ll be watching, but I appreciate the gesture.

Luke settles into the couch and begins flipping through the channels, offering up commentary or asking a question about the various shows. He rests his arm on the back of the couch, behind me. This feels decidedly coupley—next to each other on the couch this way—but there’s something nice about sitting here tucked into Luke’s side, about his smell and the warmth coming off his skin, so I don’t comment or move away.

He begins to ask me something, but I cut him off, turning to face him slightly. “Can I ask you a completely random question?”

His eyes move over my face before settling on my mouth. “Of course.”

“Who planted the flowers on your porch?”

He furrows his brow for a moment until he registers what I mean. “Oh. Me?” he says. “Is that weird?”

“I have no idea,” I tell him.

He braces a hand on the side of my neck and tilts my face back so I have no choice but to look at him. “Friends busy tonight?” he says, thumb pressing at the underside of my jaw. It’s strangely relaxing.

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Guess I can’t really imagine you texting me if you had other options available.”

“They were busy,” I admit. I almost tell him that I don’t actually have a lot of friends here, and that I tend to separate myself a little from people anyway, so this thing between us is pretty new for me. A little scary.

I almost tell him all of this, but I don’t. It’s not what you say in this situation I’m trying to maintain.

“Nothing on TV at home?” he asks, smiling as he smooths my hair with the backs of his fingers. I find myself leaning into his touch, my shoulders loosening, my body sagging in his direction. Being near him is a little like slipping into a warm bath.

I shrug and Luke leans in, stopping just long enough to check in with me. I nod slowly and he closes the distance, brushing his lips over mine. “I’m glad you didn’t have anything else to do,” he says against my mouth. “I’m really glad I have your number now instead of Fred’s. I don’t want to kiss him nearly as much as I want to kiss you.”

And he finally does, making me feel that kiss from the place where our lips meet to the tips of my curling toes. I push him back, lifting my leg on the other side of his hip so I’m straddling his lap.

“Can I put my mouth on you?” he says, hand slipping between my legs, to rub me over my shorts.

I shake my head.

“Why again?”

It feels like my brain is short-circuiting and he’s only touching me over my clothes, back and forth and then small circles right where I need it. “We don’t do that.”

“Right,” he says, voice flat, expression guarded. “We fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he says, moving to undo the first button of my shorts and slowly sliding the zipper down. “But what about over your panties? I could put my mouth there, suck a little. Maybe hum the alphabet.”

“The alphabet?”

“Literacy is very important to me.”

“You are so persistent,” I say, and try to ignore the way his fingers are ghosting back and forth just below my navel.

“I’m persistent when I want something,” he clarifies. “And I really want that.” He takes my hand and holds it over his cock, and rocks into my palm as if to further illustrate his point. “See?”

I can see the shape of him beneath the denim of his jeans, long and pressed against his stomach.

A wave of heat flashes beneath my skin and I lift his shirt up and over his head in a rush, pulling his mouth to mine.

“Hey, hey,” Luke whispers, dragging his teeth over my bottom lip. “Slow down, Albuquerque. We have all night.”

“I’m not spending the night with you,” I tell him, pulling my own shirt off. I’m not wearing a bra and I suck in a breath when my nipples brush against the smooth skin of his chest. “I’m leaving when we’re finished.”

“We gonna fuck right here on my couch again?”

“I like this couch.”

His fingers slide inside my panties and down to where I’m already wet.

I can tell by his open mouth that there was a smart comment on the tip of his tongue, but he seems to have forgotten it. Instead, he pushes the tip of his finger inside me and drags his eyes along my collarbones and down to my breasts, before licking his lips. “Then we’ll fuck,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment before he grips me by the back of the neck and pulls me to his mouth. “Fuck slow this time.”

My fingers find his belt and undo the buckle, slipping the leather from his pants and tossing it behind me.

“Yeah,” he says, watching me pop open the buttons of his jeans and reach in, wrapping my hand around him. His cock is a living, pulsing heat in my grip. “Oh, God.”

He slumps against the back of the couch and watches, eyes dragging from where I’m touching him to where he’s touching me, and up to my breasts again. His cock is perfect, just like the rest of him.

“Pants off,” I tell him, lifting up while he shoves them down his thighs.

“You, too,” he says, and I stand.

I’m so wet the air feels cold as soon as he pulls down my shorts and underwear.

“Fuck, Logan, look at you.”

Everything in me bottoms out when his fingers slide up the inside of my thigh and he sucks in a breath—I’m wet to my thighs—and looks at me like I’m a meal and he’s deciding what to bite first.

Luke makes a guttural sound, and it vibrates down into my bones when his eyes meet mine. Brown sugar. Burnt sugar. Caramel.

“I can’t wait until you let me kiss you here.” His fingers slide over me, dipping inside, mimicking the movement his tongue would make against me. His other hand smooths up the back of my legs and he kisses my stomach, my ribs, just below my belly button.

“Condom?” I ask, and after a tiny pause, Luke nods against my skin, reaching down to find one in the pocket of his discarded jeans. I watch while he tears open the foil package and unrolls the condom over his length.

“Come back here,” he says, holding the base of his cock in one hand and guiding me over his lap with the other.

He leans in and sucks on my breast, teasing my nipple with his teeth and moaning around it. I sink down slowly and he pulls off with an audible pop, sitting back against the cushions to watch where he’s disappearing inside me.

“London.”

“Shhhh.”

“God. You’re so hot.”

I move over him, slowly. “Shhhh.”

“What?” he says, running his hands down my ribs and stopping at my stomach. “You expect me to be quiet right now?”

“You talk too much,” I say, laughing into his mouth.

It’s like he has some sort of superpower and already knows exactly how I like to be kissed. Open mouth, soft at first with just a hint of tongue. Biting kisses that move from teasing to frantic in the span of a few seconds. He pulls away for a breath just when I want him to, sometimes blinking up to catch my eyes or even just to look at my mouth. He kisses me like he still can’t believe he’s doing it.

I adjust the position of my knees and we both gasp as I bottom out, my ass coming to rest on his thighs. He’s so deep like this. “Oh my God,” I say, and press my forehead to his shoulder while I catch my breath.

His palms smooth down to my waist and he presses his thumbs into my hip bones. “I want you in my bed,” he says through a grunt, moving me, rocking me faster and then slow again. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and down his chest and I can feel the tips of each individual finger where he grips me. “I want to see you better, spread you out under me. I like the way you look. I like the way you smell. And fuck, Logan, I love the way you feel.”

“Such a poet.”

“You want poetry? I could write a fucking sonnet about the way your tits are bouncing right now. I want to burn the way they look into my brain.”

He leans in to bite me, and I can’t help laughing again. “You are such a boy.”

“Because I like the way you look naked?”

“Among other things,” I tell him, kissing his lips. “Shh. You’re distracting me.”

“I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“With my breasts?”

“Your breasts.” He sits up, nips at my neck before sucking gently. “Your neck, your mouth, your whole body.” His lips trail closer to mine, brushing across. “You.”

We kiss for long minutes and my movements narrow into small rocks forward and back, just feeling him inside me. I try to keep it together, try not to moan into his mouth or cry out when he reaches down and his thumb starts moving in practiced circles over my clit. I’m trying to keep this about sex, but the way he’s looking at me, the way he feels—it’s no longer that simple.

I dig my hands into all that thick hair, steering his mouth back to my breast and watching as he captures my nipple with his tongue. He bares his teeth, sliding them over the sensitive skin and I cry out, feeling him twitch inside me

“You like that.” It isn’t a question, it sounds like a revelation, like relief.

I nod, breath trapped in my throat and eyes locked on his expression of hope, like he wants to please me. Like it means everything to him right now.

“Can you feel it all the way down to your clit when I suck you here?”

I nod again, gasping at the tightening in my belly when he licks and sucks harder, growling around my skin.

His cheeks are pink and he’s flushed all the way down his neck. He’s watching me, watching us, the way we move together and the place where our bodies connect. I follow his gaze and look down between us, the way the muscles of his flat stomach clench, where the beads of sweat have collected in the hollow of his collarbones. I circle my hips and he groans, tightening his grip where he holds me.

“Jesus Christ. Do that again,” he says, and I do, moving over him and using the back of the couch for leverage. I could get drunk on his sounds, the moans and whimpers when he thinks he might be getting close, the shaky breaths when he holds off to wait for me.

Luke smacks a hand against the cushion before he throws his head back. “I’m so . . . I’m . . .” he says between short lungfuls of air. His fingers return to my clit with renewed enthusiasm, and he looks up at me. “Like this?”

I can only nod, eyes closed as I try and chase down this feeling, like a cord has been wrapped around my spine, connected to my nipples and where he fits inside me. It tightens with each rock of my hips, each thrust of his.

Tighter.

Tighter.

“Oh, God,” I say, the feeling spreading outward.

Tighter.

Luke pulls me down so our foreheads meet and it’s so intimate, I’m not sure whether I want to wrap my arms around him, or push away.

He changes the tempo of our movements and I want to scream but he’s suddenly so deep and I’m so close . . .

“Fuck, I can feel it. I feel it,” he says, eyes suddenly wide. “Yes. London.”

It’s like my muscles stop working as my orgasm twists through me. My skin is too hot but covered in goose bumps, my nipples hard and just shy of sore. I can’t think. Luke must sense the moment it happens because he takes over, grip tightening to the point of pain. He presses up into me, hard and fast and over and over until he’s coming with a long, helpless groan against my shoulder. When the haze finally recedes, I open my eyes to find him stretched out beneath me, arms splayed across the back of the couch, chest rising and falling and his torso slick with sweat.

I feel like I’ve just been on a run with Harlow, the kind where she makes us keep going and going until I can’t feel my legs and even my fingers are numb. My muscles feel wrung-out and my heart is pounding in my chest, echoing in my ears. I can’t catch my breath.

He reaches a weak arm up, brushing my hair out of my face. “Stay over.”

Nothing sounds better than falling into his cool sheets and not having to move again for another eight hours, but awareness pricks the back of my neck, tripping the heavy pounding of my heart: I like Luke.

I hear his phone buzz on the counter in the kitchen, and it’s like he’s opened a window, let in an icy breeze. I register that it’s been buzzing on and off the entire time we’ve been in here, but it just didn’t matter.

I climb off his lap and fall back to the couch, forcing myself to sit and search for my clothes.

“Hey,” he says between breaths. “Did you hear what I said? Stay with me.” He reaches for my arm and even the touch of his fingers against my skin is too much right now. “I’ll even forget those codes and let you kick my ass at Titanfall.”

“Let me.” I grin over at him, but I know it doesn’t look genuine. I am a mass of knots inside. I stand, slipping into my underwear. “Sorry. I really need to go.”

He pushes himself to sit up, and groans. “Oh my God, my abs. How is it that I was on the bottom and I’m this sore? I’m taking ninety-five percent of the credit on this one.”

I stand to face him. “You wish.”

He pauses with one hand dug into his hair. “You know, one of these days I’m going to get my feelings hurt with this little Nail and Bail thing you have going here.”

“‘Nail and Bail’?” I repeat. I reach for my shorts, but Luke stops me, taking my hand.

“I’m serious.” He releases my hand but reaches forward to frame my hips, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there. “Stay.”

My voice comes out a little shaky when I try to deflect. “I snore. It’s bad.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “Fine.” Then he gives me the real smile again, the one that makes his expression the warmest, sweetest one I think I’ve ever seen, and drops his hands. “I’ll let you go this time,” he says quietly.

He watches as I step into my shorts, stays quiet while I pull on my shirt. I feel his attention on my fingers as I button it from the bottom to the top.

When I’m done, he wipes a hand across his mouth, asking, “Do you want to get together this weekend?”

Fuck. Slowly, slowly he’s chipping away at my shell.

“Let’s just play it by ear, okay?”

Luke closes his eyes, exhaling a tiny, frustrated breath, before pushing to stand. He’s still naked, sweaty . . . perfect. I lean in when he wraps his arms around me, and inhale the mix of sex and sweat and soap on his skin.

“Sounds good, Dallas.” He bends, reaching up to cup my face and kisses me, slow and warm. I can feel his cock stir against me again, already.

But for once, he doesn’t press. He takes a step back, bending to pull on his boxers, and then walks me to the door. He doesn’t say anything else as I walk out, down the steps, along the sidewalk to my car, but I feel his eyes on me the entire way.

“Still fun,” he shouts from behind me. I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, practically naked. The porch light overhead throws shadows across his body, accentuating the width of his shoulders, the planes of his stomach, the definition of his hips. His boxers hang so low I can see the suggestion of hair, just above his waistband. Lucky neighbors.

“What was?” I ask.

I can see his smile from here when he answers. “You.”