“Why?”
“Because you were just with me.”
“Days ago,” she corrects me. Her eyes glimmer with a nervous glint but she is forcing herself to be cocky anyway as she tilts her head and puts her hands on her hips. “I’m new at this, remember? So is there an amount of days I have to wait after a one-night stand?'
“It was more than once,” I correct in a calm, factual monotone. It gets the reaction I was hoping for—Olivia's lip quivers as she fights a smile. "And no. There's no required wait time. However, if it's great, I mean, like mind-blowing fantastic, there's no need to rush out and add to the body count. It simply wouldn't be fair to the poor sucker who has to follow an eleven out of ten. Or fair to you."
She bats her dark, impossibly thick eyelashes. "Did you just seriously call yourself an eleven out of ten? To my face?"
“I didn’t.” I shake my head. “I’m just explaining facts to you, hypothetically. But if you think of me when you hear ‘eleven-out-of-ten’, then that’s very flattering. Thanks, Fireball.”
That’s it. She breaks. I can feel the light of the smile that takes over her face. It hits me in the chest and blooms like the night jasmine that peppers pockets of the city.
“Stop with the sex Jedi mind tricks, Inky,” she mutters and turns for the stairs.
I grab her wrist. She lets me. She stops moving but doesn’t turn to face me. It’s not much but it’s an invitation to continue whatever it is we’re doing. I step up behind her and use my free hand to slowly, deliberately lift her hair off her shoulders, exposing her long, delicate neck. My lips tingle with the need to touch her there. “If you’re still curious, don’t go looking to experiment with that guy.”
“Why not?” she counters, her voice firm but low. “How many women have you slept with since you lost your virginity?”
“Women? About…” There’s a brief moment of hesitation. Do I tell her the truth? Then I remember the promise I made to myself not to be ashamed of who I am. “Twenty-six. I guess you make twenty-seven women.”
“Holy shit,” she hisses and then clamps a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”
“No slut-shaming, Fireball. Remember I lost my virginity at sixteen, not twenty-two and three-quarters."
She turns around finally and we’re so close that I feel every part of her graze every part of my front and it's so hot I'm surprised we aren't shooting off sparks. Her cheeks are pink again and she drops her hand. "I really didn't mean it that way. I mean you're a hot rich hockey player. And you were in a relationship for years that turned into a marriage. But it’s not even close to the numbers I bet some of the other guys have pulled. And I bet my own cousins, some of them, are nearing triple digits. I mean… Theo. I worry about Theo. But anyway, I just, I mean, sixteen? That’s the part that blows my mind. At sixteen I think I was barely kissing boys. I was just so… anxious about it that it was never really enjoyable. And you were already getting naked and everything.”
“With my ex,” I explain and run my fingers through her hair again. Even though it’s just a little past her shoulder blades, it’s thick and lush and feels incredible. “We’d already been dating exclusively since we were fourteen so I mean, we knew everything about each other. It was a safe space, not some random thing. Looking back I think it was pretty damn romantic and poetic. But it should have ended in high school.”
Lifting her hair and letting it slide through my fingers fills the air with the scent of her shampoo, which is heavy with lavender and something citrusy, like orange. “That’s the woman you were married to?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
I stare at her as that statement hits me like an anvil because no one has ever said that to me about my marriage ending. Not a single person. She must take my stunned expression as a sign I'm upset because she backtracks. "I mean, obviously I'm not sorry you aren't married now because I'm not sorry we… did it. And I would be if you were married. I don't want a married guy so I'm glad you aren't but I'm still sorry because you seem like a really good guy and I don't think you went into marriage expecting it to end. I mean no one does, right? So I’m sorry you had a dream die, I guess. Is that weird? Well, anyway. I am. I’m sorry you went through that.”
“Can you stop talking so I can make out with you, please?”
“Uh… but we shouldn’t.”
“Right. We shouldn’t.” I nod. “But we’re gonna.”
“Okay. If you insist.”
I’m chuckling as I lean in and capture her smiling lips, but we both get serious as soon as our tongues meet. The kiss sucks all the humor out of us and turns it into passion and the next thing I know I’ve got her pressed up against the wall, her arms pinned above her head, and my rock-hard dick rutted up against her inner thigh because she's wrapped her leg around my hip and over my ass.
She feels so damn good all warm and soft and breathy as she whispers my name against the column of my neck and grips my shoulders with her delicate fingers. “We have to stop.”
“We do. I know,” I relent verbally but physically I’m still rubbing my dick all over her and she’s still bucking her hips a little. “Just tell me you like it.”
“I like it. I think of this all the time,” she confesses softly, her fingers scraping down my back just hard enough for me to feel it through my shirt. “Running into you, kissing you, doing more than kissing with you…”
“Do you touch yourself when you think of it? Of me?”
I roll my hips and shift to the left so I’m no longer bumping against her inner thigh, now I’m lined up with her sweet center and praising whoever invented the thin gauzy fabric her skirt is made of, because it doesn’t make for much of a barrier. I can feel her warmth through it, even though it’s bunched up between us.
“Olivia…?”