One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material Book 3) Read online

  “Of course it’s just a shower. A shower at my place. Besides, you said sex doesn’t change a thing,” I point out with a smirk.

  “Ah. So there’s going to be sex in the shower?”

  I raise my hands, like I’m shocked. “Whoa. Who said anything about a group shower?”

  She clasps her hand to her chest. “Oh, right. My bad. Of course you invited me over for a solo shower.”

  I lift my chin. “Exactly. I’m only concerned about my olfactory senses.”

  When the door opens on my floor, she exits first. “In that case, I’ll make sure your nose doesn’t suffer.”

  Not only does my nose not suffer, my eyes don’t either.

  Lola strides into my apartment, tossing a glance at me as she goes. She drops her purse on the floor, nibbling on her lip while she kicks off her shoes.

  Holy fuck.

  She wastes no time.

  She walks through my living room, paying no heed to the books on my coffee table, the artwork on the wall. Turning to me, she tugs at the hem of her T-shirt, slides it up an inch, another inch, then a few more.

  Revealing a supremely lickable sliver of her belly.

  My bones vibrate with lust. “Is that your clubbing look? Something to show off a little midriff?”

  “Maybe it is.” She shimmies the shirt higher as she heads for the hallway, on a beeline for the bathroom. “Maybe this is how I dress for a hot date.”

  Yes. That’s exactly what I want to hear.

  A rumble works its way up my chest.

  Yanking off my shirt, I toss it on the floor. “Are you going on a hot date, Lola?”

  She continues down the hall, looking back at me, lifting the shirt the rest of the way, only to let it fall to the floor, giving me a sneak peek at—fuck me now—her cranberry-red bra.

  “Yes, I have a ridiculously hot date in about one minute, and I need to make sure I’m in just the right outfit for it,” she says with a little sashay of her hips.

  Her hands move to the front of her jeans, and I groan at the sound of her zipper. When she reaches the bathroom door, she spins around, slides the denim down her hips, then sheds them.

  I swallow roughly. My throat is dry. My chest is a furnace.

  She’s nearly naked, and I can barely stand how stunning she is.

  I need her. Now.

  Bending, I unlace my boots, watching her the whole time as I pull off one, then the other.

  She reaches her hand behind her back, continuing to taunt me.

  To tempt me.

  To reveal herself to me.

  Unhooking the bra, she drops it in the hall.

  I scrub a hand across my jaw. “Your outfit isn’t finished,” I warn as she steps into the bathroom and heads for the shower.

  “Don’t worry,” she purrs. “I’m not quite done putting it on. Almost there.”

  I unbutton my jeans, pushing them down, kicking them off.

  Stretching a hand into the shower, she cranks on the faucet then turns, stopping in front of me. She hooks her thumbs into the lace of her panties.

  I’m. Dead.

  Just. Fucking. Dead.

  This woman is killing me with her striptease.

  “One more little thing,” she says, “and my outfit will be all set.”

  I’m stone, hard as a statue, hotter than a sidewalk in the summer, as Lola glides her panties down her legs, steps out of them, and then tosses them at me. I grab the scrap of lace in one hand, my eyes never leaving the goddess as she steps into the steamy shower.

  I bring the panties to my nose, inhaling her sexy, erotic scent.

  I’ve never been this aroused.

  Never wanted anyone so damn much.

  “Your outfit is perfect,” I growl.

  “Thanks. But you’re not in your hot-date clothes, Lucas,” she taunts as the water streams down her lush body.

  I rectify that in seconds, stripping out of my boxer briefs, stepping into the shower, and shutting the door behind me.

  “So it is a group shower,” she says.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I shut her up with my mouth, kissing her hard and passionately.

  Kissing her like she’s mine.

  Like she belongs to me.

  That’s how it feels after this surreal twenty-four hours with the woman I thought I couldn’t stand.

  But now I can’t stand not touching her, not tasting her, not having her.

  I seal my mouth to hers and kiss her like a starving man. Her lips are spectacular, and her body is heaven, all silky soft and sliding against mine as the hot water beats down, the steam wrapping around us, enrobing us in this private cocoon of lust and desire and something more.

  Of second chances perhaps.

  I cup her cheek, slide my hand into her hair, and kiss her like I don’t want to stop a damn thing.

  I don’t want to stop falling into her.

  But there is something I desperately need to start.

  Something she wants.

  Something I’ve fantasized about.

  I break the kiss. “Sit down. Spread your legs. You’re going to get what you asked for this morning.”

  22

  Lola

  If there are guidelines for how to rekindle a friendship as extinct as the dodo bird—and there probably are, if I had looked—they might not include tit for tat in the oral department.

  And yet, here I am.

  On the bench in Lucas’s shower.

  Ready, so damn ready for him.

  Judging from his feral look and the steel of his cock, he’s ready too. He stares between my legs as he grips his shaft, stroking.

  But he’s not interested in playing with himself.

  I’m his plaything, and in seconds he’s on his knees, the water drumming his back, his hands sliding up my thighs.

  “You smell so fucking sexy,” he groans, kissing my thigh, moving closer to my center.

  I tremble at the feel of him. I can’t even joke about llamas or noses, can’t toss back a saucy remark. I’m too turned on. I’m buzzing, intoxicated with lust.

  And then I’m lost.

  Absolutely lost to his touch when he kisses me where I want him most.

  Kisses.

  Licks.

  Sucks.

  Just like he promised.

  He’s intense and hungry as he devours me, making the sexiest sounds, animalistic murmurs, as he goes down on me.

  My hands shoot to his wet hair, my fingers curling around his head as desire spins through my body, making my toes curl too.

  “Yes, oh God, yes. So good.” I urge him on, but he needs no encouragement.

  He’s a man on a mission, and the mission is me. Eating me, tasting me, pleasing me.

  He goes down on me like he does everything. Passionately.

  The shower rains, steam rises, and pleasure builds in me. I grip him harder, lean my head back, let the feelings wash over me.

  With my eyes closed, I give in to everything. To him. To tonight. To sex. To us.

  “Lucas,” I moan, loving the way his name sounds on my tongue. Loving everything about how my body sizzles from his touch.

  How sparks spread through me.

  How my belly tightens as the ache intensifies.

  “It’s so good. God, I want to come on you,” I whisper as he flicks his tongue in the most delicious rhythm.

  He barely breaks contact, stopping only to rasp, “Then come on me. Come on me any fucking time.”

  He resumes his pace, drawing my clit between his lips and sucking. My thighs start to shake, and my release hovers on the horizon.

  I part my legs wider, needing more, wanting to give myself over to him, to this moment, to this dangerous new land we’ve traveled to.

  Pleasure.

  Lust.

  Connection.

  But it’s so much more.

  It’s everything I felt for him once upon a time.

  And knowing that does something . . .

  Tips me
over.

  Sends me soaring.

  And like that, I’m falling apart for him, as white-hot pleasure races through my body. I come like it’s the only thing I want to do in the world.

  I’m not at all quiet, but I don’t want to be.

  I’m outrageously loud.

  I want to feel everything.

  Experience everything.

  I moan his name one last time, loving the taste of every sound on my lips.

  A minute later, I blink open my eyes and find Lucas kissing my legs, my belly, my breasts. Then he stands, steps out of the shower, and opens a drawer in the vanity.

  When he returns, he holds a foil packet in one hand, asking a question without words.

  “Yes,” I say, desperate, so desperate for more of him.

  “Good. Because I fucking need you right now, Lo,” he says, his voice bare, his eyes honest. He opens the condom and sheaths himself.

  I rise, still tingling all over, still high from that orgasm.

  He moves me against the tiled wall, hikes up my leg, and hooks my ankle around his hip.

  Sinking into me, he groans, a deep carnal sound. One I want to hear him make over and over.

  For me.

  With me.

  Because of me.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he growls into my ear, swiveling his hips and bringing me closer, like he’s luxuriating in this unexpected intimacy.

  “So do you,” I whisper.

  There’s more I want to say.

  As he moves in me, filling me, fucking me, I want to tell him everything I’ve learned today. Everything the last twenty-four hours made clear.

  That he is the one who got away.

  He’s the man I connect with.

  He’s the person I was falling in love with so many years ago.

  And right now, he’s that same man again.

  But I don’t know how to say those things without them going terribly awry.

  I don’t know how to give voice to feelings so deep without losing what I’ve only now found again.

  So, I focus on the present as we move together under the water.

  As he fucks me hard against the tiles. As he grips my ass, driving deep into me.

  It’s all so intense.

  I close my eyes, needing the feelings to take over, needing the physical to blur the beating of my heart.

  Sensations wash over me, spiraling to each corner of my body. I shudder with every thrust, every move.

  “Look at me,” he commands.

  I open my eyes, and I gasp.

  He’s staring at me, desire blazing across those dark eyes. “This,” he rumbles.

  “I know,” I gasp.

  “I fucking know too.”

  That’s all we say. Because he’s watching me, gazing at me with so much intensity. His passion—it’s who he is. But now, I feel that passion for me. In how he stares at me, touches me, talks to me.

  Wants me.

  With everything he has.

  My heart slams against my chest, thundering powerfully.

  Because I can see something else in his eyes too.

  This isn’t the start of something.

  No, this started a long time ago.

  For both of us.

  The trouble is, I don’t want to lose him for another ten years.

  And I’m grateful, damn grateful for the orgasm that grips me, tugs me under, and ricochets through my body.

  Blotting out all the emotions I haven’t a clue what to do with.

  23

  Lucas

  She looks good in my T-shirt.

  Hell, she looks good in everything, including my home.

  She’d look good in my life.

  No, she looks great in my life, and I don’t want to see her out of it again.

  It’s nerve-racking. The last time I felt this way was with her, and look what happened.

  We combusted, splintered into shards, and we’ve only begun to put the pieces back together, and that’s only because we were forced to.

  That’s what happens when emotions take over. They break you apart.

  The bags of clothes in the living room are a reminder that feelings this intense lead to arguments and splits, to makeups and breakups, and maybe even to capricious landlords scattering your things all over the tri-state area.

  That’s why I’ve wisely avoided entanglements all my adult life, and keeping those blinders on has served me well. I have this sweet apartment, a growing business, and a healthy client list.

  What I don’t have are the hassles and headaches that inevitably come with a relationship.

  Something Lola doesn’t seem to want either, based on our conversation at The Cousin Sanctuary.

  That’s why it’s a damn good thing we both know sex doesn’t change anything, no matter how stupendous it is.

  When we’re fully dressed post-shower—her in her jeans and a shirt of mine that says If you can’t play nice, play lacrosse, and me in jeans and a gray shirt—she scans the walls of my apartment, landing on a Pollock print.

  She points at it. “Hey! You still like Pollock.”

  “I do. It makes me think about whether abstract art can represent a thing,” I say, recalling our conversation when we first encountered each other.

  “I think it can,” she says thoughtfully.

  “Me too. I like to think this piece represents . . . a lacrosse stick.”

  She laughs. “You and lacrosse.”

  “I love it. No matter what. In fact, I have practice tomorrow.” Those are two things that work well in my life—sports and friendship. “You should come to a game sometime.”

  She arches a brow. “Be your cheerleader?”

  I smile and nod at her, loving that idea. Then my gaze drifts to the Pollock. Right now, it represents something else. It’s my reminder that we started as friends the day we met, and we can stay friends now, no matter what else happens.

  I clear my throat. “So, I guess we don’t smell like llamas anymore.”

  “Group shower for the win,” she says with a pump of her fist and a glint in her eye.

  I rub my palms together. “Ready to tango?”

  Before she can answer, both our phones buzz, a second apart. I grab mine and click on the text from Rowan.

  Rowan: Settle this for us. Do I look more like a llama or does Luna?

  An image follows of the two of them making animal faces—or so I surmise.

  Rowan: Luna says I look like an alpaca. I think she does, but she keeps insisting I’m the alpaca! But that’s nuts, right? She does. She totally does.

  Shaking my head, I hit reply.

  Lucas: Before you venture down this rabbit hole, are you sure “alpaca” is a compliment?

  Rowan: Dude! I love alpacas. Love them so madly they’re all I think about sometimes.

  Rowan: Also, that was hyperbole.

  Rowan: But I do love them madly. I should write a simile song about loving Luna like I love alpacas.

  Rowan: One more thing. I fucking love you like an alpaca too. But brotherly alpaca love, know what I mean? Also, cell service is spotty again! See you later.

  Lucas: And I love you like a llama.

  I close the text and look at Lola, who’s smiling as she types.

  “Luna?” I ask.

  She nods. “They’re arguing about—”

  “Alpacas and llamas,” I finish, imagining the other end of the debate.

  “It never ends with them,” she says.

  “It never does.” It comes out more heavily than I expect. But I’ve seen where fighting can lead. Today, the tiff might be over llamas and alpacas. Tomorrow, it could be houses and lives.

  She swipes her thumb across the screen, then blinks at it. “Did you see this?”

  “See what?”

  “It’s just this email from Design-Off. The competition.”

  I go to my inbox, opening and scanning the note. It’s a recap of the event and the details of the presentation. I rea
d the last few lines out loud. “As a reminder, the winner of the award will have his or her work featured prominently on our website and in our literature for the year ahead. Past winners have gone on to design for Madison Avenue agencies, Fortune 500 firms, and noteworthy start-ups. We wish all of you the best of success.”

  She looks up, excitement in her eyes. “Speaking of Design-Off, I need to refine my presentation. I have to do that tomorrow.”

  I scratch my jaw. “Same here. Guess we better get this show on the road?” I point my thumb to the door, and she grabs her sister’s bag of clothes and the songwriting notebooks.

  “Time to tango.”

  As we wind around the staircase up to the tango studio, time presses heavily onto my shoulders. My boots weigh a hundred pounds.

  An unfamiliar bout of anxiety zips through me, which is odd and fucking unacceptable.

  I have nothing to worry about.

  Lola and I are killing it in this quest. That’s what matters—we’re finishing on time. Hell, we’re finishing early.

  “So,” I begin, keeping my tone light, “has it occurred to you we could have a future as career scavenger hunters?”

  She laughs, but it’s short and humorless. “As long as the hunts center on our siblings.”

  She seems to feel it too—like time is running out for some reason. But I give a full-court press on the friendship thing. “Nah. We have serious skills, Lo. We could crush it in competitions.”

  “Then you let me know when you find a scavenger hunt league, Lucas,” she says wryly.

  There. That’s better. Awkwardness banished. We’re doing this right this time, dammit.

  We reach the second floor, and Lola taps on the glass door of the studio. I peer inside. A woman in a satiny red dress meets our gaze, a smile tugging at her pouty red lips, lighting up her face.

  “She looks exactly like you’d expect a tango instructor to look,” I remark.

  Lola smiles. “She does. She’s straight from central casting, with that cascade of black curls, those hips, and legs for days.”