“Tango sounds hot,” I offer.
His lips twitch into a sexy smirk. “Very hot.”
I let go of his shoulder, and we resume our pace. My apartment is one hundred feet away.
Fifty.
Twenty-five.
And I ask myself again what I want.
To look up tango clubs?
Or do I want to tango with this man?
Both. All. I want it all. I want this chemistry, and I want the chance at friendship too.
But first, this.
When I reach my apartment, I turn to him. “I have the answer to your earlier question.”
“I’m all ears,” he says, knowing exactly which one I mean.
I’m not sure where this night is going. But I know where we’re going right now.
Inside.
“The answer is—it depends how ungentlemanly you can be,” I say, leaving a brand-new opportunity wide open.
“I can be incredibly ungentlemanly,” he says.
When the door falls shut behind us, I find out exactly how much.
10
Lucas
Friendship is awesome.
Letting go of the past is great.
Helping my brother is in my DNA.
But kissing Lola? Yeah, I’d sell half my soul for that.
Only, I don’t need to. I don’t need to text my brother either. Because this landlord quest is the last thing on my mind right now.
The second the door closes to her apartment, I set down the guitars and bags, back her up to the wall, and run my fingers down her bare arm. Gooseflesh rises on her skin. Her breath hitches. She flicks on a light. And she arches toward me.
Yes.
I’d like a little something just for me right now.
Not for work. Not for family. And not for any other reason than the simplest.
Want.
I wanted her a decade ago. I want her even more now.
I lift my hand and run my thumb along her jaw. “Just so you know, if I took you on a date tonight, I’d take you out to dinner. I’d walk you home. But I’d also definitely fuck you.”
Her eyes widen invitingly, and her hand darts out, grabbing my belt, yanking me toward her. “How do you know I’d let you?”
I wiggle a brow. “I can be very convincing.”
“Convince me.” Her fingers play with the waistband of my jeans.
“Let’s see if this convinces you.” I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, and she shivers. Inching closer, I whisper, “I still remember how your lips taste.”
“How do they taste?”
“Incredible,” I say, as a rumble works its way up my chest. “So fucking incredible. But I keep wondering . . .”
I let my other hand travel down her side, along the edge of her breast to her waist. Her sexy stomach. My God, I could not keep my eyes off her whenever she showed a sliver of this fantastic stomach. I wrap my hand around her trim body, as she asks, “What are you wondering?”
I don’t tell her the whole truth. That I’ve thought about her over the years, remembered our kiss with both desire and regret. That I’ve wondered what would have happened between us—not only on our first date, but after that.
Now isn’t the time to share those truths, so I stick to a simpler one. “I was wondering how much better you’d taste tonight. Especially since I’ve been wanting to kiss these lips since I first saw you outside my brother’s place.”
“Don’t wait,” she says.
“I won’t.” I seal my lips to hers, groaning the second we make contact. Sweet and fiery. That’s how she tastes.
I slide my hand along her jaw, cupping her cheek, holding her gorgeous face.
Taking my time, I kiss her slowly, teasing her, taunting her.
Wanting to hear her gasp, to feel her squirm against me.
And she does. Oh hell, does she ever writhe and grind.
And touch too.
Her fingers have a mind of their own, tap-dancing all along my jeans, playing with my belt, exploring.
It’s such a turn-on, her eagerness.
My skin sparks with lust. Desire speeds inside me, racing along as I deepen the kiss.
And she welcomes it, welcomes me, kissing me back so damn fiercely I can barely wait to get her naked.
Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, this isn’t college all over again.
This isn’t a gentle, curious exploration. She’s not a woman who’s simply content to let a man touch her.
She’s become a woman who owns her pleasure fully.
And it turns me on more than ever before.
Because I’m not the guy I was before either, with a one-track mind.
I have many tracks, and they all lead to her.
The things I want to do to her now . . .
My mind runs away with dirty images as I kiss her harder, rougher. Our teeth scrape together. Our hands grab at each other. Our bodies grind, press, push.
In no time, she’s tugging at my T-shirt. “Take this off,” she commands.
I grin. “I knew you liked to give orders.”
“Yes, I’m demanding when I’m turned on. And I demand you get this off right now. Then me.”
Laughing, I reach for the hem, tug it over my head, and drop it to the floor.
“Fuck,” she mutters as she stares at my chest, her eyes glossy with sex.
“Fuck, what?” I ask innocently.
“Fuck your body. That’s what,” she says, dragging her nails down my chest.
“Yes. Yes, Lola. That’s the idea.”
Her fingers travel from my pecs down to my abs, tracing the grooves. “You’re concrete. Sexy, ridiculously hot concrete.”
“Why, thank you for the strangest compliment ever,” I say, laughing, but my laugh is cut short when she lingers on my stomach.
I shudder.
Because fuck, her hands.
She’s incredible.
Her touch is otherworldly.
It’s better than those French fries.
It’s hotter than our kiss.
I want to revel in it, linger on the sensation of her eager fingers roaming my body.
But I’m not a submissive kind of guy.
I’m a take-charge man. “How about some fair play, Dumont?”
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says in a purr that sends a bolt of lust straight down my spine directly to my cock.
I lift up her shirt, raising it over her head and groaning appreciatively when my eyes drink in her belly, the curves of her breasts, the hollow of her throat. “You are stunning,” I say, all gravel and truth.
No more toying.
No more teasing.
“So are you,” she whispers.
Roping my arms around her back, I unhook her pink bra, letting it fall to the floor. Then I indulge.
I cup and knead and squeeze those beauties. I dip my face to the valley of her breasts, licking a line between them, then lavishing attention on the two perfect globes. I don’t play favorites—I make sure each breast receives equal love from my tongue, my lips, and my teeth.
Since Lola loves bites. Something I’m learning tonight.
Something I never knew before.
I nibble on her flesh, and she moans, a long, feral sound. When I draw a nipple into my mouth and bite, she sighs with what sounds like delirious pleasure.
And as I bury my face between her tits, her hands curl around my head, pulling me impossibly closer.