Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Read online

  And all the while she tsked and muttered, checking every inch of exposed skin before pulling up my T-shirt and stroking a hand up my back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for bruises.”

  “If you want my shirt off, just ask.”

  She leaned back in front of me, more eye narrowing happening. “Archer,” she muttered, “so help me God, I will—”

  “I’ve already been threatened with lime juice tonight,” I said. “That’s a good one.”

  A long, suffering sigh.

  “Niki?”

  She froze.

  I caught her wrist, pressed a kiss to her palm. “Thank you.”

  Her lips parted, breath slipping out, and she was near enough that I felt it caressing my mouth.

  “You need to watch where you’re going,” she said. Another order, though this one was tempered, her tone gentled. Her fingers sifted through my hair. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured and drew her closer, until she sank down into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her waist.

  “For the record,” she said into my hair. “I shouldn’t give two shits about you getting run over on a dark street corner.”

  I chuckled. “Noted.”

  But she was letting me hold her, so I wasn’t going to complain.

  My body’s awareness of her grew, my cock remembering that it was near where it’d had a great time a month before, my fingers itching to sketch, to capture the fierceness that had been in her eyes when she’d snapped at me for not paying attention, my lips aching to taste her again.

  Eventually, though, she sighed and pushed out of my hold.

  Disappointment swelled. I knew she would be leaving, but as much as I wanted her, as much as I’d thought about her over the last month, as much as I felt this intense, persistent connection to her, Dominque didn’t owe me anything.

  I stood. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She went still. Then rotated back to face me, her hands on her hips. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re getting ready to leave,” I said. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I shrugged. “I guess . . . because you’re standing and heading for the door.”

  Silence. Then, “I was going to make you a cup of coffee.”

  I blinked. “It’s nearly ten.”

  The barest hint of pink appeared on her cheeks. “It’s the only thing I know how to make besides sundaes.”

  Laughter bubbled in my chest. “Coffee and sundaes sound like a good combination.” I stepped closer, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Also, it just so happens that I have the fixin’s for both.”

  “Fixin’s?” she asked, not backing away, even when I pressed closer.

  “Yup.” My mouth drifted to hers, pausing with the barest millimeter of space between our lips. “Fixin’s.”

  “Mmm.” A beat. “How’s your head?”

  My brows drew together. “Fine.”

  “And your arms?”

  “Also fine.”

  “And your—”

  “Every part of me is fine.”

  Her eyes, deep pools of melted chocolate, sparkled with laughter. That same laughter also bubbled out of her lips, filling the air with the lovely tinkling sound of her amusement. “Okay, well, Mr. Everything is Fine”—she wound her arms around my shoulders—“do you feel fine enough for me to make you sundaes and coffee?”

  Even if I’d been a broken, useless heap, I would have found the strength to be fine enough to do anything for this woman.

  Which was why I took her hand and led her to the kitchen.

  Chapter Ten

  Dominque

  I smacked Archer’s hand away. “I said, no touching!”

  He laughed and leaned a hip against the counter, his smile a bright flash of white in the dim light of the kitchen. “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to truly summon the power of a tornado inside.”

  Studying my work, I scooped out some more chocolate ice cream and plunked it into Archer’s bowl. Perfect. He was a big man, needed to have plenty of calories to fuel those delicious thighs. As to why I had the same amount of ice cream in my bowl, well, I’d worked hard that evening by pushing him out of the path of an oncoming car and tending to his wounds—cough, scrapes—so that definitely required extra calories courtesy of ice cream.

  I set the scoop on the counter, picked up the can of whipped cream, and began spraying it on my confection. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He picked up the scoop, used a paper towel to wipe beneath it, before placing it in the sink. “You equal tornado.”

  I made a face. “You’re one of those, aren’t you?”

  “One of what?”

  “A neat freak.”

  He clamped his hand to his chest, pretended to stagger back. “You wound me with such rhetoric.”

  I sprayed more whipped cream, and yeah, maybe I got a bit on the counter. So what?

  Archer swooped in, snagged the can from me, and snapped on the lid, returning it to the fridge, before coming back and wiping up my mess. “Aside from strongly believing in the healing qualities of cleaning, I don’t like to touch sticky shit.”

  I chuckled. “No, you don’t like to get your hands dirty.”

  He snorted.

  “What?”

  He ignored my question, asked, “Do I get hot fudge on my sundae? Cherries, nuts, and sprinkles?”

  Since it was furthering my consumption of ice cream calories, I picked up the bottle of hot fudge, drizzled it over both bowls, and paused because I’d spilled a few drops outside the bowls.

  Drops.

  Blobs.

  What was the difference?

  He snagged the bottle, wiped the top.

  I smothered a smile and went to work on the cherries, the nuts, the sprinkles. “You know what you need?” I asked, deliberately dropping a few of the nonpareils onto the counter, just to see what he would do.

  “What?” he asked, sweeping them into his hand and walking them to the trash can, dumping them in.

  “A robot vacuum.”

  He laughed. “Or a sundae maker who doesn’t delight in torturing me.” He dipped a finger in the bowl—

  “Hey, that’s mine!” I exclaimed, batting him away. “Hands off the—”

  He painted the whipped cream, syrup, and ice cream mixture over my lips.

  I shuddered.

  Fucking hell.

  Then his lips were on mine, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I forgot all about tormenting him with sprinkles and hot fudge. Instead, I just pressed closer and sank into the kiss. Chocolate and spice, sweet on my tongue, heat against my front, hands in my hair, a hard cock against my stomach.

  I moaned, jumped slightly, totally forgetting about his scrapes until I was already in his arms, but thankfully they didn’t seem to be bothering him because he grasped on to my thighs, coaxed them around his hips, and turned to set me on the kitchen table. Hard wood on my spine. A chair getting kicked out of the way, and then Archer on top of me.

  One hand slipped under my shirt, cupped my breast, teased my nipple, and, all the while, he continued kissing me, whipping my desire into a frenzy.

  I grabbed any part of him I could—his arms, his ass, his hair, his face. I yanked at his shirt, and he broke the kiss long enough to tear it off, leaned back enough to step out of his jeans, to work on mine.

  “Why in the fuck do you keep wearing these fucking torture contraptions?” he muttered, lifting my hips, yanking them down my legs, tearing them off along with my sneakers. They hit the floor with a soft th-wump, and he yanked off my panties, tugged me toward the edge of the table, dropped to his knees.

  “Oh fuck,” I breathed as he pressed his mouth to me.

  He groaned, the vibration sliding through me. His tongue and teeth and lips worked together, teasing me to a precipice in an unbelievably
short amount of time. He slipped a finger inside, reached up to roll a nipple between his fingers.

  And I exploded, my orgasm rolling through me in tsunami after tsunami. My lungs sawed, my body was covered in sweat, my limbs limp. “Archer,” I moaned.

  “I’m here,” he said, grasping my hand.

  “Inside me.”

  Hard muscles, a sharp inhale.

  And then he moved, and I watched him through hooded eyes as he bent for his jeans, extracted his wallet, and pulled out a condom.

  A crinkle.

  He rolled it down the length of his cock and stepped between my legs.

  And pushed home.

  I moaned at that first pleasure-pain of him sinking in, then again when he bottomed out, his hips meeting my thighs, his cock deep inside me.

  “Good?” he asked.

  I knew he was checking in with me, making sure I was fine, but that wasn’t the question I answered, what had me arching my back, my pelvis tilting to take him deeper. Instead, my, “Yes” was in reply to the wonderful feelings, the incredible sensations, the fury of need and pleasure that was intertwined within me.

  Somehow Archer knew that, and he chuckled, pulling out slowly, driving back in, driving me, slow and steady, back up the cliffside. And just like before, it didn’t take any effort to find our rhythm, to move together in a way that would send us flying in no time at all.

  Sweat gathered between my breasts, his rough hands filled my nerves with sensation. I was close again. Already.

  I wrapped my legs around him, held him tight, and when he murmured my name, his hand coming to my ass, tilting me for an even better angle, I came, convulsing around him, riding those tsunamis once more, and knowing that I’d done something both incredible and stupid.

  Because the invisible string tying me to this man had just grown exponentially stronger.

  He hadn’t fallen asleep this time.

  And I’d made a critical error in allowing myself to get carried away with this man while he was fully awake.

  Case in point, he’d lifted me, carrying me to the bathroom, setting me on the counter next to him while he washed up and took care of the condom. He snagged a bathrobe off the back of the door, slipping it around me.

  See? Awake.

  And doing things that made me all melty.

  Maybe I could hit him over the head with the . . . soap dispenser. Knock him out, get dressed, and run again.

  “You can’t knock me out with that puny thing,” he said. “It’s cheap plastic.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Want to bet?”

  “No.” After bopping me on the nose, he stepped into his closet, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, before crossing to me and stepping between my thighs. “But if you do”—he leaned in, put his lips to my ear—“you’ll never find where I hid your skinny jeans.”

  I laughed, despite myself. “Um, except, you didn’t actually hide them, just tossed them on the floor.”

  A shrug. “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it.” I pushed him back then slid off the counter, trying to ignore that he reached for me to ease me down, his warm hands gripping my arms. “I saw them en route. For such a neat freak, you sure don’t care where you toss my clothes.”

  A husky chuckle. “I promise to fold them later . . . if you’re around later.” There was the barest hint of challenge in his hazel eyes.

  “No guarantees.”

  He bent again, nipped my ear. “Okay then.” He straightened. “Let’s move. Your ice cream is melting.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’m only staying until I’ve had my sundae.”

  “What about my coffee?” he asked, tugging a strand of my hair. “I thought you promised to make me a cup.”

  My fingers brushed the doorjamb as I left the bathroom, padding with bare feet across the carpet of his bedroom, making my way across the kitchen and picking up my bowl. And then squirting some extra fudge on top, just for good measure.

  Archer’s voice hit my ears, shimmering down my spine, streaking between my thighs. “No coffee?”

  I huffed, glared at him over my shoulder, but I stomped to the pot, banged around his cabinets until I found the coffee and mugs, and set the machine brewing. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “Nope,” he murmured, having picked up his own bowl. He held two spoons in his other hand, lifted his brows. “Very not funny,” he added, even though the fucker was stifling a smile.

  More stomping.

  This time over to grab a spoon, snag my bowl, and using both to facilitate shoving ice cream into my mouth.

  Archer moved next to me, snaking an arm around my waist and sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs with me in his lap.

  “What are you doing?” I asked archly.

  “Sitting,” he said, holding the bowl in front of me and scooping from it. “Eating.”

  I huffed.

  He chuckled, and the warm breath on my nape mixed with the cold ice cream in my mouth, a shiver wracking through my body. Archer just pulled me closer, lifted his spoon again.

  After a few moments, I managed to relax enough to eat my own sundae, the sugar hitting my taste buds, my bloodstream, steadying my anxiety.

  The coffee pot hissed and bubbled, the bitter, roasted smell wafting up to my nose, and I found myself studying his space with interest and curiosity rather than going for a quick exit. He had that gorgeous pair of paintings on his far wall, an intriguing mix of colors and shapes taking up most of the space. Near them, another door was half-open, the lights off, and the shadows inside not revealing much of anything. Shifting, I glanced over my other shoulder, saw the brown leather couch, the large TV from before. Though, he had throw pillows and blankets on the surface, making it appear cozy. Like a place I’d want to curl up and watch a show.

  The thought of curling up anywhere with someone I’d fucked made an actual cold sweat break out on my spine.

  But before I could work myself up into a real tizzy, Archer stood, lifting me out of his lap and setting me on the chair, then crossed to the coffee pot, pouring two mugs. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Black,” I whispered.

  “So, I guessed right the other day.”

  Guessed right a month before.

  Thirty-one days of me thinking about him too much, about that night, about what might have happened if I’d answered the door.

  He set a mug in front of me then took our empty bowls to the sink and began washing up. I watched unabashedly, convenient since the task lent itself to him keeping his back to me.

  “Neat freak,” I muttered after drooling over his biceps for a few minutes.

  “And proud of it.”

  I sniffed, stood, started wandering around as I slowly sipped my coffee. I should have left. I’d announced it just fifteen minutes before. Staying was breaking the rules. But instead of leaving, I found myself moving toward the paintings on the far side of the room, drawn into the colors and the swirling brush strokes.

  “Snooping?” he asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder, saw he’d picked up our discarded clothes and was folding them. “You said I could.”

  “True.” That done, he moved onto wiping down the counters.

  I turned back around, studied the canvases.

  They really were quite stunning.

  “Who . . .” I trailed off, the question poofing away when I caught a glimpse of what was behind that half-open door.

  “Niki?” he asked.

  Too distracted to answer, I took my snooping to the next level, pushed into the room, and flicked on the lights.

  Chapter Eleven

  Archer

  I’d been happily scrubbing hot fudge from my granite when I caught the flicker of light out of the corner of my eye.

  Fuck.

  I spun just in time to see her disappear into my studio. Tossing down the towel and hurrying across the room, I instantly knew what she’d see and how it would appear.

  Canvas after canvas of
her.

  The slopes of her shoulder.

  Her mouth. Her eyes. Her hair.

  It had become nearly obsessive, and with me painting her over and over again. But even with all that practice, I hadn’t managed to capture her . . . essence. That was elusive, just out of reach.

  Something else that would be elusive?

  Dominque.

  Because she couldn’t even commit to a couple of hours together; what the hell was she going to do with thirty-plus canvases with her likeness on them?

  Run.

  Run fast. Run like hell. Run without ever looking back.

  And, truthfully, I couldn’t blame her.

  If I’d stumbled upon some weird-ass shrine erected and fawning over me, over my various body parts, from ears to mouth, from breasts to calves . . . I’d fucking run, too.

  “Niki,” I murmured, and she glanced up from my main work easel, from the newest piece I was working on, meeting my eyes for the barest moment before she spun slowly, taking in the canvases stacked, sometimes five deep, on the floor. She moved to one such pile, propped the first painting forward, paused as she studied the one behind and behind, until she’d made her way through the entire stack.

  Another glance at me.

  And then she moved to the next pile. Then the next and the next and the next, until she’d made her way around my entire studio, taking in every painting while I stood there helpless, thinking desperately for anything I might say that would make this seem less creepy.

  But nothing came to mind.

  So, I just stood in the doorway silently watching her, kicking myself because that was also creepy.

  Finally, she finished her circle and stopped in front of me.

  “You have paint on your arm.”

  I opened my mouth. Closed it. “I—”

  Her fingers brushed a spot on my left triceps, and I glanced down, saw the streak of blue. “Hazard of the job, unfortunately,” I said. “No matter how hard I try to be neat.”

  “Hmm.”

  She moved away again, stopped in front of the easel. “You’re very good,” she murmured.

  My lips parted. “I . . . thanks.”

  “You painted those pieces in the front room?”