Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Page 7

  She reached for another pancake as I ladled more batter then topped the ones on the plate with syrup and powdered sugar. As she ate the naked pancake, I retrieved the forks from the table and handed her hers. “I bet you do.” Her eyes flicked to the studio with my shrine to all things Dominque then back to mine, amusement drifting across her face. “Go on and eat,” she encouraged. “Before I scarf them down.”

  I pushed the plate toward her. “Yours.”

  I retrieved another from the cupboard. “Mine.”

  Mirth had her lips turning up. “Probably for the best,” she said, scooping up a big bite. “What about painting, how’d you get into that?”

  “I couldn’t ever imagine doing anything else.” I shrugged. “Luckily, I have some talent and an audience to buy them.”

  Her brows dragged together. “So, why are you working in the bar?”

  “Kace needed help,” I said, and when her brows didn’t relax, I added the rest of the truth. “And I needed a fresh start after my divorce.”

  The fork was suspended an inch from her mouth. “Divorce?”

  I nudged the tines closer. “Yup. I had the bad luck to both marry young and marry the wrong person.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Since the pancakes were done, I flipped them on the plate then doused them liberally with sugar and syrup. “I’m not. It’s been official for about six months now, but it was over long before that.”

  “Still sorry,” she said before slipping the bite into her mouth.

  “We wanted different things.” I used the side of my fork to cut a chunk of pancakes. “Have you ever been serious with someone?” I asked, shoving the bite in while I waited to see if she would answer, if she’d give me something personal.

  Brown eyes, deep pools of melted chocolate, met mine, hesitation in their depths. “Yes,” she murmured.

  Three letters.

  What some might consider a minimal response.

  And yet, those three letters gave me a wealth of information.

  Yes, she’d loved someone.

  Yes, they’d broken something in her.

  Yes, I wanted to rip them limb from limb for daring to hurt her.

  She pushed the plate away, half the second helping of pancakes consumed but now accompanying a sick expression, and I knew that as much as I wanted to know everything that had happened, to ferret out each bit of information about the asshole, she was getting ready to run.

  Which meant I needed to switch gears.

  “Have you always lived in the Bay Area?” I asked.

  She swallowed, rolling the fork between thumb and forefinger. “No, I moved here about a year ago. More of my business was on this coast, and I didn’t want to live in the city.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said, thinking of this town we’d found ourselves in, just north of San Francisco, its peninsula approaching the Bay on one side and the ocean on the other, a quaint little downtown, low-slung buildings. There wasn’t any structure over three stories, and the colorful houses blended in with the parks and green space to create a small town feel with many of the amenities of a big city.

  “Where’d you live before?” she asked.

  “LA.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured, her head tilting to the side, her eyes on my face as she studied me like I was a slide under a microscope.

  I put down my fork. “What?”

  “You don’t seem the LA type.”

  That much was true. I’d grown up on the central coast of California, spending my days on the beach, surfing in water that was colder than the beaches of SoCal, and my nights in the little farm town, drinking too much and finding trouble wherever I could.

  And that trouble had been few and far between.

  Because small town.

  Because . . . truthfully, I wasn’t much for trouble. Never had been. Never would be. Though, I thought, my gaze drifting to Dominque’s, I was definitely into finding the type of trouble she’d bring. “Niki?” I murmured.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not the LA type.” I grinned. “I could be your type, though.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You think you’re charming.”

  “I know I’m charming,” I teased, relaxing when she picked up her plate, went back to consuming large amounts of carbs.

  “Shut up and eat,” she muttered, shoving a bite in. “I need to get my car back.”

  “That’s extortion,” she grumbled as we walked out of the office. “Three hundred dollars?” Her scowl was fierce as she strode across the parking lot and handed her papers to the attendant.

  I shrugged. “It’s reality.”

  “It’s a shitty reality,” she huffed as she took back the papers and started walking in the direction the attendant pointed.

  “That much is true,” I said. “Next time, just park in my guest spot, Niki girl.”

  She glared at me. “First, what makes you think there’s going to be a next time?” More glaring. “And second, why do you keep calling me Niki? No one in my life has ever called me—”

  I snagged her hand, drew her against me. “Good,” I said.

  Fuck, she was pretty when she scowled. “That’s ridiculous—”

  I kissed her, sweet and spice in my nose, on my tongue, affection blossoming in my heart. Well, it had been there already, had been, to keep with the metaphor, blooming over the last month, and the extra time with her, with her sass and fierceness, had watered that vine, had helped it grow into something hearty, something with the promise of so much more.

  “You taste like pancakes,” I murmured, after gentling the kiss, after slowly peeling my lips from hers.

  My hand was still in her hair, the silken locks beyond soft, matching the emotion in her eyes, and I had the sense that I’d won a victory, albeit a small one. She smiled. “What else can you cook?”

  “Park in my guest spot tonight and find out,” I cajoled.

  “I . . . can’t.”

  That sense of victory tanked, the promise shriveling up. I still had plenty of determination, wouldn’t give up easily, not when whatever this connection between us was more than just lust. But I could also only do so much in pursuit. If she truly didn’t want me, want more between us, then it wasn’t like I could force her to like me enough to take the leap.

  Either she would jump, or she wouldn’t.

  However, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t attempt to charm her into taking that first step and—

  “I have to work,” she said, and I didn’t think I was losing it when I thought I saw real regret in her expression. “And it’ll be late, considering that I’ve spent the morning downing pancakes when I should be searching through servers and organizing data.” She stepped back, and I released her hair.

  “You’re sexy when you talk about your work.”

  She bleeped her key fob, and I heard her car respond the next row over. “Should I discuss security parameters? Or maybe tell you how to avoid ransomware?” She smiled. “I can also give you techniques for how to utilize the back door.”

  My cock twitched.

  It shouldn’t have, since I wasn’t into anal.

  But . . . I think I’d be into pretty much anything if it involved this woman. Role playing, spanking, toys, public sex. The only limiting factor would be my imagination—and I had a vivid fucking imagination.

  “You know, you never told me why you call me Niki.”

  I hadn’t.

  Because I didn’t have a good reason.

  To me, she was just . . . Niki. And that no one else called her that was a bonus. It was another thread between us, tying us together, tying her to me when I was desperate to keep growing those connections.

  “You hate it?” I asked.

  Dominque paused, her hand on the door handle. “No.” A sigh. “I just . . . well, my childhood wasn’t one for informalities. My parents were strict, and I don’t just mean about using my full name.”

  I leaned against the roof of her car. “What else
were they strict about?”

  She was quiet for so long I expected her to not answer, especially when she tugged open the driver’s side door and sat down in the seat. “An easier question to answer would be what weren’t they strict about?”

  “Boys?” I asked lightly.

  Laughter. “Yes, they were strict about boys.”

  “And clothes?”

  A roll of her eyes. “Yes, also about clothes.”

  “Movies? TV shows?”

  “What, is this a rundown of the typical teenage girl’s life?”

  “No,” I teased, crouching down next to the car, resting my palm on her thigh. “It’s a rundown of my life.”

  She had a magnificent smile, one that seemed to change the atmosphere around her, making it writhe and tingle with electricity. Static crawling down the skin on my bare arms, lifting the hairs there, that charge gathering, waiting, just coiling, readying itself to release.

  “Such a wild thing,” she said sardonically.

  “So true,” I told her. “Give me an easel and paints, and I just go bananas.”

  More smiling, though this one was accompanied by laughter that glazed over all the rough spots inside me, smoothing out the barbed edges, so that when she asked, “What were your parents like?”

  “Great,” I said, the memories washing over me. Fuck, they’d been really great, had filled my life with easy happiness. I’d never for a moment wondered if I’d been loved. “I was one of the lucky ones. My friends would always hang at my house because they were so cool.”

  “Let me guess”—her lips curved—“your mom would bake homemade cookies and deliver them to you and your friends while you juggled game controllers.”

  “Not quite,” I said, squeezing her leg. “My dad would make the cookies. My mom was a doctor with her own practice. My dad stayed home with me and my brother.”

  Her eyes were soft. “Where do they live now?”

  I froze, the warm memories of youth erased by the cold reality of adulthood. “They died a couple of years ago in a sailing accident.”

  Her face changed, growing sad, and I hated that my truth had caused that. “Archer,” she murmured.

  “It’s okay. My brother is still in LA, and we have each other.”

  She inhaled, released it slowly, covering my hand with hers. “I’m glad you two have each other.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Her thumb brushed over the back of my hand, sending tingles up my arm, warmth toward my heart. “What about your parents?”

  “Alive and in Ohio.” She shook her head. “Still spreading plenty of disapproval my way.”

  I squeezed her thigh again. “Siblings?”

  “Nope.” The P sounded like a pop, her smile not the lovely one from moments before. “Just me to shatter all their dreams.”

  “Dominque,” I began.

  “No.” She shifted, turned to face me, expression drawn. “I’m Niki to you, remember? I’m not her, not Dominque. Let me be Niki instead—in-instead of—”

  Her gaze dropped, but not before I saw the yearning, the glistening of tears in her eyes. The pain and the regret creating grooves by that lush mouth.

  “Okay, baby,” I said, nodding. “Okay, Niki. It’s okay.”

  She slipped her hand from beneath mine, wiped her eye. “This is your fault,” she muttered.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “I’m in a parking lot after my car was towed, crying over stuff that will never change, stuff that is ancient history.” She sniffed then nudged my hand off her thigh. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “It matters,” I said. “You matter.”

  Still. Her body went statue still then she shook her head, smiled gently. “Had to be a fucking charmer, didn’t you?”

  I brushed my finger over her bottom lip. “It’s a gift.”

  “Ack.” She shoved me back lightly. “I’ve got to work.”

  Finding my feet, I asked, “Tomorrow?”

  Her brows dragged together, and she gripped the steering wheel, and I thought for sure she would say no. Then she extended a hand. “Give it.”

  Now I frowned. “Give what?”

  “Your cell. If I’m going to use that guest parking spot, you need my number, so you can tell me where it is.”

  I handed it over.

  She plugged her number in but then held it out of reach. “Homemade pasta and Bolognese?”

  “If you commit to the night after, I’ll even make a cheesecake.”

  She moaned.

  My cock twitched.

  Then her chocolate eyes came to mine. “You’ve got a deal.” She plunked my cell into my hand, nudged me back a little farther, and reached for the door.

  I caught it, bent, wedging it open with my hip.

  “What now?” she snapped, though her amusement was tangible.

  “This.” I kissed her, long and slow and deep, swallowing her moans, giving her back mine, along with my heart. Though, I supposed that had happened the moment she’d glared up at me at the bar. Eventually, though, I had to release her, had to let her get on with her day. “Tomorrow,” I promised. “And I’ll text you tonight.”

  “I might not answer.”

  I cupped her cheek. “Then I’ll just text you again. Okay?”

  A long moment of quiet, her eyes studying mine, emotions flickering across her expression too quickly for me to decipher, and for a moment, I thought she was going to take everything back, to call an end to this, before we really got going.

  Then I saw a thread of determination drift through her chocolate gaze, and my lungs began working again.

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Niki

  The text happened, just as he’d promised.

  The second text.

  Since I’d purposely ignored the first text.

  But that second buzz-buzz one hour and twelve minutes after the first—not that I was counting or anything—had me releasing my mouse and picking up my cell.

  The first text had been:

  Since I know you’re going to ignore this . . .

  And that was it.

  Just “. . .” and leaving me on the hook for the second half of the sentence while I counted, didn’t count? Did? I sighed. Okay, had counted. I’d gotten markedly little work done because I’d been clocking the minutes passing on that tiny clock in the upper right side of my computer.

  Which meant I’d spent the last hour and twelve minutes being absolutely useless.

  I quickly unlocked the screen, not wanting to see the preview, wanting to actually click on that green icon with the red bubble at its corner.

  Because . . .

  Why?

  I didn’t even know. I didn’t understand why I’d stayed last night, why I felt this unrelenting urge to spend time with Archer, why I’d stayed that morning, why I was anticipating his text so much, even now.

  I was a buoy in the ocean.

  Alone, bobbing up and down, not lonely because I spent my life doing my job, and even though it was a job that most people probably didn’t think of, it was still one that was important.

  Predicting tsunamis.

  Taking down bad guys.

  Equal importance, right?

  Shaking my head at my idiocy, I decided that I was going to focus less on the why, less on the inevitable end. Instead, I was going to live right now, right in this moment.

  Probably stupid.

  But . . . I’d spent a lot of my life being smart. I could take some time to be stupid, especially when it involved a man like Archer.

  And also, I was tired of being that isolated buoy. I was tired of being alone and distant. I wanted . . . well, perhaps it was time I moved beyond my rules, that I took down the barbed wire. Because . . .

  Archer was pretty fucking great.

  Even if I still had the niggling in the back of my mind, my parents’ voices and my self-doubt in the collective, telling me it was inevitab
le that I’d fuck this up.

  Maybe—

  My cell buzzed again, reminding me I hadn’t read the message.

  Which meant it was time to look at the text.

  I clicked the green box, tapped his message chain . . .

  Burst out laughing.

  And you’ll probably ignore this . . .

  “Fucker,” I muttered, my fingers flying across the screen.

  I happened to say I’d only ignore the first text.

  A moment later my phone vibrated again.

  No, you said you’d probably ignore me. I said I’d text again.

  I thought back, realized that—shit—he was right.

  I will neither confirm nor deny.

  He was probably laughing his ass off right now.

  Also, my texting strategy was successful since you’re texting back.

  Also right, the fucker. Which had me lying.

  I was done with work.

  Because I clearly hadn’t finished what I needed to when I was a tangle of anticipation.

  The “. . .” appeared then disappeared. Then reappeared again. Then disappeared again.

  And finally, when I was getting so exasperated that I was ready to launch my phone out the window, it rang.

  Who talked on the phone nowadays?

  That was just . . .

  It stopped ringing.

  Another message buzzed through.

  Do I need to come to your front porch again? Pick up the call, Niki baby.

  I shouldn’t. More conversation would breed more connection . . . but I’d already promised to go to his apartment the next day, and then again for another time. It would be silly not to talk to him now when I’d said I would be going to his place for two more dates—

  Not dates.

  Um . . . mutual satisfactory happy time . . . with orgasms thrown in.

  That didn’t sound delusional, right?

  Not. At. All.

  My cell rang again, and living in that delusion, I swiped my finger across the screen and lifted it to my ear.