Disorderly Conduct Page 11

  My connection to her needs is still lit up, still throbbing, and I know that although she came, she hasn’t gotten that knockout punch yet. Probably because she’s gone a long time without me. So I deliver. I want her to be sure I’ll deliver every damn time, and then some.

  I push my fingers in deep, deep enough that she gasps, and let the pad of my middle finger tickle her G-spot. “No one knows your pretty cunt better than I do. Isn’t that right, Ever?” She’s babbling again—shit, I love when she does that—but I think I catch an agreement. Yes, I’m using the C-word out loud now, and I know that’s part of the extra push she needs. I’m her filth man, and she can’t be bashful about wanting more from me, because I never stop being hungry for her. “I’ve got a map of you in my head. In my bones,” I rasp. “Look at me.”

  Her head pitches forward, like her neck muscles have taken a vacation. Both of our gazes are obscured by heavy, lusty eyelids, but we’re looking at one another when I begin flickering my tongue against her clit. Her G-spot is still being exploited by my middle finger, but this additional attention to her sensitized nerves is going to orgasm her again. I know this, because I’m a certified Ever Expert.

  “Look at me. On my knees, lapping at you. Fingering you. I’d stay here all fucking night, soaking up this sweetness. You know I would.” I’m so hoarse at this point from needing to fuck, needing to make her come, that my voice isn’t mine. “Who do you call when you’re the kind of keyed up no one else knows how to handle?”

  Several shaking drags of air into her swollen lips. “Charlie . . .”

  I know that wasn’t an answer. It was the beginning of an admonishment. But I’m taking it as my answer, anyway. Moving my middle finger faster, I lean in and give her clit a light suck, followed by slow side to side rubs of my tongue—and obliterate her.

  By the time she stops shuddering and clenching her thighs around my head, I’m in danger of pushing too far. Try explaining to your cock it can’t have the woman that has been satisfying it beyond belief for a month. The jerk doesn’t want to listen.

  I come to my feet, using my body to keep Ever from sliding down the wall into a heap. Our foreheads pressed together, I breathe. Breathe. Ignoring the stubborn prick in my pants, I look at Ever’s face, finding it flushed and soft. So much more than merely beautiful. Have I ever looked at her like this? Just . . . quietly looked? Before I know what I’m doing, my mouth is pressing kisses to her hairline, the curve of her cheekbones. One corner of her mouth lifts, her nose wrinkling, and I find myself smiling back. Affection hits me so hard in the stomach, I almost fall back down on my knees.

  Whoa. Whoa.

  I need to get out of here. Something is different. Something has changed . . . or at least is in danger of changing inside me. I haven’t touched Ever like this in a while, so maybe I’m just really grateful. I don’t know. Time to hit the bricks, though, right? Why am I having such a hard time letting her go and backing up? She feels really, really great all pliant like this. I don’t think I’ve ever held her afterward.

  Ever’s eyes pop open and she’s searching my face, and that’s what propels me backward. I don’t know what she’s going to see, but I-I think it’s too much.

  “I have an early training session tomorrow morning.”

  She jerks off the wall, like she just had a bucket of water emptied over her head. “Oh. Oh, you—yeah.” Her hands are clumsy as they drag her skirt back into place . . . and they reach out to me. She wants me to hug her again. Hold her. Jesus, what am I going to do? Even if I want nothing more than to wrap her up in a big, squeezing bear hug, I don’t want her to get the wrong idea. What is the wrong idea, again? “My panties, Charlie.”

  Oh. Fuck.

  My hesitation seems to have . . . embarrassed her? But I’m definitely the one who should be humiliated. Of course she didn’t want a hug. I’m an idiot, and I need to go home before I ruin every inch of progress I’ve made toward becoming her go-to guy for . . . everything. Friendship, cater waitering, cunnilingus. All of the above. “Sorry.” I hand her back the gray lace, kind of wishing I could keep it. “They look great on you, Ever.”

  She steps into the lace and wiggles the panties up her body, forcing me to battle the groan of all groans. “Thanks for—”

  “Don’t you dare thank me for that.”

  Color climbs her cheeks. “Then . . . thank you for helping out tonight.” She tucks her hair behind an ear and moves past me, careful not to let our bodies touch. “I don’t think we could have pulled it off without you guys.”

  I grab her elbow before she can leave the closet, knowing I somehow fucked up, but refusing to let my error ruin the fact that we’re almost back. Ever and Charlie. Committed to being uncommitted. “Hey, Ever.” I slide my hand down to her wrist, bringing her hand to my mouth for a kiss. “Still friends. Please?”

  Her eyelashes sweep down to hide her eyes. “Still friends.” She leans in and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Charlie.”

  This time it was goodnight, not goodbye—and I’m damned thankful.

  It’s short-lived, though, because as soon as I step out into the rushing Manhattan evening, I have the overwhelming sensation I should be back inside, taking Ever home.

  Chapter 12

  Charlie

  I’ve done so many push-ups today, my arms are aching with the strain. Soon as I hit one thousand, I’m going to run another couple miles, try to beat my best time. I’m holing up in my room tonight with study materials, because we have an exam coming up. I don’t need a refresher. Hell, I knew everything in the handbook before I entered the academy, but if I don’t distract myself, I’m going to call Ever again too soon. It has only been a couple days since the catering event, and new friends space out their interactions more, right?

  Who the fuck knows? I just don’t want to appear too eager. Meanwhile, I’m about as eager as sailors during Fleet Week. How is she? Is she working a job tonight? If not, what the hell is she getting up to without me? Central Park, the beach, watching movies? I got used to living in the dark about her everyday activities, but that’s really not working for me anymore.

  I’ve been tempted to message her on DateMate. As Reve. God knows I’ve been logging on to look at her photos often enough. They’ve become part of my routine. There’s a picture of her balancing a plate of toast on her head that I like to eat breakfast with.

  It’s time to have my head checked.

  Danika walks into the gym, kicking the edge of my floor mat. “Saw your not-girlfriend.”

  “What?” I go down on my chest, roll over and sit up, like an animal that’s been offered a treat for performing. “Where?”

  “At that tapas place near Union Square.”

  “Fuck.” I come to my feet, just as Jack saunters in eating a burrito. “A date?”

  “Who’s on a date?” Jack asks around a mouthful. “I like dates.”

  Danika crosses her arms, clearly enjoying watching me squirm. “Ever. With some sexy financial type. Caught them through the window as they were sitting down.”

  “Oh shit,” Jack says, turning on a heel and trying to leave the room. “I have an appointment.”

  “Wait. Just . . . wait,” I call, halting him in his tracks. My heart and brain must have swapped places, but my heart feels twice as heavy and my head is beating. I thought Ever’s upcoming rendezvous with Reve would prevent her from scheduling dates with other dudes. Didn’t Ever and Reve have a connection? Apparently not enough of one to keep Ever cooling her heels. “Sexy financial type? Like . . . sexy how? How is he sexy?”

  “Objection,” Jack waves his burrito. “Irrelevant.”

  “You’re on the law side of law and order, Jack,” Danika says. “You realize that, right?”

  “Stay on the subject.” I sound like someone is using my stomach as a trampoline. “Ever. Date.”

  “A sexy date.”

  “Sexy how?”

  Danika throws up her hands. “Kind of a Patrick Wil
son type, I guess. Cufflinks. Starchy shirt. Fresh haircut.”

  Jack smirks. “You need a refresher course on what’s sexy, honey.”

  Christ, I think I’m having a panic attack. The last time I experienced this severe nausea and racing, spiky pulse was when I found out Ever was going speed dating. I thought of her getting hurt or being sweet talked by a bunch of chumps and . . . I came up with the plan to sabotage the event. Can’t do that again, though. It made Ever sad. Made her lose her sparkle, and even for a short span of time, that’s unacceptable. I can’t meddle again. Unless. . . .

  “Did he seem maybe like an asshole?” There’s no way to keep the hope out of my voice as I throw the question at Danika. “Like he could ghost her after one date. Or maybe he looked more like Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, instead of Patrick Wilson?”

  Danika tilts her head, like she’s on the verge of calling me an idiot. But whatever she finds in my expression seems to change her mind. “Yeah. It’s possible I might have seen a splatter of blood on his collar.”

  “She has excellent vision,” Jack supplies.

  “Okay,” I breathe, bracing my hands on my knees. My brain is barely capable of functioning because it’s melting. Ever on a date. A real date. And I don’t think I can physically let it happen. I completely underestimated my ability to watch her go on dates from the sidelines, just being her supportive friend. No. Fuck supportive. I’m going to be sick. “Please. I need your help. Both of you.”

  Jack elbows Danika in the side. “Run this kind of information by me first next time.”

  “No way. I was the voice of reason last time.” She rubs her hands together. “Tonight, I’m up for a little nefariousness.”

  I’m already heading for the locker room. “Let’s move.”

  Ever

  I’m on a date. A date date. Like, a buzzer isn’t going to make this guy switch tables in five minutes. Yesterday, while in the Laundromat folding my unmentionables, I’d felt someone’s eyes on me and turned around to see Landon sending me side-eye peeks. Landon is in his early thirties. An investment banker with almost freakishly light-colored eyelashes. He’d been folding ten versions of the same shirt and for that very reason, Landon is not a man I would typically approach. He’s a full-blown commitment guy, right down to being on a first-name basis with the Laundromat owner. I mean, we sat down ten minutes ago, and he’s already showed me pictures of his niece on his phone. This is a man with family on the brain.

  Maybe I should be easing into the whole idea of lifelong relationships, but I’ve never been the kind to dip my toe into the water. My friend wants to start a catering company? I become a cook. My mother spooks me about a lifetime of solitude? I ask a Wall Street–type out for tapas and beer.

  Would she be proud of me, my mother, if she could see me right now? I’m smiling and saying all the right things. I think. One of us poses a question, the other answers. Then we pause to look down at our menus. That seems about normal. But it’s impossible not to picture Charlie across from me. How easy that conversation would be. I wouldn’t be racking my brain for topics, they would just appear.

  Charlie and I hit the ground running at the outset. I might have given him my standard three-question mistress test, but no one had ever responded like him. Or made the test seem almost . . . obsolete. Like we were clicking on some unseen level that went beyond the test. Not just a physical click, either. But that part had definitely come after we left the bar, stronger than anything in my memory . . .

  Charlie kicks my apartment door shut behind him, shaking the rain from his hair like a playful dog, sending droplets everywhere and making me laugh. But my amusement is cut off by his low growl, his slow approach, the chest he reveals by stripping off his shirt. Rain smacks off the windows of my pitch-black apartment, thunder booming, lightning slashing and illuminating for a second here. A second there.

  There’s something I’m supposed to do here. What is it? What—

  “Ground rules,” I eke out, my bottom hitting the windowsill in the living room. “W-we should probably talk about those.”

  A line appears between his eyes as he unbuckles his belt. “Agreed.”

  I’ve done this before, and the words are supposed to roll off my tongue. Charlie seems to have tied said tongue together, though, and his zipper coming down, his jeans sluffing onto my floor only makes it worse. His thighs. They’re cut and thick and hairy. Are his thighs commanding the thunder? Calm down, girl. You got this. “No pasts, no futures.” I hold my breath while he unsnaps my overalls and lifts my shirt, uncovering my strapless bra. “No gifts or birthday cards. Totally casual, no expectations.”

  His breathing has turned erratic, his palms lifting my breasts, massaging them. “Deal.” My bra is unsnapped, dropped to the ground. “No dates or meeting the friends and family. Just us. Whenever we need it.”

  “Yes,” I breathe, the back of my head bumping off the windowpane. “No need for all the pretend concern or asking about each other’s day. Just . . . easy. Just like this, right?”

  A pause. “Right.” I didn’t hear a note of doubt in his tone, did I? No. No, I’m projecting, because for the first time, I’m feeling a smidgen of it myself . . . it’ll go away. It’s just jitters over liking how he talks, how he moves, how he smiles and—I’ve never felt this weight deep down in my stomach before. This is a bad idea.

  I haven’t even mentioned my one-month rule. Am I going to?

  Charlie slides the overalls down my hips, leaning in to lock our mouths together, erasing my reservations a little more with each expert stroke. He hooks a finger in my panties, tugging the waistband down to reveal the most intimate part of me, where I’ve left it waxed and lotioned. For me, not because I’d planned to bring someone home. But I’m glad I made an effort. It’s worth it a million times when he curses, low and rough, a vibration thrumming through his body and pushing out into the air separating us. “Jesus. I’m going to need this a lot, Ever.” He shoves down his briefs and fists his heavy cock. “Be sure about this. Be sure you don’t need . . . more than sex. Because I think you’re fucking great, but I can’t give you—”

  “Shhh.” I can feel his frown against my forehead, his conflict as he applies the condom, and I don’t want his guilt. There’s no need for it. He might be one of the good ones, but this noncommitment is exactly what he wants. What every man—and this woman—wants deep down, right? So I peel my panties the remaining distance down my legs, using a kiss to draw him forward while I wrap my legs around his hips. “I want you inside me,” I whisper, my voice shaking. I’m shaking. “Charlie—”

  With a surrendering groan, he slides his smooth tip through my wetness a few times and shoves deep, a choked sound rending the air. Was it me or him? I don’t know. My sight winks out, my mouth dropping open. Oh God. Too good, too good, too . . . right.

  Charlie groans my name and yanks me off the windowsill, thrusting his hips up while I use his shoulders for leverage and slap, slap, slap my hips up and down. “Ever, this is bad. This is bad. Bad, bad.” Lightning shoots through the room, and I see how tightly his eyes are closed, his expression of half-disbelief, half-pleasure. I ride harder, he pumps into me with more and more feverish intensity. “This isn’t happening,” he rasps. “You can’t be happening.”

  We break at the same time and Charlie’s knees hit the floor, but he manages to hold on to me as he moans like a wild animal. My arms are tempted to creep around his neck, my satisfied body wanting to get as close to its savior as possible, but I can’t set that precedent. Ground rules. We have them. I helped set them.

  Minutes later, we dress in silence. He stands at the door, staring at me with a crease between his eyebrows. But I send him a flirty wave, a signal for him to walk out the door. I feel more myself once he’s out of sight. Mostly.

  “Ever?” My date leans forward, a concerned look on his face. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes!” Oh God, the waiter is at our table staring at me expectantly. What
kind of restaurant are we in, again? Tapas. Number system. “I’ll have . . . one, three and nine.” I look down at my empty pint of beer. “And another one of these, thanks.”

  My date looks a little disapproving over me having a second drink before the food even arrives, but somehow I dig deep and find the determination to change his mind about me. To make this date go well. I owe it to myself. Owe it to my mother. What I had with Charlie was amazing while it lasted, but sending a man home with nothing more than a pinkie wave can’t be my normal anymore. Not if I want to move forward and start living for the future my mother wants for me. The one she wishes she’d achieved and I now want. For me, the loneliness didn’t even take decades to set in. Deep down, I’d already started feeling it that first time Charlie left my apartment.

  “Um . . .” I shift in my seat, aware that the memory of Charlie has made my underwear damp and my chest feel hollow. Focus on now, Ever. “Where did you say your niece lives?”

  And then the fire alarm goes off.

  Water sputters from the ceiling sprinklers a split second later, and the entire restaurant erupts in shouts and squeals. Patrons are doused as they futilely attempt to cover their heads, jogging toward the exit. Waiters drop trays and follow. I’m pretty sure my jaw is in my lap, but I have an insane urge to laugh. This is a sign. It has to be.

  I’m unsure whether it’s a good or bad one until Landon shoots to his feet, his expression pinched. “What the fuck,” he growls, snatching my napkin off the table to wipe his face, blot his shirt. “They have to be kidding me. Is there a manager around?” he shouts. “I’m not paying for these drinks.”