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Foster wasn’t convinced of that. Cela’s movements had gone jerky at the suggestion, and her usually imperceptible accent had thickened her words. “You can’t joke like that with girls like her. She’s not some chick you met after a show.”
Pike somehow managed to smirk without his mouth so much as twitching. “Girls like her?”
Foster tossed his jacket across the back of the other chair and opened the button at his neck, his shirt collar feeling nooselike. “Yes, girls like her. You know what I mean.”
“Vanilla ones.”
Foster rubbed the spot between his eyes with his thumb, trying to chase away the throbbing that had started at the office and had gotten worse downstairs. “She’s not just vanilla, she’s . . .”
“Hot.”
“Innocent.” He grabbed two beers from the fridge and plunked one down in front of Pike. “And young.”
“She’s a doctor.” He twisted off the cap and took a sip. “So not that young. She’s got to be at least . . .” He paused, apparently counting in his head. “Twenty-four.”
Twenty-four. Not a total stretch for Foster’s thirty-two, but somehow Cela seemed even younger than that—untouched by the world. Part of it was that sheltered vibe that seemed to waft off her, like she’d been raised in another era. But he knew it was more than her demureness and manners that screamed innocence.
Foster leaned back against the counter, taking a deep pull of his beer, his throat dry and his blood hot from the brief encounter downstairs. The scene replayed in his head—the sound of her breath catching when he’d said her name, the way she’d looked there on her knees, that hint of a blush beneath her honeyed skin. His cock twitched to life. Fuck.
Pike rolled his bottle cap between his fingers, walking it over his knuckles in the way that said he’d spent way too much time in bars. “She’s interested, you know?”
“Right. She almost vaulted up the stairs to get away from us after your Jane Austen comment. She’s probably next door right now googling to see if we’re on the sex offender registry.”
But despite his protest, Foster knew Pike wasn’t far off base. His friend had probably noticed the same signals in Cela that he had. She’d been flustered, maybe even offended, but her nipples had been hard points against her blouse and her pulse had been pounding at her throat like a beacon. He’d wanted to lick the spot. He’d wanted her to say yes.
But maybe Pike’s crassness had actually saved them. The last thing Foster needed to be doing was messing with his good-girl neighbor. Women like her were off limits. He’d learned the hard way not to get interested in someone from outside his scene. Once those women got over the excitement of the ooh, I’m being so scandalous dating a kinky boy phase, they bailed and went to find someone they actually wanted to be with for the long haul.
And Foster was tired of getting his hopes up and was really tired of one-night stands. His interludes at The Ranch, the BDSM resort he belonged to, and the occasional ménage with Pike and one of his band groupies satisfied the physical itch for a while. But the dominant side of him—the part that craved ownership—was shriveling into a desiccated husk.
He was over thirty, had a job that could fund a posh life, and even had a swank home his family had left to him sitting empty. But he was still living like a college kid, rooming with his best friend. Foster had good reasons for setting his life up this way. But on days like this, when he saw glimpses of what else was out there, he found himself wondering if his life was bound to be haunted by what ifs.
The doorbell rang and Foster headed over to the door to get the pizza. He paid the delivery guy and took the two large supreme pizzas from him, passing them over to Pike who’d eagerly stepped up behind him. After one furtive glance toward Cela’s closed door, Foster stepped back into the apartment.
Pike already had one of the boxes open and a slice in his mouth by the time Foster made it into the living room. Pike pointed to the box. “This one’s mine.”
Foster snorted and grabbed for a slice from the other box. Some things never changed. Pike could out eat a linebacker, though you’d never guess it looking at him. Apparently, a few hours of banging on drums every night was as effective as running marathons. Plus, Foster wasn’t entirely convinced that some part of Pike didn’t still worry about not having a next meal. Food hadn’t exactly been easy to come by when Pike was a kid.
Foster sank into the love seat and set his beer on the side table.
“You really think she wasn’t interested?” Pike asked, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Anytime you said something to her, she got all tongue-tied. And she shivered when I touched her.”
Foster shrugged, trying to appear as if he’d already forgotten about their run-in with their neighbor and wasn’t sitting there trying to get the image of her on her knees or those big brown eyes out of his head.
“Maybe she has a boyfriend or something.” Pike folded another slice of pizza in half and bit.
“Doubtful. No one ever sleeps over.” The words were out before Foster could call them back.
Pike’s eyebrow arched. “And you would know this how? Taking up stalking as a hobby?”
Foster tore a bite off his pizza, eyeing Pike, warning him off the topic.
“No way.” He pointed the neck of his beer bottle at him. “Don’t give me that eat shit look. Spill it, dude.”
Foster polished off his own beer. He had a feeling this was going to be more than a one-drink night. When he set down the empty bottle, Pike was still watching him, waiting. Foster sighed. “We share a wall—a thin one. I can hear some of what does . . . and doesn’t go on in her bedroom. All sex noises have been . . . solo.”
And had provided erotic background music to his own solo tours more than once, imagining Cela’s hands roaming over her body, her fingers sliding between those pretty legs. He adjusted himself on the couch, his boxer briefs developing a choke hold on his quickly swelling erection.
“Holy shit.” Pike’s mouth broke into a grin. “You dirty eavesdropping bastard.”
