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“You wanna come and see the house?”
“Yeah.” Stacia gets to her feet, stretching her arms over her head as she goes. The motion raises the already cropped hemline of her top even higher, revealing a mouthwatering patch of smooth, ink-adorned flesh that I’d love to taste. “Let’s go.”
My eyes move from her bare skin to hers, only to find her smirking at me. From sad to sassy, this girl is a fucking mystery.
Chapter Nine
Stacia
As West and I head out, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making an epic mistake in moving in with him. It’ll be fine—two adults who are obviously sexually attracted to one another shouldn’t have any issues cohabitating, right?
A dark laugh slips out as I look back on the absurdity of the last few days.
“What’s so funny?” West asks as we wait for the elevator.
“Nothing. Everything.” I wrap my arms around myself. “When did life get so messy?”
A ding fills the empty hall; the metal doors slide open, and we file into the elevator car. West reaches out and hits the button for our floor. “Life’s always been a mess, it’s just we aren’t as attuned to it when it isn’t our mess.”
I nudge my shoulder into his. “Look at you, all wise and shit.”
“I’m more than good looks, you know?” He winks and I grin, feeling a little bit lighter. We step out into the lobby, heading for the doors. “You wanna ride with me or follow?”
Logically, I know it makes more sense for me to follow him, but I don’t want to be alone. “I’ll ride with you, if that’s okay?”
West reaches out and takes my hand in his. “It is. I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t—that’s not my style.” He gives my fingers a little squeeze before releasing them, and while I’ll never admit it out loud, it sends a little thrill through me. “C’mon, I’m just across the street.”
His car, while admittedly douchey, is a hell of a thing to look at—a work of art comprised of aluminum and carbon fiber. “Can I drive?” I ask, rubbing my hands together like an evil genius who just hatched a plan.
West appraises me for a moment before laughing. “That’d be a hell no.”
“Why?”
“This car’s got a lot of power.” He leans back against the passenger door, smirking.
“Yup, sure does.”
“And you think you can handle it?”
Scoffing, I say, “I know I can.” One of the many things AJ and I bonded over when we became friends was our love of cars; while she prefers old American muscle, I lust over supercars. Either way, she and I both like to go fast—really fucking fast. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those misogynistic assholes that think women can’t drive?”
“Not at all. I’m just territorial about my car.” A calculating glint shines in his blue eyes. “Give me one good reason I should let you behind the wheel of my baby.”
“I’ve wanted to drive one of these ever since it completed a lap of the Nürburgring Nordschleife track in just over seven minutes. You do realize you own the seventh fastest street legal vehicle, right?” I step into him, pressing my front to his, my hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest. “No lie, the thought of handling it gets my panties…”
I trail off, and West gulps, sliding his arms around me, tugging me impossibly closer. “Gets your panties what?” His voice is rough and gritty, rubbing over my libido the same way a stubbled jaw would my skin.
Bringing my lips to his ear, I whisper, “Wet. It gets them wet.”
“Fuck,” he groans, every bit of his longing plain for me to hear—and feel, judging by the bulge pressing into my belly. “She’s all yours.”
I step back from him, a smug, victorious smile plastered on my face. “I knew you’d come around.”
I stride to the driver’s side as he sinks down into the passenger seat. The buttery leather feels like heaven as I run my fingers over it in appreciation. I push the start button, and the beastly V8 biturbo engine growls in a show of pure power.
“You know how to get there?” West asks apprehensively.
“Um. No.” We usually all meet up somewhere or chill at AJ and Brock’s place.
He taps on the nav-screen, programming the GPS for home. I check my mirrors before shifting into gear and pulling out onto the street. Given that it’s midmorning on a weekday, there’s hardly any traffic, so I gun it, pressing the pedal to the floor, laughing as I expertly navigate the quiet streets.
I make it to West’s house a full two minutes sooner than his GPS calculated. “Well?” I ask, feeling and sounding smug as fuck.
West rubs his hand over his crotch. “Not gonna lie. You can fucking drive—and it’s sexy as hell.”
Now it’s me who’s winking. “Your house is…unexpected.” And by unexpected, I mean stunning—and so not where I pictured him living. I always assumed he lived in one of the high-rise condos uptown or near AJ and Brock downtown, but here we are, in the suburbs, parked in front of a jaw-dropping Mediterranean contemporary.
