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“Right.” Clara pulled at a loose thread on the sofa. “I suppose for you that was just like work?”
Part of her wanted him to argue. To tell her she was special.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Josh backed toward his room. “At work, I get paid.”
Her shame turned into a living, breathing thing panting against her neck.
Clara had assumed she’d reached peak embarrassment the day Everett left her on his doorstep with a one-armed hug. She saw now that she’d made a mistake.
&n
bsp; She could withstand an inelegant dismissal. Could weather a few weeks of unemployment. She could clean a year’s worth of dirty dishes in forty-eight hours. But she knew, from the roots of her hair to the depths of her soul, she couldn’t stay in this house with the knowledge that she’d gotten a pity fumble from her roommate.
chapter nine
NOTHING SAYS APOLOGY like caffeine and carbohydrates. At least, that was what Josh had learned over the course of his lifetime.
So when he couldn’t sleep he’d gotten out of bed and driven across town to the best bakery he knew. At the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, the roads were filled with commuters, but he couldn’t risk bringing Clara overcooked croissants or a burnt muffin from some run-of-the-mill gas station or national chain coffee shop. Based on her reaction last night, he’d be lucky if, presented with the best babka in L.A., she ever spoke to him again.
Josh knew, almost the second the words left his mouth the night before, that he’d taken the wrong approach in the moments after he’d made Clara come. But in all fairness, the experience had thrown him for a total loop. He’d expected a small thrill at the novelty of a new woman. Maybe a surge of competitive spirit at the chance to pull a passionate response from a pearl-clutcher like Clara. Not a spike of lust so powerful it made him dizzy.
He got paid on the regular to do stuff way sexier than a little over-the-clothes fumbling on his own sofa. Cotton panties shouldn’t do it for him. He shouldn’t savor the smoothness of Clara’s skin or the way she hummed slightly when she liked a particular move.
Josh had gotten women off with his hands thousands of times, but he hadn’t relied on heavy petting alone since high school, when he’d downgraded it from the main course to an appetizer.
He should have been safe, but something about Clara, about the noises she made, or the way she moved, or the wicked combination, threatened to pull him under her spell. Because when he’d watched her, squirming against his hand, panting, his skin had grown too tight for his body. Especially the moment when she said please. She hadn’t looked like a buttoned-up blue blood then. She’d looked greedy. He couldn’t think of another, more delicate, word to describe it. Her hair mussed. Full lips parted and wet from where she kept running her tongue across them. His dick liked it all. The whole naughty picture. Apparently, he had a good-girl fetish he’d never discovered before.
He’d gazed at her like some green teenager, his eyes so ravenous for her pleasure he must have scared her. Because as awareness returned to her body, she’d gone totally silent. Josh felt that quiet like a bucket of cold water over his head. He’d almost ruined everything. He’d promised Clara a professional and acted like an amateur.
He’d failed. At the one thing he was supposed to be good at.
Josh entered the bakery, opening the door to a cloud of air that hung heavy with the scent of sugar and butter and fruit pretending to add nutrients to devilish confections. He recognized the guy behind the counter from previous trips.
“Hey, Frankie. What’s the special today?”
“Banana cream pie and fig tartlets.” He pulled out a couple of trays from the display.
Josh shook his head. Neither of those treats sounded like his new roommate. He didn’t know her yet, but he found to his surprise that he wanted to. There was something about her that intrigued him. That challenged his preconceptions about a rich girl from Connecticut.
The way she’d fidgeted last night when she admitted that her previous partners had left her to her own devices made his blood boil. He’d become determined to give her everything those other guys couldn’t, or worse, wouldn’t. Offering to help her out had felt more like a religious calling than a job. So despite the sirens ringing in his ears, he’d stepped up to the plate, telling himself the gesture was basically a public service.
Enter his massive erection.
Josh had gritted his teeth through the unexpected pleasure, and it had almost worked. But as she got closer and closer to falling apart, as the walls she built against the world turned to rubble, he’d forgotten his pledge to let her escape into a boilerplate fantasy.
Afterward, Josh had watched, transfixed, as she came back to earth. As her eyes cleared and her breath slowly evened out. He’d drunk his fill of her rosy cheeks and pink lips until he remembered that this moment didn’t belong to him. Clara’s postorgasm glow, bright as any star, wasn’t his to savor.
Neither of them could afford to forget that he wasn’t some average joe, free to fall for her. No. Josh Darling was a second-rate adult performer who would probably fade into obscurity by this time next year.
He couldn’t give Clara any of the things that she probably expected after sharing an intimate moment with someone: comfort, security, romance. Out of the question. Off the table. Better to head off the discussion.
His contract left him with a huge mess on his hands. He couldn’t even begin to untangle his relationships with Bennie and Naomi. The last thing he needed was Clara Wheaton asking him to go steady.
So he’d cut to the chase. Let her know that their experience had expired as quickly as it had begun.
“What would you recommend for a woman scorned?”
Frankie didn’t miss a beat. “Lemon scones.”
