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“I like the rain,” I say, swallowing down any residual nervousness.
Slipping his hand through mine, he pulls me into the rain and we run down the sidewalk together. The steady drip cools my heated skin and soothes my nerves. Running my tongue along my swollen lips, I taste the remnants of bourbon from his kiss, and feel tingles spread as he runs a thumb along the top of my hand.
If I don’t get to his apartment soon, I may back out. In the alcove I didn’t have time to think, I just felt, and now I’m starting to get inside my head, wondering what he’s thinking. Is this something he does often? I slide my eyes to him.
He’s young and pretty with an edge just under the surface.
Tattoos line his left arm and peek out above the collar of his shirt.
His beautiful head of dark hair feels like silk, even when wet, and he plays guitar.
Of course, he’s done this before.
There’s a large grassy area and a sidewalk that winds in between the two-story trendy apartment buildings. They look pricey, definitely above the pay grade of a struggling musician. When we turn the corner, there’s a large pool, the water lit up with underwater lights. The rain breaks the surface causing ripples of light to reflect on the side of the building.
My palm is wet inside his, but he doesn’t let go until we get to the concrete stairwell on the outside of his building. Stopping on the first step, I grip the railing as I search his brown eyes looking for a sign. I’m smarter than this, an educated woman with a lot more years on him, and yet I feel like a reckless teenager.
Maybe desire has clouded my mind, but when I look at him, I see a man who makes promises to wreck me in the best possible way. When his hand circles my waist possessively and his thumb digs deliciously into my hip, I know there is no way I’m leaving here unsatisfied.
His voice is a breathless whisper. “I don’t usually…” he tries to explain but I place my finger against his lips to silence him.
“Don’t lie.” A slow smile spreads on my face. “Of course, you have,” I whisper.
His lips curve into a sexy smirk, and then he bites down gently on my finger before taking my hand again and leading me up the stairs. We stop in front of his door, and I stand against the brick of the building while he digs the keys out of his pocket. He leans in to take my mouth again before unlocking the door, only reaffirming how much I want this.
How much Ineedthis.
God, I need this.
“You are the sexiest woman I have ever met,” he says against my lips.
Another lie, but I don’t mind.
We both know why we’re here. There are no promises, no expectations, and no truths.
Only lies.
And I love the way he lies.
He captures my lips again, his tongue slipping inside, causing me to moan. When he palms my ass bringing me closer to him, we tumble into his apartment. As soon we enter, I pull away to get a look at this stranger's home for the first time.
Flicking on the light the small entryway is illuminated, calling attention to a black metal table lining the wall where he tosses his keys into a glass bowl sitting on top.
“I’ll be right back.” He squeezes my hand before letting go and heads down the hallway, leaving me to admire a framed poster of graffiti art that hangs in the entryway. Colorful feathers fall from an angel’s wing and turn black when they hit the ground. Walking past it, my hand reaches out to touch it, expecting to feel the feathers. It’s so beautiful.
My wet shoes squeak on the flooring as I walk further inside to a small living room. The cold air from the a/c hits my wet skin, and I can feel my nipples pebble under my shirt when I hear bare feet pad through the apartment behind me. When I turn around, I see he has two towels and he hands one to me. I use it to squeeze the water from the ends of my hair and try to pat my shirt dry with no use.
Turning towards the entryway, I ask, “Where did you get that poster?”
“A record store in Santa Monica. It’s a photo of a graffiti’s artists work in L.A. The artist is Gabriel Guzman. Have you heard of him?” he asks, using the towel to dry his face.
Shaking my head, no, I look around the apartment some more. A fireplace is built into the wall, with a gray masculine couch in front of it. Through the patio door and past the small balcony, I can see the pool in the center of the complex, with its glittery water calm now that the storm has passed.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, tossing the towel on the counter.
“Water, please,” I say, as I follow him into the small kitchen, walking past two tall shelves full of record albums and books.
Using my finger to trace them and try to make out the titles, wondering what kind of music he likes, but the light from the hallway doesn’t stretch this far. Nervous energy flutters over my skin like phantom wings as I take him in – shirt sticking to his chest, and jeans sitting low on his hips. He leans against the counter holding the water out to me. Twisting off the cap, I don’t realize how thirsty I am until I take a sip, almost drinking the whole bottle at once. In my haste, droplets of water escape my lips and fall down my chin. Before I can wipe them away, he leans in and captures them with his tongue.
