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Especially not before her time.
“Yeah.” She nods seriously, her breath rushing out. “But let me make sure my will is up to date before we go. Also, I’ll need to borrow a swimsuit from Gigi. The only one I have is from eighth grade and probably doesn’t fit anymore. My boobs, though still small, have gotten bigger since then.”
“Your boobs are perfect,” I say, reaching out to cup one through the thin cotton shirt she’s wearing. Damn. Yep, still perfect. “And if memory serves, we had a lot of fun last night with these beauties.”
“Stop,” she says, her lashes fluttering. “If we’re going to get to the water before noon, I have to get dressed.”
But she doesn’t shove my hand away, and when I catch her nipple between my fingers, she makes a happy, sexy sound that convinces me the water can wait. “I could do a lot with these tits.”
“Like?”
“Fuck them,” I say, all low and smoky, because maybe, just maybe, if I focus on sex, I won’t think about all the things I feel for her.
“Jesse,” she says, like she’s shy but also turned on by the idea.
Me too.
Me fucking too.
“Sound like a good time?”
She wiggles her brows. “Yes, but I also like you inside me.”
I hum beneath my breath. “What do you know? I like being inside you too. And the sun doesn’t set until after eight,” I murmur. I rise, grabbing a condom from my wallet before returning quickly to my chair and urging her out of hers. “We have plenty of time.”
“You’re a bad influence,” she says, but she lets me draw her into my lap once more and tug her T-shirt over her head. A few minutes later she’s riding me, making the wooden chair squeak beneath us as we take each other there—right there, fuck yes, to that place I’ve never been with anyone else.
The thought zips through my head, then falls away as the second orgasm of the morning rips through my body. All I can think about is her.
The feel of her gripping me tight as she loses control.
The way she’s gasping sexy things about how she loves my cock.
The flirty, dirty words falling from her lips, about how she’s going to learn to sculpt so she can capture it in 3D for women everywhere to enjoy.
And briefly, I try to ignore a new thought, a realization—it’s never been like this with anyone else.
I don’t want to connect the dots.
I could stick my head back in the sand and keep playing the friends-with-benefits game, but what would be the point?
Love is like zombies.
You can bury them, but they’ll keep coming back.
And I don’t want to bury what I feel for Ruby.
Doesn’t matter what you want, asshole. You’re leaving, and if you make that any harder for her than it’s going to be already, you’ll never forgive yourself. I can fucking promise you that.
If I do anything to damage Ruby’s new lease on life, I’ll hate myself for it. Doing that would make me the bad guy.
Even more than I am already . . .
“I’ll do the papier-mâché model tonight,” Ruby whispers after, her lips moving against the sweat-damp skin of my neck.
“Papier-mâché model?”
She pulls back, gazing down at me with a dreamy, sated smile that makes me proud to have been the man to put it here. “Of your cock. I told you, I’m going to learn to sculpt eventually, but why not start with a medium I understand? Something easily accessible and transportable from your place to mine? Papier-mâché is great.”
I arch a wry brow. “Cold, wet, flour-covered newspaper strips drying on my cock. Yeah, sounds perfect.”
Perfect because it’s taking my mind off the crazy thoughts I can’t entertain.
“Right?” She grins and kisses my cheek. “Glad we’re so simpatico this morning.”
But are we?
I don’t think so, but I also know that I’m too far gone on her kiss, her touch, the way she smiles at me as she waves goodbye from my door, promising to meet me at the Church Street subway station in forty-five minutes—no more, no less—to turn back now.
Wherever she wants to go, whatever she wants to cover in wet newspaper, I’m along for the ride.
At least until I get on that plane to L.A.
17
RUBY
I dance down the street.
Literally dance, waltzing and twirling and jumping up to click my heels as I swing around one of the not-gum-covered lampposts.
A few people turn to shoot me a bemused look or a raised eyebrow as I pass, but this is New York City, and we’re all so accustomed to weirdness that a girl doing the dance of shame down the street in yesterday’s paint-splattered overalls isn’t a big deal.
I’m part of the chaos.
But a happy part, like when everyone bursts into song on the subway together after a ball game. Sometimes, this jaded old city is so full of magic it makes my heart ache.
