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I brush my fingers along the smooth skin of her cheeks, until I’m cupping her nape and tilting up her chin. “I feel pretty damn good like this—with my hands on you.”
Mischief sparks in her eyes. “I’ve always thought you’d be a good fuck.”
Yeah. Okay. I no longer have to wonder if Naomi is a quiet, tender lover or a vixen between the sheets. This woman was put on the earth to torment me.
Attempting to keep all my blood from rushing south, I tense my limbs but refuse to quit stroking her neck. “Come to my house for dinner this weekend.”
She stiffens. “Did you miss the part where I said I’m leaving in a month?”
“I’m aware of your plans. I also didn’t miss the part where you said you thought I’d be”—I lean down toward her ear—“agoodfuck.”
She trembles. I give her ear a lick.
Seriously. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not thinking, and the Avett Lewis I know isalwaysthinking.
“You need your stitches out,” I go on, my mouth working ahead of my brain. “I’d rather do it there than at the clinic, so I can avoid my boss asking questions. If you come over, I’ll finish the work I started on your shin, and we’ll have dinner. I don’t enjoy cooking, so you’ll be annoying me, if it helps.”
Her body grazes mine, a tease of how she’d feel rubbing all over me. “So you’re just inviting me over to play doctor and feed me?”
We can continue this not-saying-what-we-mean game—constant games with Naomi and me—but I don’t want more misunderstandings between us.
I lean back so she can see my face clearly. “I’ve always wanted you, Naomi. Even when we were antagonizing each other, I wanted you. I’ve been irrationally jealous of every guy you’ve dated. From what I’m picking up, you feel the same, and we both know you’re leaving. Whatever this is, it can’t go anywhere deeper than friendship and sex. I’m fine with that if you are.”
I just need something. A fraction of her. It’s been seven years of dislike and suppressed feelings. What was the point of all that antagonism if I’m forever left wondering how she tastes?
She grazes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Just sex?”
“Just sex.”
“How many times?”
I shrug a shoulder, feigning indifference when every part of my body hardens. “It’s up for debate.”
“And you’ll still make me dinner, even though you hate cooking?”
“I wouldn’t welch on a deal.”
She makes a show of mentally weighing the pros and cons, then nods with a flirty wink. “I do love making your life difficult.”
And driving me wild.
She slides her hands around my waist, settling them on my back. Those nails of hers dig in. “If I never mentioned it, I like my foodspicy.”
chapternine
Avett
Except for step number two—Prove you can be trusted—I’ve abandoned myCosmopolitan-inspired spreadsheet. There’s no point winning Naomi over romantically, not with her adventurous life plans and our deal to keep things casual. We’re both attracted to each other. We’re consenting adults who have agreed to test if our chemistry truly sparks. But falling for her, when she’s on the cusp of such a big change, doesn’t make sense.
Nowhere in my five-year plan does it say: Have your heart broken.
Still, we have this. One month of the occasional hookup, if that’s where tonight leads. Or maybe one night will be enough. We’ll fuck our brains out and go back to our friendly bickering, aware we have chemistry, no longer enthralled by the mystery of us.
Regardless, I plan to fulfill step two on myCosmolist. I want Naomi to trust me. Trust is the basis of all friendships, and our journey here has been a haphazard road of potholes and dead ends. Which is why I’m prepping Gran’s insanely good chicken pot pie recipe with chunks of tender chicken, sweet potato, peas, and broccoli swimming in a rich gravy. The showstopper is the flaky pie crust.
I don’t actually hate cooking. I lied, allowing Naomi to think she was, once again, making my life difficult. That woman loves watching me squirm. It’s sadistic, the enjoyment she gets out of my discomfort. It’s also kind of cute, and I’m a believer in food being the pinnacle of peace offerings. How can you not trust a man willing to make fresh, flaky dough in your honor?
My doorbell rings right on time.
