“But what do you think?”
My chest heats. My cheeks are hot too. “Who cares what I think?”
He grabs my arm, his fingers circling my wrist, sending a ribbon of fire through my body. “I care.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not lazy. I work hard. I want to please the woman I’m with. I want her to feel good. I want her to feel fucking fantastic.”
Dear God, I already do. His words send sparks sweeping across my skin, leaving a pulse beating between my legs.
Defuse the situation, I tell myself. “I need to go.”
He pays the bill, and we make our way outside, where there’s an awkward moment again. We stand on the street, phones in hand. This is where we call separate Lyfts.
He lives on the East Side.
I’m on the West.
There is no reason for us to share a car. There is no reason for us to spend any more time together.
Except he’s not moving to go.
Neither am I.
“I’m not that tired,” he says, his eyes still searching mine for something. Permission? An answer? An invitation?
“Nor am I,” I say, a little breathy as I wait for something too. Maybe I’m the one wanting an invitation.
“We could work on that list of dates for the article. Do some research.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “We could.”
“Go to a diner. Or a coffee shop. Or back in the bar.”
“Or you could come over,” I suggest. “We could go to my—”
“Yes.”
In seconds we’re in a Lyft, heading uptown to the home I share with my grandmother.
This will be safe.
Nothing dangerous will happen.
I’m not going to jump him with Maggie in the house.
We’re simply going to sit in the living room, have some popcorn, and plan some dates.
Maggie might even help.
But when we reach my place, a note from her on the kitchen table says she’s gone to Connecticut to visit a friend and won’t be home tonight.
The air feels heavy.
My skin tingles with possibility.
With Oliver a few inches behind me, I set down the slip of paper, and say, “She’s not here tonight.”
His fingers graze the back of my neck. “About that law . . .”
26OLIVER
There are things you should do and things you shouldn’t do. And then there are things you quite simply have to do.
This is the latter.
Touching Summer is no longer optional.
Because those ladies are wrong, and I’m going to prove it.
I can’t let her think I’m some sort of conceited jackass in bed. That I don’t care about a woman’s pleasure. Hell, a woman’s pleasure is literally all I care about.
Pretty much most of the time.
Ninety-five percent of my brain is allocated to libido. To making a woman arch her back, curl her toes, grab the sheets.
And that allocation is earmarked all for Summer now.
