One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(61)
She turns and tosses a flirty grin over her shoulder while batting her lashes. “You really shouldn’t try to deny your inner romantic, Jean Dominic, I’ve seen it, and I busted you sifting through The Bronze Horseman.”
I shrug. “The plot is decent.”
She climbs back on the bed and presses her nose to mine, drawing another chuckle out of me. Her bravado is due partly to the bottle we saved, and I tell her as much. “You’re cut off.”
“I drank it all anyway, and don’t you dare try to divert, buddy. You’ve got more than one romantic bone in your body.” She pops her brows and runs her fingers down my cock.
“I didn’t read the whole thing,” I lie.
“Uh, huh . . . sure you didn’t, that’s why the other two books suddenly popped up on your shelf.” Stradling me, she presses our noses together and bugs her eyes. “I, too, take notice of things, birdman.” She lowers her voice above a whisper. “You’re in quite the mood tonight. Dare I say a good one?” I pull my nose away and grip her ass, squeezing hard in warning.
“Ouch, okay, fine, I won’t push it. Besides, if you hold that smile a few more seconds, you might scare your face.”
She takes her place beside me as the opening notes of “Hard Habit to Break” start to play. Angling her head so we share a pillow, she listens intently until the song plays out. “Nothing to interpret about that,” she comments in mention of our budding routine, where we listen to older, more cryptic music from different eras to try and decipher the lyrics. She squeezes our laced fingers, looking over at me, eyes hazed. “God, that was beautiful and painful.”
“Some of the best things are.”
She turns on her side, propping her head with her palm. “Such as?”
“Growing up,” I say, tracing the divot at the hollow of her throat.
“That’s right,” she grips my finger and kisses it reverently. “Someone is about to have a birthday.” She glances back at my bedside clock, “in exactly four hours.” Her eyes lower to calculating slits.
“Please don’t embarrass yourself by making plans I won’t show up for,” I warn.
“Don’t underestimate me, Jean Dominic,” she quips, twinkling eyes making it apparent that a plan is already in place.
“Stop saying my name like that. I’m not a French poet.” Brushing the hair away from her shoulders, it’s easy to make out she’s fully relaxed and seemingly . . . entertained. Something I can’t say I’ve ever really accomplished with another girl outside of the physical.
But for how long? She can’t be happy locked in my room. She needs—
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. It isn’t true,” she says softly, reading my apprehension. Something she’s getting way too good at. Knowing I’m not going any further with the conversation, she takes the reins. “Spark one up. This time I’m smoking with you and playing DJ.”
Lifting to sit, I do as ordered as she flips through the extensive digital library open on my desktop. Not a minute later, “Oh No,” by the Commodores, another of Maman’s favorite groups, starts to play.
She shrugs when she sees my surprise. “I loved it when you played it before.” Turning it up on my keypad, she smirks, knowing we’re at full capacity tonight at the townhouse—no doubt pissing the neighbors off. Even with Lionel Richie blasting through my room, I can’t find a fuck to give. Especially when she animatedly leaps back onto the bed, pouncing me. Lowering her head, she runs her lips and tongue along my neck before reaching for a condom from my nightstand.
“I am not fucking you to this,” I announce firmly, “I have my limits,” I mumble against her active lips as she does her best to seduce me. “I’ve already watched one too many teen angst movies against my better fucking judgment.”
“Two,” she draws out as I turn her over and sink between her thighs, discarding the blunt she ordered me to light on my nightstand.
“Yeah, and that’s two too many.”
It was another of those rare days spent out of my head. Where we did exactly shit—aside from watching movies on my laptop and fucking—but a day I didn’t feel like my world was coming to an end. She stares up at me, grinning like the romance-drunk fool she is. That look is unmistakable—a look she gives to me in front of everyone, unabashedly, fearlessly, whether we’re at the garage or alone. A look my head and chest can no longer ignore. A look that’s starting to feel like it’s beyond chemistry.
My blissful ignorance stares back at me, her smile fading, that look ever-present.
Ignoring it is fucking torture—so I don’t bother doing it or denying it anymore. I can’t, to the point that I palm her face and lower to kiss her. When I close the kiss, she pulls back, dazed. “What was that for?”
For believing for the both of us that whatever the fuck is happening between us is real, because I can’t.
The throb only increases as I take her mouth again, and she matches me, lick for lick. I’m hard in seconds, and I refuse to ignore it, this thing, this feeling, this state. Lionel serenading us or not, our attraction gets the best of me, and I let it guide me along with her moans. Just as I’m about to take her panties down, a pounding sounds on my bedroom door a second before Tyler’s voice booms from the other side of it.