Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(103)

“I’m going back to my apartment,” I yell five minutes after Eli deposits his suitcases at the foot of the stairs. I stuff the bag of loukoumi they brought back under my arm, and sigh when I receive no acknowledgment.

“It’s so lonely at my place,” I tell Conor later, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear as I cut tomatoes. “The AC is about to crap out. I have no plants—no dogs. I should get one. Oooh, should I get a cat? Austin Pets Alive! always has the cutest—”

“Where’s Jade?”

“At her parents’ for the next two weeks.” I sigh. “It’s okay. I have plenty to do, I just miss having pets, and—”

“Go to my place.”

I stop midchop. “Do you have a secret ferret I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Then how would that change anything? Your house is still deserted, and—”

“My AC works. And I have an alarm. It’d be safer. My bed is probably more comfortable than yours, housekeeping comes once a week, I have a large TV—”

“When’s the last time you watched a movie? I know it’s a hard question, so you have ten whole minutes to come up with a reply.”

A groan. “Maya.”

“Yeah?”

“Just go to my damn house.”

I grin. Pop a tomato slice into my mouth. “I’d love to. Should I break in? Window in the back?”

“Eli has a set of spare keys.”

“Hmm.” A beat. “You know that if I go to him and ask, he’ll realize that—”

“Yes,” Conor says.

And that’s that.



* * *





Conor arrives home in the middle of the night, the day before he was originally scheduled to.

He’s very quiet. Nonetheless, I hear him, and before he can turn on the light, I’m out of bed, pointing a butcher knife at his throat.

“Oh,” I say.

“Oh,” he grumbles. Gently takes the knife handle from me and sets it on his dresser. “I was trying not to wake you up.”

“Right. Um…I was gonna come pick you up. Tomorrow.”

“With or without the knife?” He looks at me from head to toe. Takes in the shirt I stole from his closet, the French braids I put in my hair after my shower. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “I got an earlier flight.”

Oh my god.

It occurs to me that—he is here. Conor’s done overhauling the biotech market, and he’s here.

I’m itching to touch him. After all these days of missing and wishing and burying my nose in his pillow and hating that the only smell I could pick up is detergent. After low-res video calls and all the food he had delivered for me. Even fresh off the plane, he smells so good, he feels so concrete and perfect and familiar and new, and he hasn’t shaved in a while, which makes him extra handsome, and…

My breath hitches. “Bless Seb,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“I hope his bonus is giant.”

Conor nods. “It is.”

“I’m willing to contribute to it with my salary. And I could top it off with nudes.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Let’s ask him. He might be into the idea.”

“Maya, if you—”

I jump him. There is no other word for it: my thighs around his waist, elbows on his shoulder, my lips hitting his in a way that’s probably too toothy and painful and not pleasant at all, but his hands are under my ass, tugging me to him.

He returns my kiss, and then we’re on the mattress. He says it about ten times, how perfect I am, “too fucking perfect, going to be the end of me,” but when I push at his shoulders to get his weight off me, he lets me flip us over.

“Has the deal been inactivated?” I ask as I work on his belt, pull the henley out of his pants, already winded.

“I—that’s not a thing—”

“But is it over?”

“It’s over—”

“You’re not leaving—”

“I’m not leaving, I’m not fucking leaving until—ever.”

“Good—I missed you.” We kiss, messy, sloppy, too fast. “I missed you.” My hand is in his boxers, and I’m pulling his cock out, and maybe it’s the way I lick my lips, but he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Maya. Love.” His hand in my hair. “I don’t think now is the best—”

“Really? That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Because I do think now is the best.” It’s nice, feeling the weight of him over my tongue, the stymied exhale as his head falls back. He feels too big, and perfect. Twitches at the light scrape of my teeth, the way I part my lips and suckle the head, studying every intake of breath, every flutter of his eyelashes.

His hands in my hair, holding, not pushing.

My name, whispered, groaned, pleaded.

A muttered, “Fuck.”

After a little while he keeps my head still and he thrusts inside my mouth, slowly, gently. “Fucking hell, Maya.”

I suck, a strong pull. His fingers tighten against my scalp, trying to pry me away.