Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(99)

I jerk back, that’s how little I expected this. But then my lips twitch, and…“What? Like I’m your girlfriend, or something?”

He rolls his eyes. One more kiss, this time on my forehead, and then he straightens to his full height. “Part of me would love nothing more than to have you there as I deal with this mess. Then there’s the other part, the part that would really like for you to consider mixing your genetic material to mine at some point in the future, which is terrified of showing you the depravity and greed that runs in my family.”

“Banking on my ignorance, huh?”

“It’s all I have.” He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “I know it might not be possible. You have to take Tiny—and Bitty, I guess—home. I know you promised Rue and Eli to house-sit. But I did want to extend the invitation.”

I cock my head. Study this tired, hurried, too-handsome man. “How come?”

“I’ve been shutting you out for a long time. And I want to make it clear that it’s not going to happen again.”

There is a give inside me. Space hollowing, yielding, readjusting, to make room for a new sense of quiet joy. “Sit,” I say, tapping at the bed, snaking an arm around his waist when he does. “When are you leaving?”

“I’m not sure yet. Dakota is booking us flights out of Palermo.”

“Who’s Dakota?”

“My executive assistant.”

“Ah, right. The dude who goes through your emails.”

“Actually, that would be Seb. I have more than one EA.”

“More than one, as in…two?”

Silence.

“Three?”

A sigh.

“Oh, Conor.”

“I covered for Minami and Sul when they went on parental leave, and the carry allocation—”

“Yes, yes. I don’t think my brother has that many. Then again, my brother occasionally stops working.” I lean my forehead against his temple. Kiss his cheek. “If you ever buy me flowers, should I assume that they’re from Seb or Dakota?”

“I would never buy you flowers.”

I frown. “Never?”

“I would buy you a potted plant.”

“Why?”

“It’s a beloved pastime of mine, watching you drag them to the brink of death and then squirm to Rue and beg for resuscitation—”

He knows me so well, it’s only natural for me to want to kiss him. And once I’m kissing him, I cannot help continuing, pulling him down to the bed, trying to close the distance between us.

I didn’t mean for this to happen. But he smiles, and his mouth is on mine again, fresh and deliciously flavorless, a respite after all that sugar, and that’s how little it takes. His warm hands caressing my skin, folding me easily out of my overalls, my underwear. My fingers scrambling to the opening of his jeans, just as effortlessly. “I…” He finishes kissing me, unhurried, smooth. “We don’t have to do anything. Ever. If you—”

“No, no, but should we—wait?” I ask in between his tongue licking over my lips. I inch back. “I just was wondering, if maybe…”

He stares at me, curious, patient. His gaze doesn’t betray the eagerness that jumps in the quick, heavy rhythms of his pulse under my palm. I laugh.

“What?” he asks, but he’s smiling, too, like all he cares about is being here, with me. Understanding is secondary.

“I was wondering if our first time should be more momentous. Our real one. After all the shit we’ve put each other and ourselves through, you know. And then I remembered that—” I exhale more laughter against his collarbone. “That you are you. And I am me. And that we’re kind of fucked up. I mean, I lost my virginity on MDMA, and your idea of a romantic gesture is probably opening a high-yield savings account for me and then ignoring me for two weeks because you’re not worthy of—”

His lips press against mine, a contusion of a kiss. Half-teeth, but also soft. “Maya,” he tells me, mouth finding my throat. “The things you say, and fuck, you always smell so—fuck.”

My palm finds the outline of his erection, feeling the tremor in his muscles, the purchase as he presses against me, looking for more contact.

“Conor? I haven’t, either.”

“What?”

“Been with anyone else. Since Edinburgh.”

He goes very still. Closes his eyes. “Shit,” he breathes. “I’m not going to—I think I’ve run out.”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“Run out of…?”

“Self-control.”

I smile. Cotton rustles as I slide my hand in his boxer briefs.

“Jesus.” He grips my wrist, stills it, but doesn’t move it away. “Were you serious about being on birth control?”

I take his free hand with mine and lift it until he can feel the implant in my arm. “Okay. Shit, okay. Can I—I’m skeptical of my ability to pull out—”

“Yes. You can.”

He groans, lowers the front of his underwear until it’s hooked behind his balls, and then—it’s not smooth, but he does end up inside me, and I can’t breathe. This time it’s on our sides, my knee bent and pulled up high against his flank, and I can’t control anything about this, not the angle—not quite right—nor the depth—fucking absurd—and I have to make myself inhale, air in and air out, until I feel my insides softening around him.