Right now.
“Have you ever been in love? . . . It’s not a stupid question.”
“It is if you find love irrelevant.”
“Why is love irrelevant?”
“Because it doesn’t interest me.”
“Never will,” I say to absolutely no one as I stalk toward the shower and turn it on, spotting a tube of lip shit on my sink before swatting it into my nearby trashcan.
Love is a four-letter curse. No bird I know of—who’s been struck by it—has ever flown quite the same way.
She may have the looks to rival every woman I’ve ever fucked, a pussy made for worship. She may even be a decent conversationalist and reading partner, but I. Will. Not. Be. Domesticated.
I’ve been domesticated.
Somewhat.
To a small degree.
Minuscule, really.
What’s worse is that I actually don’t mind it that much.
Reason being is that it brings a modest level of routine to my otherwise chaotic existence.
Cecelia flips a page next to me as music filters from my speakers. Exhausted by the recent short bout of sleepless nights—when the sky fucking refused to break, and rain refused to come—I close my eyes as relaxation sets in. Hand splayed on my chest, I tap along to the song with my pointer. Maman loved Chicago. A few bars in, I feel the unescapable weight of a deep blue stare on my profile.
Cracking one eye open, I see Cecelia’s book sliding from her chest onto her lap. She sits in nothing but stark white panties, her jaw slack as she gapes at me. In the next second, she tosses the sheet up before it hangs briefly midair and lands, blanketing her as she starts rooting around, searching the mattress.
“The fuck you doing?” I ask as she pokes my side with the pads of her explorative fingers.
“It seems I’ve misplaced the motherfucker I came home with,” she says, her tone jovial before she lowers the sheet, a blinding smile in place. “Because there’s no damned way I just busted him lip-syncing Peter Cetera . . . O.M.G. is that a blush? Are you blushing?”
Unable to hide my smile, I slowly extend my palm to her chest and flatten it before pushing her off the bed. She lands with a thud, her hysterical laughter filling my bedroom. Not at all something I’m used to—my chest tightens a little at the idea it could be.
Laughter subsiding slightly, Cecelia’s head pops up into view. Lifting to her knees, she folds her forearms on the bed, brows raised. “Note to Cecelia, a little wine and a few puffs, and your closeted romantic comes out.”
“Haven’t had a drop, and you know it,” I assert.
“Which only further proves my point,” she quips with a shrug. “Your secret is safe with me, my menacing motherfucker, but I feel it’s my duty—as I’ve been told numerous times recently—to tell you to ‘own it.’”
“You’re delusional,” I dismiss.
“Can’t blame you. As they say, ‘they don’t make love songs like this anymore.’”
“They are idiots.”
“Ah, Jean Dominic,” she coos, “but you have to admit, it puts you in the mood, right?” She snaps to her feet and turns sideways, thrusting her pert ass out and positioning her hands on her hips before she starts to gyrate. “It’s all bump and grind these days,” she bellows in a terrifying impression of a man’s timbre before booming, “and ‘get on your knees and suck it biatch!’”
She pops her ass out with each word for good measure which has me barking a loud laugh as she continues to gyrate, adding her arms in the mix. “Stop,” I chuckle, “for your own sake—and mine—and don’t ever do that again.”
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.