Finally, one last loathsome thought surfaces: Tyler Fucking Kinley. When I first started seeing Tyler, I thought it was wonderful. I thought
he
was wonderful, and my instincts turned out to be fucking awful. Should I mix business with pleasure again?
Then I have to shake my head. “Even if it’s a mistake, Flint is worth one million Tyler Kinleys,” I mutter. I choose the black lace dress and slide into it. “More like seven million, if I’m honest.” It’s true. Flint can be unpredictable, as our surprise kiss showed. But I know, in the deepest part of myself, that he’d never hurt me. It’s weird to feel so wild—having hot, unprofessional sex with the star of my show is pretty dangerous—ana andd yet so safe at the same time. Weird, but good.
Finally, I’ve got the perfect pumps, the right lipstick, and I’m ready to go. Downstairs, I hear Flint chatting with Mrs. Beauchamp. She smiles at me as I come down the stairs, and Flint stands up.
Whoa.
The flannel and denim are gone. He’s wearing a nice jacket, with a collared, button down black shirt. You can appreciate how broad his shoulders are in this outfit, and his suit really hugs the rock hard contours of his body. His hair is slicked back, just enough to look good, not overdone, and he hasn’t shaved—which is just as well, because I love the rasp of his stubble against my cheek, my body, my…everything.
His eyes trail over me, top to bottom, drawing out the flush in my skin. I see a spark of pure, X-rated animal lust flare in his gaze before he covers with a family friendly smile that’d be fully appropriate for all demographics. Guess I chose the right dress.
“No tool belt?” I say, keeping my tone light as I walk up to him.
“It’s in the car,” he says.
The drive out to Montague is easy. We discuss the day’s shoot, falling into a natural rhythm. When he reaches for my hand, jolts of electricity run up and down my arm, and although I could jump on him right now in the car I force myself to hold back, because I like the idea of letting the anticipation build. Also I don’t want to cause a collision.
The best part, though, is The Bookmill. It’s housed in a cozy red building, right next to the churning river. The moonlight ripples on the water, a breathtaking sight. As we drive in, I see a painted sign reading
The Montague Mill 1834
. Twinkling white lights are strung along the entrance as we get out of the truck and walk down the path.
“Flint, this is incredible,” I say.
“Try not to swoon before the appetizers,” he teases, pulling me in for a long, intense kiss that all but incapacitates me. God, if he keeps it up these panties will be ruined. I pull away slowly, trying to shake off the hardcore lust weakening my knees.
“I’m not the swooning type,” I lie. Winking at him, I walk on. I need to stop grinning like an idiot, but damn if it isn’t hard.
We’re almost to the door when he pulls me to the side. “Before we go in, I wanted to show you something. Hope you like it,” he says, leading the way as we head upstairs to the house’s attic floor, which is lit up from inside and looks warm and cozy.
When we enter, it’s suddenly very clear why they call this place the Bookmill—the place is a book nerd’s paradise. The lights are soft on the gabled walls and exposed wooden beams. Plush little wingback chairs are circled around reading tables. The walls are packed with books, all just begging to be taken down and opened. I’m instantly on alert, scanning the shelves for something good. And there’s a lot that’s good here. I grab an old copy of Ernest Hemingway’s
A Moveable Feast
, all about the time he spent living in Paris. When I was a teenager, I liked to imagine hanging around Europe in the 1920s. Cigarette holder in one hand, book in the other, wearing original Chanel designs and flirting with F. Scott Fitzgerald over tumblers of good whiskey. You know. Same fantasies as every other kid.
Flint picks up a book, his eyes sparkling as he scans the jacket copy.
“You’re a reader?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement as we look over the selection. I saw bookshelves back at his place, but sometimes people put those in just for show. Tyler was like that.
I need to stop thinking about that loser. Flint’s here, and he’s happy to talk about his reading habits.
“
Three Body Problem. Left Hand of Darkness
.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a sci-fi guy myself.”
I have to keep from screaming out in excitement. “
Rendezvous with Rama
?”
“Oh wow.” His eyes light up. “Arthur C. Clarke was a god. Exploring that spaceship was incredible! Absolutely nothing happened!”
“I never wanted it to end,” I sigh. I playfully tap his shoulder as I move around him, taking in more of the shelves. “So rare to meet anyone who shares my enthusiasm for alien civilizations. I can’t believe we never talked about this.”
Flint draws me to him and traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, and as he gazes at me like he wants to eat me alive a wave of heat uncurls in my belly. “I’m a believer in first contact,” he whispers in my ear. My breath catches in my throat.
“Did I mention I’m not wearing panties tonight?” I whisper back huskily, my hands sliding down the planes of his chest to the waistband of his pants, except—stupid man belts. Always getting in the way. I tug at the buckle. “Talk nerdy to me, Flint.”
His breathing is strained. “I—”
And then our reservation is called out, and I’m almost disappointed to head downstairs to our table. That is, until I’m seated by the window, watching the moonlight wink on the river, about to enjoy what turns out to be one of the best meals of my life.
The wine Flint chooses is amazing, and the bourbon-glazed salmon, mango saffron rice and braised kale make my foodie Angeleno heart sing. As we drink and dine, Flint and I continue with our sci-fi nerdery. Of all the planets in
Star Wars,
I’d want to live on Naboo (“You can’t pick anything from the prequels! It’s sacrilege,”) and he’d choose Endor (“The teddy bear people?” “They have a great affinity for nature!”). I can’t remember ever enjoying a dinner conversation this much. Especially when I find out that Flint was kind of a wild man back in New York. Well, sort of.
“You actually tried to
break in
to the penguin tank in the Central Park zoo?” I say, unable to keep a straight face. Flint laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“In my defense, I’d had a few beers and I’ve always loved penguins. When I was a kid, my plan was to go to Antarctica and study marine biology.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “I thought I’d be swimming with polar bears and surfing on icebergs.”
“What stopped you? Fear of elephant seals?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.
“There aren’t any deciduous forests that far south.” I pause, wondering if this is another joke. Flint sighs. “I can’t be far from the woods. I know it makes me sound like I should be running around in a fringe jacket with a coonskin cap, but this is where my heart is.” He looks out the window, appreciating the trees that sway in the moonlight. He’s both brooding and calm; thoroughly irresistible.
I feel a twinge of sadness when he mentions how he never wants to leave this place. But I push it out of my mind. Not now, Young. Not tonight.
“I understand,” I say. I mean, sort of. I can’t be that far away from the nearest Chinese/French fusion place in the nearest city. I love trees. I just don’t love them so much I have to be right next to them all the time. Do palm trees count? I clear my throat. “So how were you not arrested and thrown into penguin snatching jail?”
“Apparently the Central Park zoo has this really experimental new policy in place for after hours. New technology, but they’re calling it ‘alarms.’” He chuckles. “The bells and whistles started blowing, and I realized I was sitting there, one leg over the fence, trying to snatch an Emperor penguin. I was planning on naming him Jeff.” Flint refills his wine glass and then mine. I do like a courteous man. “Anyway my buddies and I ran out of there as fast as we could. Only nice thing about New York is you can disappear into the crowd in no time.” He laughs again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. I reach out and brush it away. He grabs my wrist and kisses the palm of my hand. Once, then twice, slower, while I melt under his attentive gaze.
What were we talking about?
“Oh, there are probably other nice things about the city,” I say. Flint releases me and gazes out the window, looking at the river.
“It’s a good place to meet people,” he says casually, but there’s an edge to his voice. Charlotte. Flint’s ex is the last thing I want on his mind tonight.
“That’s a good start,” I say, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “And there are other things. Traffic. Noise. People letting their dogs pee on your potted flowers.”
“The monsters,” Flint says, faking seriousness.
“There’s a lot about the country that I like,” I say, honestly. “The woods are beautiful. The air’s clean, the water’s clean, the people are friendly.” Some of them I hope to get
very
friendly with, thank you very much.
“That we are,” he agrees, dropping his hand below the tablecloth to find my knee. Our eyes lock, and the temperature in the room seems to rise by at least ten degrees as his fingers slip underneath the hem of my dress, teasing the sensitive skin there in small, firm circles, stroking higher and higher up my thigh until I shiver under his touch. But I don’t look away. Instead I part my legs just enough for him to brush one finger against my bare, swollen clit.
Luckily my wineglass is already empty, because I knock it over grabbing the table for support. Flint rights the glass and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
“How fast do you think we can get out of here?” he asks, hand still under the table, between my thighs, his finger now tapping out a rhythm against the hot spot aching under his touch. He never takes his eyes from mine as he signals for the check. I worry I might come right here in the middle of this restaurant, but I don’t want him to stop.
“Not fast enough,” I whisper breathlessly, hurriedly slapping Flint’s hand away and turning totally not-suspiciously toward the window to hide my fierce blush and lust-glazed eyes from our approaching waiter. Flint actually laughs at how flustered I am, but that’s fine by me. I’m looking forward to paying him back.
This time, we’re not fumbling at each other’s clothes while we play tongue tug-of-war in an alleyway or stumble drunkenly into my apartment. The entire ride home is quiet, the air heavy and charged with the sexual tension between us. When Flint reaches for my thigh I bat him away with a smile, crossing my legs primly and informing him that he had more than enough playtime back at the restaurant. See? Payback’s a bitch.
Truthfully I want his hands on me again just as badly as he does, but I think it would be lots more fun to slip my heels off instead and then stretch out on the seat so I can rub my feet against Flint’s crotch while he’s driving. So that’s exactly what I do.
By the time we turn onto his street he’s groaning out loud, gripping my ankles with one hand and the steering wheel so tightly with the other that even in the dark I’m pretty sure I see his knuckles go white. Poor Flint. See above note re: payback.
As soon as we’re inside the house, though, Flint’s back in control. I surrender to his mouth, tilting my head back as he trails burning kisses down my throat, my chest, stopping only long enough to pull my tight dress up over my head and toss it across the room. I stand there naked, exposed, nary a stitch of clothing or a shoe to keep me decent.
“Can’t say I appreciated your performance in the truck,” Flint grins. His eyes travel slowly up and down my body, and my pulse quickens under the heat of his gaze. “Got me all riled up now.” Judging by the tent in his pants, I certainly did.
“You want to spank me?” I tease.
I barely catch the glint in his eyes before he grabs me, lifts me over his shoulder, and slaps his rough hand firmly against my ass with a resounding slap. I squeal at the tingle of pain, but it’s quickly replaced by a rush of warmth, and I relax in his arms.
“Again,” I command, shocked at how much I like this. The second spanking hurts less, but the spreading heat that follows somehow feels better, lasts longer. I moan deeply, trailing my nails across Flint’s back.
“Don’t ask again,” he says gruffly, caressing my ass in soothing circles as he carries me to the living room.
“Ever?” I pout, writhing in his grasp, too turned on to lay still in his arms.
“Just not right now.” Flint sets me down on the couch, whipping off his jacket and kneeling before me. “I haven’t tasted you since we were in LA.” I gasp as he spreads my legs wide apart, eyeing my ripe pussy with a hunger in his gaze. “Don’t move.”
“Then don’t play with me,” I whisper, my voice strained and husky.
“Never.” He dips his head between my thighs, licking me in long, slow strokes that linger on my clit. Oh, how I’ve missed that mouth. When I start to moan, he slips one, two fingers inside me and pumps them in and out, deep and hard, as he sucks my slick nub into his mouth. He bites down gently, and the pressure nearly drives me to the brink.
“Oh God,” I whimper. It’s too much, I’m too close, and I don’t want this to be over so soon. “Hit pause,” I plead, pulling him up onto the couch. He grins at my gamer joke, either because he’s a gentleman polite enough to at least
pretend
to appreciate my sense of humor, or because we’re both total nerds. Either way, he’s amazing.
As he settles over me, I revel in the weight of his body, the feel of his cool silk shirt against my bare nipples, the rougher fabric of his pants and the hard bulge underneath pressing against my wet pussy. As he unbuttons his shirt I tug impatiently at his belt buckle—teamwork, for the win. While my fingers fumble I attack his mouth with mine, showing him with my thrusting tongue what I want him to do to me with his cock…if I can ever get these damn pants off of him.
“Need some help?” he asks, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. He’s naked from the waist up now, and the view of him stops my hands, and nearly my heart.