Page 107 of Score
My breath stutters and my cheeks burn. This is ridiculous. I’m not in high school, but tell my heart that with its schoolgirl flutter.
“You mean about us getting busy behind everybody’s backs?” I ask, deliberately injecting some lightness.
“Yeah, Brown Sugar,” he says, the smile in his voice. “Getting busy. What do you think?”
“What doyouthink?”
“I asked first, but I have no problem telling you I’m down.” He pauses, the silence swelling with possibility. “I want this.”
When I’m manic, I behave recklessly, impulsively. I do things out of character and later regret them. This is not like that. I’m stable and in myright mind when I succumb to this attraction that has never gone away. It’s a calculation—lust times horny, divided by consequences, subtract guilt, equals don’t give a fuck. And regret will not factor in. Even laying it out like a formula, the prospect of doing this with Monk makes my heart feel like it might float right out of my body.
“I want it, too,” I reply, my words no higher than a whisper, but certain.
“Then come home.”
THIRTY-THREE
Monk
When the doorbell rings, I force myself to walk at a normal pace, but the measured steps are at odds with everything else. My blood surges like a hot spring. My mouth goes dry with anticipation. And my heart is racing like I’m some horny pubescent kid. When I reach the door, I pause with my hand on the knob and give myself a second to put this in perspective before I take this step with Verity.
Casual and open.
That’s the agreement. Not feelings. Not jealousy or possessiveness. Not monogamy. None of that.
Lust. Fling. Bang and bounce.
Don’t forget that shit, Bellamy.
I open the door and Verity stands there, looking unsure of her welcome. Of me. Like maybe since we last saw each other, I’ve changed my mind. For some reason, that settles me because I haven’t changed my mind. And I’m glad to see her. Despite my reservations, I can do this again on my terms.
“Hi,” she says, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
“Hey.” I step back and gesture her inside. “Come on in.”
I hug her as soon as the door closes behind us. She stiffens, but then relaxes and winds her arms around my waist. Her warmth and softness and scent—all familiar. It feels good to hold her with the air clear. The past is behind us and we can’t go back, not even to what was good. This is something different, but I want it bad. I wantherbadly.
I pull back enough to peer down at her. Her curls are caught up in a knot and her makeup is minimal. There’s nothing provocative about thesimple mauve dress she’s wearing that falls past her knees, but she could show up in a burlap sack and she’d still be sexy as hell to me.
She looks beyond me into the house. “Wow. Your place is beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
I glance around the foyer, trying to see through her eyes the mid-century modern house it’s taken years to restore. There’s a warm ambience created with natural textures and materials like the teak and bronze for the overhead light fixture and surrounding the fireplace. It’s a palette of subtle colors, like gunmetal gray, russet, and espresso. I walk ahead and lead her into the living room.
“I can’t take the credit. My designer did all the work. I can give you the full tour later if you want, but first are you hungry?”
She touches her stomach and grimaces sheepishly. “How’d you know?”
I chuckle and press my hand to her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. “Lucky guess.”
We walk deeper into the house with its open floor plan that flows easily between the kitchen and the living and dining rooms.
“You have great taste,” she says, running a hand over the basalt countertop and the teak cabinet. “Or your designer does.”
“Let’s call it a collaboration I basically only paid for.” I grin and open the refrigerator to browse an arrangement of neatly stacked containers. “We got a chicken and rice pilaf thing. There’s a steak thing and some salad with that. And a grilled swordfish thing.”
“I’ll take the chicken thing. Did you cook any of this?”
