Nick slaps me on the shoulder. It’s his normal greeting, has been since we were in our early twenties. I slap him back. “Man, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you around.”
“Sorry about that. Work has been… well, a lot.”
“Is your new development set to start?”
“Yeah, within a few weeks,” I say, taking a sip of my whiskey. Skye would have my head for phrasing it that way, but I know better than explaining the business deal I made with Between the Pages to Nick. He’d tell me all the ways it was a terrible decision.
He nods, leaning back in the booth. “Ready to lose on Saturday?”
“Hah, you don’t stand a chance. I’m not losing three sets in a row.” I lean back, draping my arm over the back of the empty chair next to me. “Blair might swing by toward the end. Promised her a game too. That okay?”
Nick nods, even though his face tightens. For some reason, he’s never gotten along with my little sister. “Sure.”
The circles under his eyes look deeper than usual, even if he’s otherwise the picture of health. “Business booming?”
He snorts. “You could say that, yes.”
I recognize the wolfish glint in his eyes. “What failing company are you taking over now?”
“NDA,” he says. “I’ll tell you in a week.”
I grin. Seattle society has never known what to make of Nicholas Park. Brilliantly wealthy, but very obviously new money. Talented and efficient, but with a penchant for ruthlessness.
We’d been classmates in college and had stuck together ever since, both of us drawn to winning and accomplishment like moths to a flame.
“The number of enemies you make in a month must be hard to keep track of,” I say. “Do you keep a list? A little black book?”
He smirks. “Of course. I’ll make a copy for you in the event of my death.”
“So I can track down your murderer?”
“Yes. I have complete faith in you.”
I snort. “I don’t. But I’ll hire the best private detective that money can buy.”
Nick tips his glass to me. “I’d expect nothing less.”
In my pocket, my phone vibrates. It’s usually something I ignore when I’m with family or friends, considering how many hours of the day I work.
“Give me a moment.”
He nods and looks out over the hotel bar. Another one of mine, but not Legacy, thank God. I haven’t been back there since that first night.
It’s Skye. She’s sent me a photo, no text, of the crowded storage room at Between the Pages. On the wall is a small dartboard with the nearly unintelligible logo of Porter Development taped over it.
Arrows pepper it.
I grin at my phone.
Cole Porter: Not a single arrow is in the bull’s-eye. There’s room for improvement here.
Her answer is immediate—like she was waiting by the phone.
Skye Holland: It’s hard to aim when I’m overcome with anger.
Cole Porter: If I’m to be vandalized, at least try to do it properly.
It’s easy to picture her face, amused and annoyed in equal measure. Asshole, she’s saying to herself right now.
Nick is shaking his head at me. “You’re smiling at your phone? Don’t tell me it’s Blair.”
“No.” I lean back in the booth, looking at him. Nick has always given it to me straight. Sometimes brutally so. “Remember the girl I told you about?”
“The one who worked in the building you’re demolishing?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about her? No, don’t tell me. You’ve started sleeping together.”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s casual, though.”
“To you, maybe,” he warns. “It always starts casual.”
“Mutually agreed casual, actually. She still can’t stand me on a personal level.”
Nick chuckles darkly. “I like her already. So what? The two of you are having hate sex?”
“Yeah.” From my side there isn’t much hate at all. She regularly likes to remind me of hers, though. Nick isn’t the only one talented at making enemies at work.
“Perfect setup, man. It’ll blow up in your face, but enjoy it while it lasts.”
“There’s a risk, but it’s minimal,” I say.
Nick grins. “When was the last time you did casual?”
“It’s been a while,” I admit. “But once upon a time it was the only thing I did.”
He raises a finger, warning in his eyes. Whatever he’s about to say, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want my ex dragged into whatever psychoanalyst babble he’s going to attempt.
To my surprise, he doesn’t. “Enjoy,” Nick says, “but you guys are heading toward a deadline. Don’t forget she’s eventually going to cut contact with you completely.”
My whiskey tastes sour. “Oh, I won’t.”
Our evening doesn’t run long. There was a time when Nick and I would’ve been out till late, both of us chasing shots and skirts, but that’s over a decade gone.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t dry your tears on Saturday when you lose,” he says.
I repeat the gesture. “Tennis is a gentleman’s sport, but I’ll make an exception for you.”
Nick’s answering smile tells me that I’m going to have to fight for victory—just the way I like it. Nothing feels good when it’s unearned.
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the text she sent me, but I dial Skye’s number as soon as I’m alone.
“Cole?”
“Hey,” I say. “I have a dartboard at home.”
Her voice is half-amused, half-annoyed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“You need to practice aim.”
“Rude,” she says. “You’re right, but still.”
“Are you busy? If not, come over and practice.”
A pause. “Is this a booty call, Porter?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Casual sex usually involves some form of planning, yeah. It doesn’t just happen spontaneously.”
There’s silence on the other line. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since the evening at hers, two days ago. We’d agreed to it then—she was the one who set the strict guidelines—but perhaps she’s changed her mind. Backed out of the whole thing. For all of her refreshing feistiness and attitude, she’s surprisingly innocent at heart.
“Skye?”
“I’ll come over,” she says. “Give me half an hour.”
“I’ll send a car.”
She snorts. “Under no circumstances will you do that. I’ll drive myself.”
I find myself smiling a long time after I’ve hung up, thinking about her soft voice laced with steel as she refused my offer. Independent Skye Holland in action, indeed.
Forty-five minutes later the bell of the elevator rings out in my hallway, and there she is in all her glory.
“You’re late,” I call.
“Only by fifteen minutes.” The sound of boots being unzipped, a jacket tossed to the ground. “It’s a school night. I can’t stay late.”
“Are you telling me to hurry?”
“Yes.”
“A master never hurries.” I grab a bottle out of the wine cooler and open it with an easy move. Skye walks into my kitchen on bare feet, wearing a short-sleeved sundress. Her brown hair is loose over her shoulders and gleaming. I’ve always thought she’s pretty, but under the dimmed lights, her face is arresting. Dainty nose. Sparkling eyes. Temptingly curved mouth.
I clear my throat. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” She takes a sip, looking up at me through dark lashes. It’s a brazen look—confident in its ability to seduce.
“I’m glad you came over.”
“I told you I would.”
I lean back against the counter, sweeping my eyes over her form, stopping at her neck, her cleavage, her hips. It’s completely inappropriate, which is the point. She shifts her feet from under my scrutiny. “Well,” I say finally. “I had my doubts.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Is this the first casual relationship you’ve had?”
She ignores me pointedly, walking around the concrete kitchen island. “Do you ever cook here?”
“Sometimes. You’re evading the question.”
Skye sits down on one of the high chairs and looks around. I wonder what she thinks of my place—of the stark, minimalist design. It’s a world away from her apartment, with its knickknacks and lack of bookcases and complete hominess.
“You must hate my place,” she says, as if she’s realizing the same difference.
“Not at all.” If anything, it reminds me of my old apartment. Of the house I grew up in. Of family and warmth.
“What instructions did you give your interior designer? Luxury Buddhism?”
I chuckle. “I didn’t give any. The place was furnished when I bought it.” Not to mention I’d been in a rush, not wanting to stay one more night in the place I’d lived with my ex.
I put my glass down and walk around the counter to where she’s sitting. Her dress has ridden up and I put a hand on her thigh, smoothing over soft skin. “Is this the first time you’ve had an arrangement like ours? Explicitly casual?”
Her lips open, invitingly full, even as her brown eyes shutter. “Perhaps,” she says. “I don’t usually sleep with men I’m also trying to win a business deal against.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
“No. You’re kind of my first in that regard.”
I put a hand over my heart. “Honored.”
“You should be.” She pulls away from me, sliding off the chair and continuing her perusal of my kitchen. I sit back, watching as she stops at my stove, my microwave. At the fridge.
“You don’t have any fridge magnets,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a home without any.”
I put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “Well-spotted.”
“How come?”
“Well, how does anyone get theirs?”
“Hmm.” She runs a hand over the handle and open the fridge. It winks emptily back at her. A few bottles of juice, some fruit. There’s rarely food in it. I’m just not home enough.
“This is sad, Porter.” She holds up a half-opened jar of pickles, sitting alone on a shelf. “This is what you live off? I doubt it.”
There’s no way to hide my smile now. She’s stalling, and it’s adorable. “A pickle a day, you know.”
“This is all wrong.” She closes my fridge and moves on to the dining-room table. There’s a bowl of something on a side table—are those decorative lemons?—and she grabs one. “Fake fruit. This is how the rich live?”
“Tell you what, I’ve never noticed those before.”
Her mouth turns into a frown. “No wonder you don’t have any food in your fridge. You don’t know how to spot it.”
I’m grinning wide now, reaching her in a few quick strides. “If you want a tour of this place, all you have to do is ask.”
“Will you provide commentary?”
“Not sure I know enough about this place to do that, as you’ve so brilliantly illustrated.”
She slips her hand in mine. The movement is effortless, like we’ve done it before, her skin warm against mine. “Lead the way.”
I pull her through the dining room, heading to the living room and the large central fireplace. “Keep all hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I say. “And no distracting the driver.”
She tugs at my hand, pulling me to a stop in front of a framed picture on the wall. It’s my mom, sister and me at Blair’s graduation. I’m wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a suit, looking, as Blair so lovingly put it, “Like a complete jackass.”
“This is your family?”
I rub my neck. “Yeah.”
“Your sister is gorgeous.”
What’s the appropriate response to that? Thanks? “Uh-huh,” I say, wondering if she’ll comment on anything else. This is… well, it’s the kind of conversation that’s decidedly not part of a casual sexual relationship.
But she just gives me a wide smile. “Come on, tour operator. I want to see the bedroom.”
“Wow. All right, but that’s kind of forward, Holland.”
Her eyes widen. “But—”
“No, no, what the lady wants, the lady gets. Even if you’re making me feel cheap.” I pull her forward, her laughter trailing behind us.
“Not my intention!”
“Deny it all you want.”
She steps past me to the bedroom, laughter dying on her lips when she spots the giant bed. Another feature that was already here when I bought it, but not one I’ve complained about.
Her hand slips out of mine as she walks around to the nightstand, finding the book on top of the small pile of reading material. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face from view. My hand aches to feel it through my fingers.
“Of course you want to see what I’m reading.”
She smiles absentmindedly, turning it over to read the back. “The History of Aviation?”
“Yes.” I reach up to undo my tie, tossing it aside. “You’re stalling again.”
“Maybe I’m just evaluating you. Just because I’m a booty call doesn’t mean I’m a done deal, you know.”
“Evaluating me based on my reading habits?”
She nods, looking through the rest of the pile. I run a hand through my hair and watch in agonized silence as she bites her lip. “Oh,” she says, the sound a soft exhale. “This book is excellent.”
I tug at the collar of my shirt. “This is excruciating.”
“You’re not used to being judged.” Her voice is silky, the same tone she used at the hotel all those weeks ago. Confident and seductive. And seeing her stand so close to my bed…
“Not in the bedroom, no.”
Her lips quirk into a smile. “Poor little developer.”
“You got one word right, there. The last one.”
She puts the books down and turns to me fully. Eyes blazing, she reaches up to the top button in her summer dress. Her quick fingers undo the first one.
“So?” I say, mouth dry. “Did I pass?”
Two more buttons come undone. The white lace of her bra peeks through, the smooth curve of her breasts visible. And her fingers don’t stop, either—soon her flat stomach is revealed. I stay rooted, afraid a sudden movement will make her stop.
“You did,” Skye says, shrugging the dress off. It pools at her feet. “I love it when you look at me like that.”
I drag my gaze up to hers, a Herculean effort. “Oh?”
“Yes,” she breathes, her voice containing bravery and shyness and want in a heady mixture.
“Then take off that bra, too.”
She bites her lip but obliges, her eyes still on mine. It slides off her arms and then she’s standing in front of me clad in only her panties and her long hair. Delicately curved collarbones. Flared hips. Soft thighs. Freckled breasts with nipples that are already hard.
“Fucking hell.”
Her smile is warm. “Yeah, that’s the look.”
“You know what I like so well already, do you?”
“You’re easy to read.” Skye slides up the bed, her eyes locked on mine—yes, don’t look away—as I reach to unbuckle my belt. Her breath makes a hissing sound as I push my pants and boxers down. It’s difficult, being so painfully hard.
“See?” I say, stroking myself. “All because of you.”
Her beautiful skin flushes, and it races up her cheeks, her neck, down across her chest. It’s one of the first things I’d noticed at the hotel bar. She’d mouthed off to me, but she’d blushed while doing it.
“Come here.” I grip her ankles and pull her roughly to the edge of the bed. She gasps when I grab a hold of her panties and tug them off, down long legs and off one ankle.
Beautiful.
I settle between her legs, my hands on her hipbones. “Just a booty call,” I mutter against her skin.
“What?”
But I don’t answer with words. I make sure she shatters instead—enjoying every minute of it. Skye’s back arches when she comes, in a way that is as natural as it’s arousing. Her gasps are real, and every last one of her hissing breaths makes me throb.
She collapses against the bed and finds my head, her fingers threading through my hair. I rest my forehead against her inner thigh and breathe through my arousal.
This, I could do forever. Making her come that first night together had felt like success, and after the third time, like victory. Especially when she told me she rarely came with men.
“I want you to fuck me,” she breathes.
I groan. “Fuck. So do I.”
“Hard, Cole. Really, really hard.”
Hate sex, I think, Nick’s words finding me again.
I flip her over, my hands on her hips, pulling her ass back to me. I want her too much to think clearly, to think of anything beyond her body bent before me.
“Yes,” she breathes, arching.
I’ve never put on a condom faster than I do right then, with Skye’s demanding eyes on me. “Hard,” she growls.
She doesn’t have to say it twice.
Pushing inside her feels like heaven and both of us moan at the sensation. She’s beyond wet, and so tight, and fucking hell I could do this forever. Fuck her forever.
Except I can’t. Each deep stroke increases the sensation, the need inside me, and I won’t last for shit this time around. It’s too good. I grip her hips—they’re the perfect handhold—only to abandon them for her round ass. Watching myself slide in and out of her. Hearing her gasp when I go deep.
“Cole,” she mewls, hands fisting in my covers. She falls forward onto her elbows, her legs moving closer together, making her feel even tighter around me. It obliviates all thought.
“Good girl,” I growl, fucking her harder and faster, giving her everything, my hands in her hair, and then she’s moaning and I’ve lost control and her body is so beautiful underneath me and I can still taste her on my tongue and it’s all over. I erupt with my hands gripping her hips, pinning her in place, buried deep.
She whimpers against the coverlet. “Oh my God.”
I brace my hands against the bed, covering her completely, and try to focus on breathing. How is every time I fuck her better than the last?
“You OK?”
I huff a laugh and pull out of her, tossing the condom aside. “I was going to ask you that.” I collapse onto the bed, my breath furious. She turns over onto her back beside me.
“Yes.” Skye is in no better shape—her arms and legs spread out like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling. “Wow. That was…”
“Fucking unreal,” I mutter.
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
I look over at her. Flushed skin, glazed eyes. Beautiful hair that spreads across my bed like brown silk. “Not too hard?”
She shakes her head, vigorously enough to make me smile. “No. Perfect amount.”
“You feel unbelievably good against me, not to mention around me. I’m always surprised I manage to last at all.”
Skye turns to look at me, amusement and embarrassment evident in her eyes. Is she not used to compliments during sex, either? If so, it makes me seriously question the men she’s been with before.
“Is this the part where I compliment your dick?”
I laugh, reaching over to flick her pert nose. “Only if you want to.”
“In that case, I’d say—” The shrill sound of a phone ringing cuts through the air. It’s a tune… it’s familiar. Skye scrambles into sitting.
“This?” I ask. “You have the theme song to The Office as your ringtone?”
“Yes.” She rummages through the pockets of her dress, fishing out a battered old iPhone. “Hi, Isla.”
I put my hands behind my head and eavesdrop openly, listening to her talk. “Yes, dinner is tomorrow at seven. I can—”
Her face shutters at whatever Isla says. Her cheeks, already flushed from sex, turn dark red. “You’re impossible.”
Whoever is on the phone didn’t like hearing that, that’s clear. Skye turns away from me, still nude, her hair long down her back. My gorgeous bookstore clerk, smart and strong and brave. “Okay. Yes, of course I will. Do you want him to stay over at mine too?”
A pause.
“Yes. Fine. I’ll pick him up at six. And Isla… Don’t go too crazy this weekend, all right?”
Skye hangs up, a frown on her beautiful lips. It doesn’t belong there. “Whoever that was,” I declare, “was an idiot.”
She breaks into a surprised laugh. “Where did that come from?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“Well, I can’t outright agree to that.”
“Your sister?”
She nods. “I’m babysitting Timmy tomorrow. I don’t mind that part at all, but her bailing on a dinner with Mom isn’t cool. Especially not…” She trails off with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to bore you. It’s silly.”
It doesn’t sound silly, but I don’t push. I watch instead as she clips on her bra. Bye, breasts, I think. Until next time. I pull on my own pants and watch in amusement as she searches for her underwear.
“Where did you toss them?”
“No clue. I was more interested in what they covered.”
Skye blushes again. “Well, I do need them back.”
I help her look, finally finding her panties atop my dresser. I hand them to her with a flourish. “For you, miss.”
“Thanks.”
We head into the living room, Skye quietly doing up her buttons. “It’s a school night,” I say, “but I’ll never kick you out after sex. Stay as long as you’d like.”
Her smile is crooked. “So we can braid each other’s hair?”
“Hmm. Perhaps a pillow fight?”
“I have an advantage in the first game, you in the second. Sounds fair.”
“The fairest.” I slip my hands in my pockets, still without a shirt. “I’m going away for a few days, by the way.”
“You are?” She sways closer and I reach out, running a strand of her hair between my fingers.
“Yes, for business. I’ll be back by Tuesday.”
“Going to conquer more of the world?” Her eyes, flecked with hazel, look just like they had in the hotel bar that first night. Teasing and confident, with no trace of dislike. The way I prefer.
“What do you think I do for a living?” I slide my hands around her waist. “I don’t think I want to correct you on it; I sound much more powerful in your imagination.”
She chuckles, hands wrapping around my neck. “And egomaniacal.”
“That’s another very good word.”
“My vocabulary turns you on, huh?”
I tip her head back and press a series of slow, shivery kisses to her lips. “Most definitely.”
She kisses me back—soft, warm, inviting. “Then take a thesaurus with you.”
I fill my hands with her ass. “Not nearly as appealing as you. All hard angles, no curves.”
“Thanks for comparing me favorably to a book.” She slides her arms down my chest, my arms, ending the kiss with a smile.
“I know it’s the highest compliment in your book.”
“More true than you know.”
I lean against the wall and watch as she presses the button for the elevator. She looks respectable again—cute, in her boots and dress—but nothing can hide the just-fuckedness of her long hair, gorgeous and wild.
“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” I say.
She steps into the elevator and gives me a crooked smile, the one I like the most. “Don’t worry, Porter. I still hate you.”
The elevator doors close and shutter, sending her barreling down from me one floor at a time. “I know,” I say out loud, “but we’ll work on that.”
