Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(59)
“Here’s the point, babe.”
And then, before I can move or breathe or object, his mouth crashes down in a kiss so intense, it makes my knees shake. I swear, if not for his hands sliding around my waist in a vise, I’d have fallen straight down the stairs with Fenway in my arms, a blur of fur and flailing limbs.
This kiss is different than our first — stripped of all sweetness. It’s no casual goodbye peck at the end of a first date, no chaste brushing of lips between two almost strangers. No. It’s hard and angry, demanding my unconditional submission. His tongue is domineering as it sweeps into my mouth, an unapologetic invasion, an unequivocal declaration of ownership that doesn’t bother to ask my permission or care to find out whether or not I want to be owned in the first place.
I should fight back, to convince him he’s wrong about us, but I don’t.
Hell, I don’t even pretend to fight back.
As soon as his lips land on mine, my back bows in an arch of desire. I let him ravish my mouth without restraint, not an objector but a willing participant in my own seduction. Lust spikes through me like a hundred degree fever. I’m burning up, so hot I can’t help the muffled cry that comes out as he angles his head down to deepen our kiss.
Cursing the puppy for monopolizing my hands — which, honestly, would be better served clinging to Luca’s shoulders for dear life — I feel my bones turning to water beneath his touch. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible to orgasm from no more than a kiss when abruptly, Luca tears his mouth from mine and pulls away.
Stepping out of my space so we’re no longer touching at all, his eyes flash with frustration and so much passion, just looking into them makes me want to writhe on the steps of my apartment, in full view of anyone walking by.
“That,” he hisses furiously, breathing hard, “Is my point, Delilah. You let me know when you’re ready to talk about what it means.”
He’s gone before I can begin to catch my breath, bounding down the stairs, climbing into his truck, and roaring away from the curb in the time it takes me to summon a single word to my still-tingling lips.
“Goodnight,” I whisper to no one, as his taillights disappear from view.
I’m having a great dream, featuring a certain burly redhead, his mouth trailing kisses over my neck… my nose… my cheeks. I’m thinking it may be the best dream I’ve ever had when, strangely, the kisses begin to feel somewhat less sexy and slightly more…
Slobbery?
I snap awake.
Fenway is sitting directly beside my head, licking me with enthusiasm. The entire side of my face, from temple to chin, is covered in drool.
“Would you stop doing that?!” I exclaim, sitting straight up.
He doesn’t seem to register my less than enthusiastic reception to his affection. He simply toddles toward me on uncoordinated paws, made even more clumsy by the uneven surface of the air mattress, mouth hanging open in a toothy expression of joy. I didn’t know dogs could grin, but he’s most definitely grinning at me.
It’s pretty freaking cute, I have to admit.
“You know, if we could just get the licking under control, this thing between us wouldn’t be so bad,” I inform him, flopping back onto the pillows and reaching out to stroke his ear.
In response, he starts peeing.
On my bed.
Directly beside my head.
“Fuck!” I yell, scrambling out of bed, seizing him by the sides, and racing for the door. “No, no, no! Bad dog! Bad Fenway!”
Naturally, by the time I manage to wrestle open my back door and get him outside, he’s already finished. He sits on the grass, staring up at me and wagging his tail.
“See this?” I point at the ground. “This is grass. This is where you take care of doggie business. Not on my bed and definitely never near my head. Understand?”
He continues to wag, still grinning up at me.
I sigh.
The sun’s barely risen and already my day is off to a stellar start.
After cleaning up the trail of pee leading from my bed to the back door, I strip the sheets and feed my incontinent puppy the last remaining bit of kibble left behind in his doggie bag. There’s something wrong with a dog eating from a hundred dollar Anthropologie bowl set, but it was the first thing my hands landed on in the box of kitchen stuff, and I don’t have the energy to dig for the cheaper china.
I sniff the kibble dubiously before I set it down — it smells like dirt and looks wholly unappetizing, but Fenway devours it so fast you’d think it were the finest French caviar.
“What do they put in there, crack?”
His tail wags in affirmation.
After attempting to call Duncan — it goes straight to voicemail, what a shocker! — I slug down a few cups of coffee, take a quick shower, and change into a passably cute outfit: Stuart Weitzman sandals and a gauzy sage green sundress. It’s too hot outside to waste time styling my hair — the humidity frizz factor is no joke — so I sweep it back into a high ponytail with my favorite tortoiseshell clip, swipe on some mascara and lip-gloss, and grab Fenway’s leash from the hook by the door.
“Come on, boy,” I call, snapping my fingers to get his attention. “Let’s go get you a bed.” I pause. “And maybe some disposable pee-pads.”
We step out into the gloriously sunny morning. It’s Friday, and Beacon Hill is bustling with vacationing tourists out for breakfast at open-air cafes, commuters heading downtown to work, and more than a few early-bird Instagrammers capturing views of Acorn Street — which, according to Google, is the most photographed street in America. Shutterbugs and amateurs alike flock here all year round to snap pictures of its sloping cobblestones and symmetrical brick-faced row houses.