Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(49)

He looks down at me and brushes a soft kiss to one eyelid, then the other, whispering yes.

Somehow that feels even more intimate than what we just did.





27





Christian





“Your bedroom is so girlie.”

“It is, and I like it that way. Being a woman and all.”

“Yes, I very much like that you’re a woman,” I say, and part of me wants to take her to her bed and smother her in kisses and tell her how much I’ve missed her these last two weeks. Still another wants to say, “Holy fuck, what the hell did we just do against the door, because it’s never been like that before. That intense. That electric. That . . . intimate. Was it that way for you too?”

But me playing that role—the needy lover—isn’t in our script. The casting breakdown for her part-time lover and temporary husband calls for me to keep her on her toes, entertain her, make her laugh, make her hot, and make her happy.

No more.

I survey her bedroom, checking out the white walls, the bright white comforter. Purple and silver pillows are piled high on the bed, giving it a feminine touch of color. Thin gauzy curtains hang down around the mattress. “This makes me feel like we’re in Africa. Do you suffer from mosquitoes?”

She rolls her eyes as she wanders over to the bed and wraps her hand around a bedpost. She glances to the door. “You may go now.”

I laugh. “Don’t kick me out. My work isn’t done.”

“Well, I don’t see how you could top door sex anyway.”

I pretend to contemplate, tapping my jaw with my finger. “True. I better take off.”

She pretends to show me the door, gesturing grandly to the exit. I make like I’m leaving, zipping up my jeans at last, but then I grab her waist and tickle her. Laughter bursts from her throat as I carry her to the bed, tossing her on it, still in her tangled dress. I pin her, my palms at her sides. “I’m staying. Admit it. You like me.”

She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “Why does everyone say that?”

“Say what?”

“That I like you.”

“Everyone says it?”

She nods against the mattress. “They act shocked that I do like you. All my girlfriends toss that out like it’s some big surprise. Why would I date you, sleep with you, marry you for three months, if I didn’t at least like you? If I disliked you, you can bet I wouldn’t be doing any of this.”

“Only if you liked hate-fucking me.” I grind my pelvis against her. “Do you like hate-fucking?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could pretend I hate you, and we could see if I like it.”

“New goals,” I say, keeping it light since this is so much easier than telling her all the mad thoughts pinging around in my head. “But honestly, I don’t really want you to hate me, even for the prospect of angry sex.”

“You’re very likable.”

And see? That right there is another reminder to play it cool. I’m likable to her. I’m the fun guy. The man who won’t get attached. That’s why she said yes to playing my wife, and I need her to finish the show. We’re only in the first act of a three-act play.

I glance over at her white bureau. There’s a mirrored tray with a few charm necklaces—a Chrysler building, I think, and a Broadway sign. They’re ringed by perfume bottles. “Didn’t you write about perfume?” I ask, remembering that she had mentioned a blog at some point.

Her expression tightens, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “I still do. From time to time.”

“What sorts of things do you say?”

She waves a hand airily. “This and that.”

She’s evasive, and that’s not like her. I arch an eyebrow as I run a hand along her hip. I should be Mr. Carefree and Casual, but I don’t want to let this topic go. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

“Let’s just say I put too much of myself in it, and I had to pull back. Make it more about the perfume and the scents.”

I run my hand down her thigh. “Was it too much of your life?”

She nods. “It was.”

“So why do it at all?”

She sighs deeply. “I haven’t written a post in a while. I could shut it down, but I miss the camaraderie with my readers. I felt close to them, this random group of strangers who honestly weren’t strangers. I met Joy through a perfume forum back when she lived in the States, and now she’s one of my closest friends. But at the same time, I think pulling back, not writing as openly, was for the best. I feel safer.”

“Does that make you happy? Safety?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re happy with me. I make you feel safe.”

She shoots me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve drawn your lines. I don’t cross them. That makes you feel safe, and safety makes you feel happy.”

She nibbles on one corner of her lips. “It’s funny that you brought this up, because I was thinking about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness today.”

“So American. And what did you think as you were musing on that?”

“I was remembering how my friend Veronica was going on and on about how incandescently happy she was after she banged this hot Danish boat captain in Copenhagen last year.”