Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(43)

She’s a terrible actress, and if anything it’s making me lose steam. I’m a lazy *, falling back on easy habits. I squeeze my eyes closed harder at the mild sting I feel at the thought.

But when I close my eyes, on impulse I think of London—her warm skin, the weight of her breasts in my palms, and the sounds that burst out of her, escaping as if she’s losing a battle—but there is nothing reminiscent of sex with London in this moment, no matter how desperately I dig for the memories of her.

Suddenly, the idea that I need to think of London in order to stay hard lights a fuse of panic in my chest. I’m a f*cking idiot. I know what I want, and I’m wasting time not being near her. I’ve earned my college degree, played water polo with some of the best athletes in the world, but I’m exactly the same person I was over four years ago, the day I walked into the beach condo and f*cked Ali Stirling.

I reach for the overacting beauty riding me, needing it to be over before I think too much, get too deep into introspection and freak out right here. I stroke her just right—pressing, circles, steady—and she surprises herself when she starts to need more, and faster, and the pleasure turns real. I recognize the stutter in her hips, the jerking tension in her thighs.

Desperate eyes meet mine. “Slap my tits!” she yells. “Slap my tits!”

Startled, I blink up at her. “Wh-what?”

“Slap them. Bounce them. Fuck, just do it!”

I hesitate, and with my blood instantly cooling with dread, reach up, doing as she asks and feeling myself wilt inside her even as she’s coming with a scream, nails dug into my chest.

Like it’s flipped some switch, I know why she didn’t tell me her name.

I know why the apartment felt familiar. I never f*cked her roommate.

I’ve f*cked this girl before.

And forgot.



* * *



MARGOT CAN BARELY breathe she’s laughing so hard.

“You were so wrong to tell me,” she gasps when she finally comes up for air. “I am never going to let you forget this night. Not ever.”

This has easily been the worst night of my adult life. I am so disgusted with myself and I know there are only two people I can share this with who will hold me accountable: Margot, and Dylan.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” I growl. “I called Dylan first, but he was too high to engage in a conversation. I had to talk to someone.”

“God, I can see why. This is so bad. Like how could you not recognize her? Her face? Her boobs? Anything!”

I shake my head against the phone, lying down on my couch with a groan. “I don’t know! I think she was blond before? She looked sort of familiar? But Margot—and this is the worst thing I’m ever going to say but too f*cking bad, you’re stuck with me—she sort of looked like a million other girls. Long brown hair, skinny, big tits, lip gloss.”

“So when did you figure it out?”

Slap my tits! Slap my tits!

Shaking my head, I say, “No. No way am I telling you that.”

“Oh, God, you’re right, I don’t want to know.”

We both fall silent and I can hear her television in the background. “Will you come sleep here tonight?” I ask.

“Luke, it’s late.”

“Margooooooot,” I whine. “I feel gross and this house is so big and empty.”

“Are there even sheets on my bed?”

“I’ll put some on.”

She huffs out a little breath and I know I’ve won. “Fine, you big baby. I’ll be there in ten.”



* * *



MY BIG SISTER makes me popcorn and hot chocolate and then lets me have the good throw pillow. Her price: a foot rub while we cue up Jimmy Fallon on the DVR.

“Thanks for coming over,” I say, skipping through the first commercial break.

She closes her eyes. “Shut up.”

I give her a series of overly dramatic wide-eye blinks. “You’re the best big sister ever.”

“I know.” She stretches, pressing her foot into my hand. “More on the arch. I was standing all day today at the bench.”

I wince. “Your feet smell.”

Margot snorts. “You went home with a stranger before realizing you’d already boned her before.”

Sighing, I admit, “You’re right, I’m grosser.” I take a deep breath before telling her the other important event of the day. “So, hey. I ran into Ansel on campus today.”

She opens one eye. “Ansel?”

“Mia’s husband.”

Her mouth forms an O several seconds before she lets out a small “Ohhh.”

“You would have been proud of me. I went up to him and apologized for being a dick to Mia.”

She pushes up on one elbow, eyes wide. “And?”

“And . . . he’s a good guy.” I tell her about my conversation with him. “I still need to talk to Mia, but I felt about a million times better about it after.”

“Luker, can I ask you something?”

I press my thumb into the ball of her foot. “Sure.”

“Do you ever look at Mia and think about—”

I drop her foot, holding up my hand. “No. No. Not anymore.” At her blank expression, I add, “I don’t want to sleep with Mia.”