Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(76)

I laugh, because it’s true. The girls got locked out of buildings naked I think more than any other humans on the planet, punctured two tires on Mia’s piece-of-shit Geo Tracker when they decided to try offroading in the San Bernardinos—hours away from home—and needed me to come get them in Big Bear one night when they’d tried to go camping and had forgotten the tent, had no money for a motel, and Harlow got food poisoning.

They were put in charge of the prom committee senior year—and it’s a miracle the entire school didn’t end up getting arrested for public indecency, but when the cops came, I made sure they knew it wasn’t Harlow who had spiked the punch.

I knew the best way to sneak Mia in and out of her house—not just for fooling around, but to drive her down to the beach and watch her dance at sunrise.

I drove Lola to her evening art class every Tuesday and Thursday night after I got my license.

I would have done anything for those girls, and I did.

I still would.

Harlow and I go from fuming together over something horribly condescending Mia’s dad said to her about dancing, to wheezing in laughter, remembering Lola’s three-legged Humper Dog that would literally have sex with any vertical limb in close proximity. The girls once playfully held me down to see what would happen if we let him go—trust me, at fifteen I was fine being pinned to the couch by three girls—and the dog eventually just peed on my leg.

All through it, though, London stays pretty quiet, and I’m inclined to not push her about it. I mean, I’m not an idiot; the way she’s looking intently at me every few seconds makes me think she’s probably mulling over what’s happening between us, and her being here—with lunch, all dressed up—has to be a good sign.

But inside, I feel tense, wanting to be alone with her to talk it out—to talk about us and make sure she’s really okay, to discuss the prospect of me moving in a few months—but knowing there is no way I can push the conversation yet again. For the first time in our . . . relationship . . . I have to wait for her to come to me.



* * *



LONDON IS ON my porch when I get home, clutching her bag. Before I even reach the top step, she’s speaking.

“I just got here. I haven’t been waiting—”

“I wish you would lie to me sometimes,” I grumble, teasing. “I like the idea of you hanging out, anxiously pining for me.”

Her hand lightly slaps my shoulder as I bend to unlock the front door.

“Want something to drink?” I ask her over my shoulder, dropping my keys, wallet, and phone on the counter.

“A beer?”

I can feel her behind me, looking around before following me into the kitchen. She’s quiet as I open the fridge, reach for a bottle, and pop it open for her.

Turning with her drink in my hand, I immediately run into her. She’s there—right there—chest now pressed to my arm.

I smile, but it feels badly shaped, wobbly. “Hey.”

Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips. “Hey.”

She stares at me, studying, and in an instant I realize she’s working up the nerve to start something. But I’m still wary enough to never want to make that bet. Maybe she changed her mind and doesn’t want a beer. Maybe she wants to add a snack to her order. Maybe—

Her hand comes up from her side, moving up my chest and around to cup the back of my neck.

“London?”

She pulls, stretching at the same time, covering my mouth with hers.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The relief, the soft feel of her, the slide, the sweetness. Her full lips move over mine, sucking at the bottom, coaxing me open, and my pulse explodes. Her tongue licks my lip, my top teeth. I feel when she moans before I hear it.

My heart is a f*cking monster in my chest, claws thrashing.

I pull back, on that razor-sharp edge of ecstasy and heartbreak, needing to know which way I’ll slide. “Are you . . . ?” I don’t even know how to end the sentence. I don’t want this to be a rash impulse of hers.

I’m settled here, in love with her; I couldn’t weather a drive-by.

“Just kiss me?” she whispers.

Her fingers tangle in the hair at the back of my head and she stretches, trailing kisses up my chin. Soft, hesitant kisses to convince me, to coax me some more. Once I force my eyes open, I see that she’s watching me nervously. As if I might say no. The vulnerability there . . . I am f*cking done.

The beer bottle shatters near our feet but I need both hands to hold her face. With a groan I take her mouth, tilting her head, sliding my tongue inside and nearly roaring at the stroke of hers, the clench of her hands in my hair. I step forward, moving my hands down her neck, over her shoulders and down her sides, pulling her legs up and around my hips.

My thoughts are nothing but relief and need and need and love and f*ck, I’m walking in circles, groaning rhythmically into her mouth.

I don’t know where to take her. I want her in my bed. In my room. I want her here against the wall.

“Your room,” she says, lips moving over my jaw. “Can we go to your room?”

I turn, stumbling down the hall while she kisses and sucks at my neck, her hands digging in my hair, hips grinding into me.

My feet move us to the bed and I lower her there, covering her body with mine and rocking into her, sliding my tongue over hers in the same, slow rhythm.