Better With You, page 3
Damn. They’re so cute I could barf.
I read through the texts and send a few of my own, telling Ivy that I can’t wait to hear about her NASCAR practice run, and then I close out of that thread and open the one I’ve been avoiding.
Alex has sent me a slew of texts, and none of them are selfies. Bummer.
Unknown: And what does that mean?
Unknown: Are you flirting?
Unknown: I think you’re flirting.
Unknown: Sundance, you can’t just send a text like that and then disappear.
I smirk. His reaction is exactly what I was hoping for when I sent my “vanilla” comment.
Unknown: You’re killing me, SD.
Unknown: Well here’s a confession for you.
Unknown: I already knew there was nothing vanilla about you.
Unknown: You’re the furthest thing from vanilla.
Unknown: Absolutely nothing about you screams ordinary.
My smirk transforms into a smile at Butch Cassidy attempting to spit game my way. I’d be flattered if I wasn’t sure he was feeding me a line. A good line, but still a line. I check the time stamp on his last text. Three hours ago. I think the guy’s waited long enough.
Me: You should really work on combining your thoughts into fewer messages. Condense. Sending multiple texts in such quick succession makes you look impatient and excitable.
His reply is immediate.
Unknown: Maybe you make me impatient and excitable.
I snort and take a page out of Jesse’s book by sending the face palm emoji.
Unknown: I’m serious.
Unknown: I’m usually much more calm and cool.
Unknown: What are you doing right now?
Whoa, okay.
Wasn’t expecting the “wyd” text so soon. I weigh my options. I could text back, give in, and be done with this whole thing after tonight. Or, I could string him along a little longer. Do the flirty texts for a few more days until I get bored or impatient and fall to the inevitable fuck and run. Can’t get played if you’re the one dealing the cards, after all.
I’m having fun with him, but I guess the sooner we get this over with, the better. Nothing good comes from dragging it out, and that text he just sent makes his intentions crystal clear. Not that I’m surprised. Maybe a little disappointed, but no harm, no foul.
I cover my wine glass with a piece of plastic wrap and put it in the fridge for later, then go into my room and change into a pair of jeans and a band tee. I run my fingers through my hair, swipe on some eyeliner and mascara, and then text him back.
Me: What do you have in mind?
* * *
It’s just after seven when I pull Baby into the parking lot of Quick Stop and spot Alex standing outside the store entrance. He throws one hand up in a wave, and I look him over through my helmet shield before getting off my bike.
Damn it, he looks good.
Grey joggers, a Butler University baseball t-shirt, and a backward ball cap. His hair is tucked behind his ears, and I itch with the urge to run my fingers through it. I bet it’s as soft as it is shiny.
Before it’s obvious that I’m ogling, I swing my leg over Baby, lock up my helmet, and stride over to him. When I’m a few steps from the curb, his feet catch my eye, and I can’t hold back my laughter.
“Oh my god.” I laugh. “I did not peg you for a camo Croc guy.”
He crinkles his nose with a grin and wiggles one foot at me. “These are fucking comfy,” he defends. “And they’re easy to clean, and durable, and convenient.”
“Nope,” I say with a smile as I walk toward him. “I will never, ever be supportive of that shoe choice. Especially not with joggers.” I giggle again, and he shrugs it off, smile still plastered on his face. He’s completely confident in his shoe wear. I bet he’s completely confident in just about everything he does.
“Nice bike,” he says when I step up on the curb.
“Thanks.” I look back at her over my shoulder. “2012 Honda Rebel 250. Her name’s Baby.”
“Yeah? Like ‘nobody puts Baby in a corner,’ Baby?”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Exactly like that Baby.” First Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and now Dirty Dancing? This guy keeps surprising me.
“Is there a story there?” he asks, and I nod as we walk into the convenience store.
“The shop where I got her, she was tucked up in the back corner, forgotten. Neglected.” I shake my head at the memory. “She didn’t deserve that, being ignored. So, I rescued her. Fixed her up a bit, and now she’s my Baby.”
I see him watching me out of my peripheral, so I keep my eyes forward as we weave through the small store. Alex grabbed a shopping basket, and he’s leading us to the baking aisle.
“That’s fitting,” he says after a breath. “Frances Houseman was definitely a rebel, too. Defying her dad and going against societal expectations like she did.”
I stop in my tracks. “I’ve said the exact same thing.” My smile is huge, and his answering proud grin is adorably sexy. “Crossing the class barrier when you’re surrounded by a bunch of stuck-up pricks takes some guts, especially when you consider how close she was with her dad.”
“She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she was in love with Johnny.” I roll my eyes at his love comment. He’s not wrong, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction when the L word comes up in conversation. Outside of movies, books, and my roommate Ivy’s life, that shit just isn’t real. I change the subject when we halt in front of the boxed cake mixes.
“Okay, Butch. I give. What are we doing here? You gonna steal something else?”
“I want cupcakes.” He shrugs. “Thought maybe you’d want to help me make some.”
I pop a brow. “You want my help making cupcakes?”
“Sure.” His smile is playful, and he grabs the back of his neck again in that stupidly cute boyish way. Ugh, fine. I’ll make cupcakes with him.
“Okay,” I nod, “let’s make some cupcakes.”
He grabs a box of funfetti cake mix, a jar of fudge frosting, a container of colorful sprinkles, and a packet of cupcake liners and drops them all in the basket. I can’t help but giggle at how childish his choices are. This guy is a beast, and he grabs funfetti cupcake mix. And a container of sprinkles. A-freaking-dorable.
I grab a jar of maraschino cherries and drop it in the basket, too. He eyes my choice and flashes me a smirk, and I shrug. “I like cherries.”
After he pays, we head back out to the parking lot, and he takes out his phone.
“I took the campus bus here, but the next one isn’t for another hour since it’s a Sunday night. I’m gonna cue up an Uber.”
“How far do you live?”
“Not far,” he says, without looking up from his phone. “Three miles off campus.”
I survey him. “How much do you weigh?” I ask after a second, and he chuckles.
“Like 210. Why?”
I freaking knew it. Dude’s probably solid muscle, too. I look at his bicep, and he flexes under my gaze, making me laugh out loud. When I meet his eyes, he winks and flashes me a flirty grin. I shake my head at him.
“Baby has a weight limit, but I think I can ride you if we go slow.” I try to keep the innuendo from my voice, but his smirk tells me he didn’t miss it.
“Oh yeah?”
“On the bike, Romeo,” I say with a laugh. “I can give you a lift on my bike. Might be a little wonky just because you’re, uh, big. And I’m not.” I scrunch up my nose and bounce my eyes between him and Baby. “And I might need you to help a little for balance if we hit a light, but we can try it.”
“I can show you a way so there’s no stoplights.” He adds, “You sure?”
“Yep, just listen to me in case I need you to do something,” I say as we head toward Baby. “I don’t have a helmet for you, but they’re not required in Indiana.”
“It’s cool. Just don’t go crazy.”
“I don’t think we could go crazy even if we wanted to.”
3
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to a small townhouse just off campus. There’s a porch light on and a Butler University baseball flag hanging out front. The ride here wasn’t too bad. Had to keep a steady pace and roll through a few stop signs, but otherwise, it was doable. Definitely not taking this breathing hunk of muscle onto any highways, though.
Alex unlocks the front door and walks us into the house. There is a pile of shoes just to the left of the door, and when he kicks off his camo freaking Crocs, I bend down and unlace my Docs. We bypass a staircase, walk down a short hallway, and enter a small living room. It’s pretty much what I was expecting. There’s a black couch and two recliners, and on the wall behind them is a Colts flag, a Bears flag, and another BU flag. A giant flat-screen TV is mounted on the opposite wall, and aside from a pop can, a few notebooks, and a laptop sitting on the coffee table, the place is clean.
“This way,” he says, and leads me around a corner into a tidy kitchen. There’s a blender and a few huge jars of protein powder on the counter next to the fridge, and several shaker bottles in the dish drying rack on the sink.
“You guys athletes?” I ask as he sets the grocery bag on the kitchen table.
“Oh, um, yeah,” he says, following my gaze to the supplement stuff on the counter, then pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “I have two roommates. They play baseball.”
“Where are they tonight? It’s a Sunday. Classes tomorrow.”
“They’re at the baseball house on campus. Sometimes they stay there.” He grabs a cupcake pan out of a lower cabinet and sets it on the counter, then bends back down and pulls out a KitchenAid stand mixer. I force myself to shut my gaping mouth.
It’s beautiful. Cobalt blue and shiny chrome. Probably new, from the looks of it. That’s like a four hundred dollar machine, right there. I was using a hand mixer I got at the Goodwill until like three weeks ago when I finally broke down and bought a cheap stand mixer from the Wal-Mart. I reach out and brush my hand over the mixer’s cool, blue surface.
“Nice, right?” Alex says, setting out a bottle of vegetable oil. “I just got it.”
“I’m so jealous right now,” I confess. “I could come just from touching it.”
He barks out a surprised laugh, and I flick my eyes to his.
“I’m not kidding. The one I have gets overheated if I use it for more than ten minutes at a time, and I can’t double recipes because the motor whines and jams up. This right here,” I pet the mixer again, “is fucking luxury.”
“Well then, I’m glad you came over tonight.” He slides the box of cake mix toward me. “What’s first?”
I crack the eggs in the mixing bowl, and Alex adds the vegetable oil. When he goes to measure out the water, I stop him.
“Let me,” I say, and take the measuring cup from him. I pour the juice from my jar of cherries into the measuring cup first, then fill it the rest of the way with water before dumping it in the bowl. “Now it’s better.” I smirk at him.
“I never would have thought to do that.”
I shrug. “I like to experiment.”
His smile grows wicked, and he steps toward me, so I’m pressed against the kitchen counter, before asking, “Do you like to experiment with other things too?”
Goosebumps prickle on my skin. I hold his eyes, bite my lower lip, and give him another shrug. “Maybe.” Then I brush past him and start opening cabinets. “I need a cutting board, a chef’s knife, a spoon, and a mixing bowl.”
He chuckles behind me. “Sure,” he says, and he gathers the items I requested.
While Alex sets the cupcake batter up on the beautiful KitchenAid mixer, I dump the jar of cherries on the cutting board, pop two in my mouth, and chop the rest. Then, I dump the chopped cherries into the other mixing bowl and add the jar of fudge frosting. I stir the cherries in until they’re perfectly blended.
“There,” I say, “now that’s better, too.”
“What if I’m allergic to cherries?” His voice is light, playful, and I scrunch up my nose.
“Are you?”
He shrugs, and I laugh. He’s full of shit.
After putting the cupcake pan in the oven and setting the timer, Alex turns to me and does that stupid thing with his hand on his neck that makes my tummy jump.
“Sooo, Sundance,” he drags out, “you wanna hang in my room while these bake?”
My lips twitch at the corners. I want so badly to laugh, but I manage to tame it to a small smile. How is this gorgeous, Thor-clone of a man adorably bashful right now? Confident in his Crocs, but shy as shit when trying to get a girl in his bedroom. So pure.
“Yeah, Butch,” I say with a small grin. “Show me your room.” For all my bravado, my heart is racing in my chest and my core is tingling with excitement. I might also be a little wet, which is absurd. But damn, I’m enjoying this high.
Alex leads me up a set of stairs and into what appears to be a master suite. A large king-size bed sits in the center, a walk-in closet is to the right, and a private en-suite bathroom is to the left. This room is nice.
There’s a desk covered with papers, and a large bookshelf teeming with books as well. I walk toward the bookshelf, expecting textbooks, maybe canonized novels that he had to buy for freshman-level English classes or something. Instead, I find shelves filled with hardbacks of young adult fiction books, mostly fantasy and sci-fi, and decorated with random origami figurines. I’ve read a good portion of these books, and I’m giddy at the thought of him having read them too.
“This is the series I’m on now,” he says from behind me, and he reaches over my shoulder to skim his fingers over the spines of four colorful hardbacks. “The final book just came out. You read it?”
“Yeah, actually.” I grab one of the books off the shelf and flip through it. “I think it’s one of my favorites. That battle scene at the end of book three was so intense that I couldn’t read anything else for almost a month after.”
“Oh man, same. I was fucked up. I literally preordered book four the minute it was available.”
“I did too,” I exclaim. “I’m kind of a sucker for Fae fantasy, anyway.” I glance over my shoulder at him. “Even more if it’s got some steam in it.”
He chuckles. “This one’s got some steam, alright. Caught me off guard, but I’m good now.”
“Not a big fan of sex scenes?” I turn to face him and lean lightly on the desk next to the bookshelf. His eyes bounce between mine.
“I can take it or leave it. You like it though?”
“Yeah,” I nod, place the hardback down on the desk, then lift myself up so I’m sitting on it, “I read a lot of romance, too.”
“Romance?” He gives me a funny look. “Like mommy porn?”
“Mmmm, Butch,” I shake my head slowly, “you just lost cool points.”
He jerks his head back and scoffs. “You’re saying you don’t read it for the sex?”
“Oh, I definitely read it for the sex,” I say on a laugh. “But I also read it because it’s empowering and creative and feminist. It makes me feel good on many different levels.” I raise a brow and flash a mischievous grin. “And romance incorporates two of my three favorite F-words—feminism and fucking.”
He barks out a laugh and takes a step closer. “What’s the third?”
“Free.” I widen my eyes and give him a duh, what else would it be? expression.
“What about fun?” He takes another step forward and puts his arms on the desk on either side of me, boxing me in.
A tingle of excitement skates down my spine, quickening my breath, but I cock my head to the side and play it cool. “What about my three words isn’t fun to you?”
A wide grin spreads over his face. “Touché, Sundance.”
“You a feminist, Butch?”
He nods seriously. “My momma would be disappointed if I weren’t.”
“That’s a good answer.”
“Maybe I should read some romance.” His chest is inches from mine. My fingers itch with the desire to touch him. On the bike earlier, I could feel his hard chest pressed up against my back. Now I want to feel it under my palms.
“I’ll give you some recommendations.”
“You do that,” he breathes out, then runs his big hands up my thighs and, even through my jeans, I can feel his heat.
My heart is pounding, I’m trying desperately not to pant, and my core is on fucking fire.
When his eyes meet mine, the same desire that’s flooding my body is reflected back at me. He wants me. I lick my lips, and his gaze falls to watch the motion. When he groans, I can’t take it anymore, and I fist his t-shirt. As I rise up, he lowers, and we meet in the middle, our mouths colliding together.
His lips are so soft and warm and demanding. He bites my lower lip and I open for him. When our tongues tangle, he grips my waist tighter and pulls me into him.
“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth. “Your tongue tastes like cherries.” He dives back in with another devouring kiss. Like he can’t get enough. Like he wants to eat me. And I want to let him.
I pull back and smirk at him. “Want to see how the rest of me tastes?”
“Holy fuck,” he grinds out, then lifts me up by my ass. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, and he walks us backward before spinning and dropping me on the bed. He’s on top of me before I can blink, and I explore his torso with my hands, taking special care to run my palms over his pecs and brush my thumbs over his nipples. His chest rumbles, and I can feel it running up my arms and through my body, like an electric current of desire.
“Take this off,” I demand, and tug his shirt upward.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, and uses one hand to reach behind his shoulders and pull his shirt over his head. Oh my god, why is that so hot? He tosses his shirt off the bed, boxes me back in with his arms, and I just kind of stare at his body.
“Shit, you’re all solid planes and smooth ridges, aren’t you,” I breathe out, and run my fingers over his abs. “So this is what they mean when they say washboard.”
