All I Want Is You, page 14
Nick clears his throat, drawing my attention to the troubled look in his hazel eyes. “I hope nothing that happened today, during the massage…or after, made you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I would want.”
“I know. And I wasn’t uncomfortable.” Unless by uncomfortable, you mean uncomfortably aroused, that is. “This week sure has thrown a lot at us. I think we’re handling it as best we could.”
“Things haven’t exactly gone to plan, but I can’t say I’m sorry at how they’ve turned out.” He swirls the wine in his glass.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s been really good to see you again, Jess.” His voice is soft, layered with emotions. “I don’t think I realized how much I missed you until I saw you backstage.”
“That was probably mostly the dress,” I quip, needing to brush off the heaviness of his sentiment.
The corner of his mouth quirks up in what used to be my favorite half smile. “It sure as fuck didn’t hurt.”
My cheeks heat, and I know from experience they’re turning the color of the red wine left in my glass. I want to return his sentiment, about missing him, because I realize, sitting here with him and having a normal conversation, that it’s true. I have missed him. But I don’t know if I’m ready to admit it.
I divide the small amount of wine remaining in the bottle between each of our glasses. “You know how you always used to tell me that I rely too much on the miscommunication trope in my books?”
He frowns a little, confused about the shift in topic, but then he nods. “And you used to tell me that in real life, couples not being able to communicate was one of the biggest relationship struggles people have.”
“I stand by that.” I take in a deep breath. “But tonight, I want us to do better.”
Nick pushes his plate away, though he’s only eaten half of his pasta. I don’t think I can eat another bite either. I swig the last of my wine, and Nick does the same. We stack up our dishes and maneuver the table out into the hallway. I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob before letting the door click shut behind me.
Nick resumes his position on the bed. Before I sink back into the armchair, I put a few ice cubes into two glasses and pour each of us a decent-sized slug of whiskey.
When I hand Nick his glass, our fingers brush and I experience one of those moments I’ve only written about, when a spark jumps between us.
“Here’s what I propose.” I settle into the armchair and wish this room were bigger so there could be a little more breathing room separating us. “We take turns asking questions. Honest answers only. If you don’t want to answer, you drink.”
He studies the caramel-colored liquid in his glass. “This seems like a dangerous game, Jess.”
I shrug. “Only if you aren’t willing to tell the truth.”
He sighs, and I watch the debate play out over his face. “Okay. But I reserve the right to put a stop to this at any point if things get out of hand.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll even be generous and let you go first.”
His head tilts to the side as he thinks. He always used to do that when he was writing and the familiar motion warms something in my already wine-warmed chest. “What’s your favorite book you’ve written?”
“Hmm. I love them all, obviously. But I think With a Twist is my favorite. There’s nothing like your first, I suppose.”
Nick nods, but I get the feeling he isn’t even really listening to my response. I can tell by the way his eyes pinch at the corners that he’s already stressed about what I’m going to ask him. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t send a little thrill through me.
“My turn.” I smile at him, going for warm and friendly so he’ll feel at ease before I throw down the gauntlet. “Are you still in love with me?”
Chapter Sixteen
Nick
It’s a good thing I haven’t yet sampled the whiskey because I’d be choking on it. Or spitting it out like some sitcom character.
“Jesus, Jess. Not going to ease me in, are you?” I realize the innuendo the moment the words are out of my mouth.
She raises one eyebrow. “You know that’s not how I like it.”
She sounds so bold, so confident, but her flushed cheeks give her away.
I sip from my glass while I formulate my thoughts.
Jess’s eyes fill with disappointment.
“I’m not not answering, I just need a drink before I do.” I let the liquor burn a path down my chest and warm my belly. But I’m not sure even half a bottle of whiskey would be enough to give me the courage to say what I know I need to.
“Take as long as you need,” she says softly.
My eyes meet hers, and there’s no denying the truth. “Of course I’m still in love with you, Jess.” I think we’ve both known since I saw her backstage, maybe even since I sent her that first DM, and yet, it feels like some kind of relief to say it out loud. “How could I not be?”
She blinks in surprise before giving me a wry smile. “Is that your next question?”
I chuckle, but there’s no real humor in it. “No, it’s not. I…” I want to say more, give her more, but she stops me with a shake of her head.
“All you owe me is one answer, Nick. You don’t need to explain. Your turn for a question.” She holds her glass up to her lips, but doesn’t drink, a teasing glint in her eyes.
I don’t know how she can be so casual, so calm, when I just laid my whole heart bare, but something tells me she knew the answer to her question before I gave it. She always has been able to see right through me. “What accomplishment are you most proud of?”
Her head tilts to the side as she thinks, lowering the glass to rest on the arm of the chair. “Probably making it through my second book. I always thought authors were exaggerating about the sophomore slump, but it hit me hard. I hated writing that book, but now looking back on it, I’m so proud of how it came out.”
This chuckle is laced with real humor. “I felt the exact same way. I thought my second book might kill me.”
Of course, for both of us, our second books were the first books we’d written without each other. I’d always known how much I relied on Jess’s feedback and critiques, but it became wholly evident how much she contributed to my process when I sat down to write without her by my side.
“What’s something still left on your bucket list?” She surprises me with her change in direction. She came out of the gate hot, and I’m shocked she’s now veering toward easier topics.
Still, I bring my glass to my lips and drink. I already admitted I’m still in love with her, and the only things left on my bucket list involve finding a partner and settling down. Marriage and maybe a kid one day. I can’t lay that out there without something in return from her first.
“Really? You won’t answer that one?”
I shrug and smile, trying to keep things light and mysterious and likely failing miserably at both. “What’s something still left on your bucket list?” I throw the easy question back at her.
She rolls her eyes at my cheating. “Everything. Most of us haven’t already hit every list and seen our books made into blockbuster movies. I’ve hardly accomplished anything.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true, Jess. When we first met, your goal was to get an agent and get published and write more books and have fans make art of your characters, all things you’ve been able to check off your list.”
She takes a swig from her drink even though there’s no question on the table. “How do you know I’ve had fans make art of my characters?”
This time it’s my cheeks heating, because of course I check her Instagram. Pretty religiously, though I’m not going to admit that to her. “My point is, it’s easy to keep moving the goalposts, but it’s important to remember that the you from ten years ago would be so thrilled to see where you are now.”
“I suppose.” She swirls her glass around, the ice clinking merrily. “Do you miss being in a relationship?”
“With you? Yes.” I meet her gaze head on. “Do you miss being in a relationship with me?”
She downs the rest of the whiskey in her glass without a word.
I drink too, in solidarity, before standing up and topping us both off. I purse my lips together so I don’t let my excitement show, because if the answer was no, she would have just said so.
She misses me.
It’s something, at least.
Jess moves us back to safer topics, her next couple of questions lightly inquiring about my process and if I have any ideas for what to work on next. I return the favor. The questions seem surface level and easy, but I love the way she lights up when she’s talking about her writing, when she talks about meeting readers and mentoring newer authors.
We both continue to sip from our drinks, even though we’re answering each question the other poses. The whiskey and the wine and sitting across from Jess all melt together in my chest, warming me from the inside out. I could go traipsing through the blizzard outside right now and probably not feel a thing.
Until Jess pivots back into dangerous territory, sending an uncomfortable chill through me. “Do you think you’ll ever write a book with a happy ending?”
I’m tempted to drink and stave off the question. It’s one that’s posed to me fairly often, though not as much now as it was in the beginning of my career. My brand is well established at this point, and I think a lot of my fans would probably be disappointed with a happy ending in a Nick Matthews book. But it was never what I set out to write, and I know this breaking of the genre’s foremost rule has always kept me sidelined in the romance community. In terms of our careers, it’s the one thing Jess has that I don’t—a spot in the community we both love.
So I give her an honest answer. “I don’t know.”
She gives me a pointed look. “That’s a cop-out.”
“It’s the truth. I’m not opposed to happy endings, I can’t say with certainty I’ll never write one, but I can’t promise I will either. I don’t know how to write something that seems so impossible.”
She tosses back another sip of whiskey. “And yet, I manage to write them just fine, and I’m the one who had my heart broken.”
I run my thumb along the rim of my glass, studying the motion so I don’t have to look at her. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but it broke my heart too, Jess.”
“Then why did you do it?”
I’ve been waiting for that. The one question I can’t answer, not even when I ask it of myself. “I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”
“Fine then. Go ahead.”
“Are you still attracted to me?” I know it’s a question I shouldn’t be asking, but it’s the best way I can think of to divert her. The chemistry between us was always palpable, and nothing about that has changed. This might be the only way to steer her off course. “Do you ever think about me when you, you know…”
Her cheeks flush, but she’s not going down without a fight. She leans forward in her chair. “Do I think about you when I what? Have sex with someone else?”
I shut my eyes against that image. “No. Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself, Jess?”
She waits for me to open my eyes and meet her gaze before she slowly brings her glass up to her lips. Her tongue darts out, licking a stray drop of liquor from the rim. Then she drinks.
I grin in triumph.
Her eyes narrow. “Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?”
I raise my glass but don’t sip. “All the fucking time.”
Her breath catches in her chest. “Jesus, Nick,” she mumbles.
I love seeing her flustered, and so I keep pushing. “Of all the times we slept together, which was the best for you? I know they were all good, of course, but which time stands out the most?”
For a second, I think she won’t answer, but I catch the moment when she realizes I have the upper hand. It plays across her face. And I see the moment when she decides to fight back. Which is exactly what I want. Because if she asks me again why I broke up with her, I might actually tell her.
She rests her elbows on her knees, the glass of whiskey cupped in her hands. The move makes it easy for me to see down the deep vee of her shirt. My shirt. I always loved seeing her wear my clothes, and now, with the outline of her lacy red bra visible, well, I shift in my seat a little, the tightness of my jeans becoming uncomfortable.
“There were quite a few. But I think my favorite one was that one time at my parents’ house.”
I suck in a breath. Our second Christmas. The only holiday we ever spent with her parents. The only time I’ve ever had sex with someone in their parents’ house. I’d been against it from the start, but when Jess had locked that door behind us and stripped off her top, I’d been a goner. I’d had to cover her mouth to keep her from screaming the whole house awake.
I adjust my position again, knowing that if she looks, she’ll be able to see how much one single memory is affecting me.
“Tell me about your favorite time, Nick.” Her voice has dropped, and her smile is knowing. Her eyes glance down to my pants, but I cover myself with my almost-empty glass. That only makes her smile wider.
“Every time with you was incredible, Jess. But that first Christmas, you were wearing a lacy red bra a lot like the one you are not-so-subtly trying to get me to look at right now. You dropped to your knees in the middle of the living room and took me in your mouth. It was fucking perfect.” I let my gaze linger on the hint of scarlet lace peeking out of her shirt.
The flush from her cheeks spreads down to her chest, and when I finally tear my eyes away, I see her eyes are almost black in the low lighting of the room.
She sets her whiskey glass on the side table next to the chair. “What would you do to me, right now, if I stripped off this shirt and told you to make me come? How would you touch me, Nick?”
My mouth goes dry. That took an unexpected turn. I set down my own glass. “Jess, I don’t know if this is a good idea. I was just teasing, trying to get a rise out of you.”
Her eyes drift down to my crotch. “I seem to have succeeded in getting a rise out of you.”
I choke on a laugh. “You usually do.”
She sits back in the chair and stares me down. “Are you going to answer?”
I wipe my hands on my thighs. “We’ve been drinking. I’m not going to touch you while you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. And I don’t want you to touch me. I want you to talk to me.” She fingers the hem of her shirt like she’s thinking about removing it.
“Isn’t it my turn to ask the question?”
She shrugs. “So ask.”
“What’s the best book you’ve read lately?”
She reaches for her glass and swallows the last sip of whiskey. “My turn. What would you do to me to make me come?”
Chapter Seventeen
Jess
Fuck me, I’m going to regret this.
Somewhere between the wine and the whiskey and the even more intoxicating sound of Nick’s voice, I completely lost the plot. This was supposed to be about closure, putting the final nail in the coffin of a relationship that’s been haunting me for years.
Instead, I’m too close to a man I’m still deadly attracted to. His dick is hard, my panties are wet, and I’m practically daring him to talk dirty to me.
Note to self: No more whiskey. Like ever.
Nick hesitates for so long I start to think he’s going to refuse to answer. That would be the smart thing to do.
Apparently, we’re both idiots.
Nick’s voice is low and rumbly, and when he begins to speak, I have to shake off a shiver. “If you took off that shirt right now, Jess, I think at first I would have to just sit here and look at you.”
Goddamn it. Why is that the hottest thing he could possibly say?
“You’re gorgeous, always, but when you’re aroused, Jess. I can barely stand it. Your chest flushes the same bright red as your cheeks. Even your nipples flush, a perfect rosy pink. I’d lick along the edge of that lace before letting my tongue trail down. I want to tease you, torture you a bit”—he gives me a wicked grin—“and I want to take my time. It’s been so long, and I’ve missed the feel of your soft skin under my lips.”
Holy hell. I am the stupidest person alive because this is so not what I expected, and I am not prepared. Nick already demonstrated earlier today just how deftly he can write a sex scene, why didn’t I realize those talents would extend to narrating? We’re only a few sentences in and my nipples are hard as diamonds.
“Do you want me to stop?”
I know I should say yes.
Instead, I shake my head.
He takes a deep breath. “Once you’re writhing underneath me, grinding against me and searching for relief, I would kiss my way down your stomach, unbuttoning your jeans, pulling them down just enough so I could lick along the dip of your hip bone.”
Of course he remembers my secret sensitive spot, the one no man since him has even come close to discovering.
“Are you wearing the red lace panties, Jess?”
I nod, unsure what might come spilling out of me if I open my mouth. I’d probably beg him to stop talking and fuck me already, and we can’t have that.
He lets out a little groan and his hand moves to his crotch, tugging at his jeans. I can see the outline of him through the fabric and I have to look away so I don’t fling myself across the room and onto his lap.
“I’d kiss you through the lace of your panties, see how ready you are for me.”
So ready. I’m so fucking ready.
“Dammit, Jess, you can’t say shit like that right now.”
