4. Lemon #3
I startle when my car door opens. Atticus is standing in the gap, holding his hand out to me.
“Oh,” I gasp. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.
” Taking his hand, purely because it’d be rude not to, I let him help me from the car.
The moment my feet hit the floor, I look up and realize we’re at his brother’s studio again.
“Thank you for your help today, but I should probably go home.”
“Where’s home?” he asks.
“I have an apartment over on Woodrow Avenue.”
“Do you live alone?” Atticus asks, still holding my fingers in his.
“No. I have a roommate.”
I swear his shoulders relax a little, but the movement is so subtle I’m not sure if I imagined it or not.
“Are you good friends?”
“Err…” I sigh. “I met her when I was living in Bozeman. She was a regular at the coffee shop I worked at. When the store got bought out and closed, she told me she was moving here for work and asked if I wanted to move with her. I was excited, but living together hasn’t really worked out.
We signed a two-year lease that ends in sixty-six days. ”
Nodding slowly, a hint of a grin curls the corner of his sexy lips. Dropping my hand, he places his palm on my back again, guiding me into the warehouse, but instead of heading toward where Felix is sketching, he turns me to the stairs, using his hand on my back to urge me to start to climb.
The music is so loud that if Atticus is speaking to me, I can’t hear him. But once we both reach the small landing at the top of the stairs, he steps past me and pushes open a heavy metal door, gesturing for me to step through.
The silence that settles over me the moment the door swings closed is so dense that I panic that I’ve suddenly gone deaf.
“He needs the music that loud to work. That’s why I had the loft fully soundproofed,” Atticus says.
“This place is incredible,” I gasp, glancing around me at the luxury apartment we’re now standing in.
“When we decided to move here, we were looking for a house and a separate studio space, but we couldn’t find anything suitable.
This warehouse was the only space that worked.
Here we don’t have any close neighbors, so no one to complain about the noise or late hours Felix keeps.
The building was just one big open space, so we had the loft designed and built exactly as we wanted. ”
“You only moved in yesterday?” I question incredulously.
“I hired a designer to furnish the place for us,” he explains, like that’s a totally normal thing to do.
“Wow,” I say, gulping thickly as I start to feel out of place surrounded by the classy and clearly expensive furniture.
“Come and sit,” Atticus says, steering me over to the huge sofa.
“I should go,” I start.
“Why?” he questions, eyeing the sofa then me again until I sink down into it, swallowing back the moan that threatens to burst from my lips.
This is the most comfortable sofa I’ve ever sat on.
It’s firm, but in the minute I’ve been sitting on it, it’s molded to my body and is supporting me like a Lemon-shaped cloud.
Smiling like he knows exactly how fabulous his couch is, Atticus saunters into the kitchen, lifts my chocolate heaven cake out of the box and puts it onto a plate. Carrying it back to me, he sits down beside me, stabs a sliver of cake, and holds the fork to my lips.
Does he actually want to feed me? I have no idea why, but the idea of a man feeding me cake, especially chocolate cake, makes my body become a pile of turned-on goo. Eyeing the fork he’s patiently holding to my mouth, I lean forward, part my lips, and drag the cake onto my tongue.
I can’t help it. When the chocolate taste hits my mouth, I moan.
The sound is wanton and so embarrassing that I want to sink deep into this couch and die, but instead of laughing or pointing out what an idiot I am, Atticus simply sinks the fork into the chocolate goodness again and holds a second bite out to me.
His eyes seem to heat as he tracks my movements, watching as I chew, then eventually swallow.
Bite after bite, he continues to feed me until the cake is gone, and my panties are a sopping mess.
Neither of us has spoken a word in what feels like forever, but my body is reacting like I just watched some really good porn, not eaten cake fully dressed.
“Ready to share?” Atticus rasps, his voice rough and low.
“Share?” I ask.
His nod is slow as he moves the plate and fork onto the coffee table.
Reaching for me, he cups my face in his huge, tattooed hand, the heat of his skin both comforting and arousing me.
I don’t know why, but I’m not expecting it when he leans forward and kisses me.
It’s not a soft kiss. Instead, his lips are demanding as his tongue pushes its way into my mouth to taste the chocolate he just fed me.
It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. In the past, kisses have either been too wet or too dry, too handsy or not handsy enough. But Atticus seems to know exactly what to do, and what not to do, to have me leaning into him, ready for more.
The longer we kiss, the more I want, and by the time he pulls away, slowly relinquishing his hold on my face, I’m ready to climb into his lap and see how well my ass fits pressed against his dick.
“Perfect,” he growls, running the tips of his fingers over the goose bumps that have pebbled across my arms. The contradiction between his tattooed hand and my bare skin seems strange, and I reach out and brush my finger over one of his, touching the black lines that are inked into his flesh.
I’ve never actually touched a tattoo in real life before.
I know lots of people who have them, but I’ve never felt brave enough to ask to touch one.
A part of me expected to be able to feel it, like the picture would be raised above his skin, but of course it’s not.
His smooth skin is flat and unblemished.
“I like your tattoos,” I whisper.
“I like your perfect skin,” he says back, drawing a line up my arm to the ball of my shoulder.
“Do you think I’d look good with a tattoo?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I like you like this.”
“But you’re a tattoo artist. Surely everyone you meet is a potential canvas.”
“I love my job, but I’d kill anyone who marked your skin. You can’t improve on perfection,” he says, not looking at my face, his gaze fixed on my bare throat.
Scoffing lightly, I shake my head. “I’m not perfect.”
“You are to me,” he says easily, like it’s a throwaway comment and not a grenade he just pulled the pin out of without warning anyone to run.
“You don’t know me,” I tell him, my brows drawing together as my shoulders tighten.
“No, I don’t. But some things are instinctual. Like this.”
“Like, what?” I ask, feeling stupid. What is he talking about?
“Like, what this is going to be.”
“Atticus, you’re starting to freak me out,” I say, leaning away from him for the first time since he started to feed me.
Blinking, he turns intense eyes on me, the silver hoop in his nose glinting in the sunlight flooding in from the skylights above us. “Settle, Princess,” he coos, his tone soft but determined.
Princess? No one has ever called me that before. I know I can behave like a bit of a diva sometimes, and I do enjoy looking and acting like a heroine from a period drama, but Princess? “I should probably go.”
“Why do you want to leave?” he questions, palming my face again and rubbing the pad of his thumb over my lower lip.
“I’m sure you have things you need to do today.”
“Nothing more important than this. I’m not a stupid man. I know how to recognize what’s a priority, and right now the only plans I have today are to spend the day getting to know you better, then having dinner with you and my family tonight.”
“I can’t just stay here all day,” I blurt.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s weird.”
“There’s nothing weird about quality time, Princess. I’ll enjoy giving you my undivided attention and having yours,” he says, his voice honey sweet and addictively seductive. “Why don’t I give you the tour?”
“The tour?” I question, struggling to find my voice.
Who is this man? Who says things like that?
Who even offers someone their undivided attention anymore, or ever?
Life is distracting. I’m perpetually distracted.
It’s why I’m so forgetful. My head is a million varieties of chaos, and this man…
this beautiful man is offering me his undivided attention and asking for mine, and I want to say yes.
I want to see if I can make him the only thought in my head for a little while, just to see how that feels.
Pushing out of his seat, he towers over me, and I tip my head back and look up at him. From my position on the couch, I have the perfect view of all the tattoos on his arms. His body is a canvas, a beautiful canvas.
He holds out his hand to me, and I stare at it before placing my fingers in his and letting him gently help me to my feet.
I expect him to let me go and put his palm on the spot on my back that is already tingling with anticipation at his touch, but instead, he entwines our fingers together and tugs me forward, pointing out parts of the building they had modified to make it a usable living space.
The living room and kitchen are all open plan, so he leads me through them and toward the back of the loft.
“This is Felix’s room. Don’t judge him for his basic taste.
He’s sensitive to touch, feel, and vibe.
Consistency helps him sleep, so he’s been using the same brand of sheets since we were kids.
I’ve tried getting him a hundred nicer kinds, but he refuses to sleep on anything else,” Atticus says, pushing the door that was already ajar open wide and revealing a bland, personality-less bedroom.
Felix is an artist, yet his bedroom screams…boring. But instead of commenting on how uninspiring I find the space, or how unlike the person I met downstairs this room is, I simply peer inside, then nod.