Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
ROMAN
I think I’m losing my street cred as the broody son of a bitch no one wants to cross paths with. All thanks to one Addison Paige.
It’s been a little over two weeks since we decided to entertain a relationship outside of the office.
Two weeks of the most complex, and at the same time absolute simplest, relationship I’ve ever been in.
We allow ourselves to flirt at work—as long as no one else is around—and then afterhours we hang out as…
well, I guess as a couple, though I hesitate to put a label on it.
Neither of us has felt the need to. We just have an understanding that we’re enjoying each other’s company, fucking like Armageddon is around the corner, and we’re not fucking anyone else.
Yet.
I have plans in motion, but that night in my office with Austin on the phone was the last time we’ve done anything that skirts the edges of ménage.
Though I’ve known since our first time together that she’s definitely open to exploring the kinkier side of life, I’m still aware that this isn’t her thing.
Not to say that it can’t or won’t be eventually, but it’s not something she’s done before, so I’m not about to toss her in the deep end without giving her a chance to warm up to the water first.
I had no idea how she would take the phone call experiment.
I half expected her to tell me to go to hell and storm out, despite her assurance the night before that she wanted to try a threesome.
But she didn’t storm out. She’d been nervous but also brave and sweet and a little bit feisty, just how I like her, and it was amazing.
Granted, the part about taking orders instead of giving them, or simply doing what I wanted, had been a challenge, but I wanted to keep the physical aspects just between the two of us that first time, so I needed Austin to take over the mental ones.
It was the hottest experience I’ve ever had with a woman, and I do mean ever.
I’ve only ever had threesomes with women who are experienced in ménages, who know exactly what they’re getting into and are all the more eager for it.
It’s great, it’s easy, and it’s mindless in the way that you can leave your brain at the door.
You just let your sexual drive and muscle memory take over and the body does the rest until you’ve spent yourself and hopefully reached the kind of release you were looking for.
But introducing Addison to my darkest desire, leading her slowly by the hand and watching her come alive with every taste I give her…I don’t have the words to explain how fucking extraordinary it makes me feel.
Which is why I’m also mentally preparing myself for the moment when things get fucked up and it all comes crashing down around me. Odds are it’s inevitable, but that doesn’t mean I plan on helping it along. I’m not looking forward to this ending anytime soon.
“Hey, you’re not paying attention to the movie,” Addie says, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.
We’re curled up on her couch watching Mallrats, which according to her is “one of the best culture classic movies of all time,” along with Robin Hood: Men in Tights and The Princess Bride.
At most, I’ve seen parts of TPB, only because there are so many pop-culture references to it, but I wasn’t familiar with the others.
She felt personally attacked by my movie ignorance, but in my defense, I argued that I wasn’t guilty of film illiteracy but better taste, as I was busy watching the real culture classics from the generation before ours, like The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles.
My “better taste” had been acquired the summer I broke my leg and watched every movie on AMC, which led to an embarrassing crush on Molly Ringwald.
To be on the safe side, I tossed Goonies and The Sandlot into the mix so as to not reveal my secret.
This led to a heated debate on movies and filmmakers, almost none of which we agreed on, which then led to a round of wild sex to burn off all the adrenaline we built up from arguing our points.
Addison and I rarely agree on anything, and oddly enough, it’s one of my favorite things about her.
Don’t judge her book by its “Sexy Barbie” cover or she’s likely to use it to her advantage and fricassee your balls for lunch.
For every blond hair on her head, she has a killer brain cell to match.
The woman is wicked smart, highly opinionated, and loves a challenge, whether it’s from a client, friend, lover, or total stranger. She’s pretty fucking perfect.
I look down at her, nestled into my side, and something in my chest kicks.
Her legs are tucked up onto the cushion, one hand is on my stomach, and her face is upturned to meet my gaze.
Even scrubbed free of makeup, her hair in a messy braid that trails over her shoulder, wearing a pair of sleep shorts and tank top, she’s stunning.
I don’t think it’s possible for her to look any other way.
Smiling, I say, “Of course I’m paying attention.” I wasn’t paying attention.
“Nice try, but if you were paying attention, you would have laughed at the Volkswagen joke.”
“Maybe I didn’t think it was funny.”
“Really,” she says, the challenge clear in her tone.
“So you didn’t think it was funny when Ben Affleck’s character said that he likes to pick up girls on the rebound because they’re vulnerable and more open to suggestion and then he gets to screw them in a very uncomfortable place, and then the other guy says, ‘What, like in the back of a Volkswagen?’”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, which earns me a playful elbow in the ribs and a “told you so.”
“Okay, you got me.” I give her a quick squeeze with the arm I have slung around her and kiss her temple. “It was a long day in court, and I guess I spaced out for a little bit. I promise I’ll pay better attention so I laugh in all the proper places.”
“That’s okay. We can always watch it again on a day you’re more alert. I’ve watched it a hundred times, but for the sake of helping you see the light about the true classics, I’m willing to watch it a hundred more until you’ve finally soaked it all in.”
She pats my chest and gives me a swift kiss before unfolding herself from the couch and walking toward the small galley kitchen in her open floor plan apartment. My eyes are glued to her ass as I say wryly, “You’re so benevolent, babe.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, handsome-pants,” she tosses over her shoulder as she opens the fridge. “You want another beer?”
I check my watch. I’ll probably be heading out within the hour. We haven’t done any sleepovers yet, and I’m not one to overstay my welcome. “Better not,” I say at last.
She glances at the clock on her wall and frowns as though she’s surprised it’s already past midnight.
Biting the corner of her lip, she closes the fridge and meets my gaze across the room.
“You know, if you really want another beer—I mean, you did have a really long day, and you’re already relaxing and all that—you can just stay here tonight.
Then you can drink me out of beer and home, if you want.
” Shrugging, she turns back to the fridge and tacks on, “But you don’t have to, it’s no big deal. ”
Grabbing herself a bottle of water, she faces away from the living room and proceeds to make herself another cup of tea in her electric teapot.
I smile to myself as I watch her for a few seconds.
I’ve come to understand why Addison calls herself a honey badger.
On the outside, she’s fierce and tough with an attitude that says she doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
But really, just the opposite is true. She cares very much what other people think when it comes to the things and people that matter.
When she cares about someone—like her parents, her friends…
and now me—it matters what they think of her, how they view her.
How they value her.
It’s not easy for her to make herself vulnerable, which is why it gets to me every time she does it. Her vulnerability is my Achilles’ heel. And that’s a tangle of irony best left unanalyzed.
I get up and make my way to her. She’s deep in thought, because when I slide my arms around her waist from behind, she jolts with surprise a second before melting in my embrace.
Gathering her into me, I bend my head to nuzzle the crook of her neck.
She angles her head to the side, giving me better access to trail a line of kisses up to her ear.
Then I say, “You’re right. I’d love another beer,” telling her in not so many words that I want to spend the night with her.
She turns around and looks up at me with a huge smile, one I’d do anything to keep there. “You would?” she asks.
I press my lips to hers then nip the bottom one as I pull back. “Yeah. As long as you’re sure you want to give it to me.”
“I’m positive I want to give it to you,” she says with a dreamy sort of look in her eyes.
“Then I gladly accept the offer.”
I think I hear her breath catch, and suddenly I’m not sure we’re still talking about the beer.
But before I can turn it into anything more, she reaches over to open the refrigerator door, takes out a bottle of Corona, and holds it up with a sly grin.
I grab the bottle-opener magnet to pop the top off before taking a long pull, feeling all tension leave my body as the cool liquid slides down my throat.
Placing it on the counter behind her, I cage her between my arms and kiss her. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” she says, beaming up at me as if by drinking her beer I’ve made her incredibly happy. But I know it has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with us spending the night together.