Chapter 33 How They Met
HOW THEY MET
I’m thirty minutes early this time. I half expect to find Bellamy perched serenely on a bench outside the Italian restaurant, reading a book with one eye, the other scanning the sidewalk, all while absently swinging a foot as she waits.
But evidently, I’ve found her time limit.
I fucking win.
I steal the bench, waiting happily, cracking open a book on my phone. For the next twenty minutes, I turn the digital pages on a Taylor Jenkins Reid book, devouring the details.
Well, mostly.
I keep sneaking glances up to look for Bellamy, and just as the heroine meets up with a long-lost love, I turn the phone off since Bellamy is rounding the corner.
Her long hair curls over her shoulders in silky waves. Her hips sway. And her lips move, maybe singing along with the song coming through her earbuds.
Standing, I watch her walk until her gaze lands on me.
Bellamy catches the corner of her bottom lip with her teeth, then slowly breaks into a sensual smile. She stops when she reaches me, plucking AirPods from her ears. “Hey, there—”
Looping an arm around her waist, I haul her close, dip her slightly. I sweep some of those chestnut strands from her face and brush my lips against hers.
The stars wink off.
Traffic stops.
The proverbial cameras roll, capturing an exquisite kiss for the movies—a hot, possessive, I’ve-missed-you, be-mine type of smooch.
Coasting my lips along hers, I get drunk on her taste. A flick of my tongue against her lush mouth, a tug on her bottom lip, then I moan hungrily as I kiss a little deeper.
There’s a hint of cinnamon and a dash of toothpaste, and those tastes swirl into the honeysuckle scent of her skin. Doesn’t take much for me to get high on her, even standing on a New York street.
I pull her up, break the kiss, then enjoy the fantastic devastation on her face—parted lips, hazy eyes, flushed cheeks.
She looks woozy.
I feel dizzy.
“Hello, senseless kissing,” she murmurs, running her fingers along her chin like she’s trying to reactivate a kiss to end all kisses.
“I believe in giving the woman what she wants.” My head is still buzzy, lust zinging everywhere in my brain and body. “And to think, you tried to get a word in edgewise with your hey, there.”
“Whatever was I thinking?”
“You should know me by now.”
She grabs the collar of my shirt, jerks me close. “I think I do, Easton.”
I kiss her nose. “You do.” I step away, then nod at her phone. “What were you singing along to?”
“Ella Fitzgerald. ‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me,’” she says.
I hum a few more words.
“You know the tune?”
“What do you take me for? Someone who doesn’t? I may have to detract points now for you not knowing me.”
The door to the restaurant swings open, and a couple strolls out, wrapped up in each other. The redhead drops a kiss onto the man’s lips, then they hail a taxi at the speed of light.
Bellamy tugs me close. “They met on Bumble. It’s their third date. He’s raring to get the third-date prize.”
I cast a glance at the cab squealing away.
“Nah. They bumped into each other in the park while out for a run last year. He passed her around the reservoir, like a competitive bastard. She proceeded to school him and left him in the dust until the end of the run. They’ve been together a year, and he just returned home from a trip. ”
“So, wait. He just returned from a trip and took her to dinner before boning her? That makes no sense,” she says as we head into the restaurant.
“Good evening. A table for two?” the host asks.
“Yes, please. The name is Ford,” I say, and the man looks up the reservation, then escorts us to the table.
Once he hands us the menus, I return to the subject of the couple outside. “No, he made love to her when he walked in the door. The dinner was post love-making,” I say.
She arches one brow. “Are you saying boning is too gauche for you?”
“Such a foul mouth on such a lovely lady,” I tease.
“Do you truly prefer making love?” she asks.
I let the corner of my lips curve up in a wicked grin. “No, sweetheart. I prefer to fuck.” I catch the soft whoosh of a gust of breath over her lips—her tell. “That’s what you do when you’re turned on.”
“What do I do?”
“You part your lips, just slightly. Your cherry-red, delicious, seductive lips that do all the things I like most.”
She nibbles on the corner of her mouth.
“And that, right there,” I add. “That means you’re getting wet.”
Her eyes narrow, and she lifts her napkin as if to toss it at me. “You’re incorrigible.”
I laugh, crossing my arms. “I’m also not wrong.”
She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly admits, “You’re not.”
I slide the menu to her. “This place has amazing pasta dishes. The sauces are incredible. My friend Nolan recommends the lobster ravioli if you eat shellfish, and Emerson—she hosts a food review show with him—says the asparagus and bowtie pasta is to die for if you prefer to go veg.”
Bellamy opts for neither recommendation, choosing angel-hair pasta instead. When the waiter leaves with our order, she glances at me and shrugs. “They say don’t eat long pasta on a date, but it’s not a date, and you’re a sure thing, so I figured I might as well go for it.”
“You say that like a dig, but I’m going to choose to take it as a compliment,” I say.
“As you do,” she acknowledges. Then she asks me more about Emerson and Nolan, and I tell her about their show, then about TJ and his books, and about my cousins Spencer and Jo. I ask her about her social circle and learn more about her long-time friend Hazel, the woman TJ had invited to the party.
“And how is my new crush? What is Coco up to?” she asks.
Chastising me about romance. But I don’t reveal that part. “She’s great. We got pedicures today.”
Bellamy’s face is the picture of glee. “I need all the details, stat,” she demands.
I fill her in on our regular nail salon visits. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I can score you an invitation sometime,” I tease.
She wags a finger at me. “Now that’s the kind of invite I would catfight for.”
I lean closer. “Bet you’d really like an invitation to her birthday party, then. She’s holding it at Stallions and Studs.”
Her eyes widen. “You better get me one. I mean it.”
I shrug, offhand. “I guess we’ll see if you deserve one.”
“I’ll be very, very good.” Then her expression turns serious. “I wanted to ask about those online comments after the piece. They were harsher than I expected. Is there anything I can do?”
“Besides what we’re already doing? This bet thing?”
“Yes.”
“I find blow jobs make almost anything better,” I deadpan.
“I’d be amenable to an IOU in the blow job ledger. Your cock is fantastic to suck.” She licks her lips but doesn’t lose track of the convo. “But seriously. Is there?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I have a meeting with one of my corporate partners this week. I’m sorting through some ideas,” I say. “And this bet thing will go a long way, I’m sure. Especially since I’ll win.”
“Not a chance, cowboy.” She drifts her gaze around the restaurant and settles on another couple, two guys at a neighboring table enrapt in conversation about the best new bands.
“They met on Instagram. They both commented on a post about Taylor Swift, got to talking, then moved to the DMs. Now they can’t get enough of each other. ”
I shake my head. “Concert. Soho. A divey club with a mosh pit. They were smushed up against each other, locked eyes, and went home together that night. Inseparable. They disagree on nearly everything when it comes to music, but they can’t stop talking about their dislikes.”
She finds another pair. They’re older with weathered faces, but they clink beer glasses, then drink. “They’re toasting to twenty years together. They met on Match, one of the first generation of online daters. They fell in love debating whether Ernest Hemingway is trash or treasure.”
I scoff. “Nope. It was book club at their friend Marge’s Greenwich Village apartment. They all read John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. They debated it for hours, and after everyone else left, they stayed, drinking beer instead of wine and dissecting the matters of faith in the story.”
“They could debate a story for ages,” she says, then lifts that pretty chin like she’s going in for the kill. “Because they both put ‘avid reader’ in their online bios, which is how the algorithms matched them.”
“Well played,” I say.
We proceed through the entire restaurant in this fashion, and by the time we polish off our meals, Bellamy sighs in frustration.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head like she’s annoyed with herself. “I was supposed to get intel on you for your dating profile.”
I smile slyly. “And you did. I just shared all my likes with you.”
It takes a few seconds for her to grasp my meaning, and when she does, her chocolate irises twinkle with breathtaking delight. “You like discussing books, debating music, talking all night long, and . . . fucking.”
I wiggle my brows then pay the bill. “About that last one . . .”
I wrap her hair in my fist as her tits bounce gloriously.
She’s this close.
Her cheeks redden, and she claws at my chest, riding me hard and fast. Intense concentration etches her forehead as she swivels her hips, fucking my shaft with fierce determination, as if she’s using my dick for her pleasure and her pleasure only.
It’s so insanely sexy watching her chase her bliss.
“Yes, fucking yes,” I coax, urging her on as I grip her chestnut strands tighter with one hand, rubbing circles on her clit with my other.
“Don’t stop a thing,” she orders.
“I’d never.”
She goes wild on me, her thighs squeezing my legs, her pelvis grinding against mine.
I follow her every direction, moving my thumb a little faster, then faster still with each orbit I make.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moans, her noises making me hotter. A deep pull of pleasure curls around my spine, the signal that I’ll be losing it any second too.
Then she slides down onto my chest, her tits crushing against my pecs while her whole body shakes. Her cries rip through my bedroom as she shudders beautifully.
That’s all it takes for me to combust and join her. The world beyond these walls ceases to exist. Euphoria takes my body as its willing prisoner.
A few minutes later, after I’ve disposed of the condom, I’m still catching my breath, and so is Bellamy.
She hasn’t moved. She’s splayed on the bed, running her fingers through her hair.
I settle next to her, pressing my naked body against her warm skin. “So . . . was that not too bad?”
A sex-drenched smile paints her lips. “It was so not bad.”
“Good. Maybe our understanding can include another round in the morning.”
And somehow our understanding turns into a sleepover.