Chapter 7
AMELIA
T he smoke alarm is screaming again.
“Okay, okay, calm down! It’s not that bad!” I glare at the alarm, as if I can make it shut up with just my mind.
Adam stands below the alarm with a broom, sighing deeply as he presses the reset button for the second time in fifteen minutes. “You sure you don’t want to just set the kitchen on fire? So I can call the firefighters in advance.”
I whirl around, my hair sticking to my face. “I saw that video of a foolproof, easy vodka pasta. It was going to be gourmet.”
“You put the noodles in before the water was boiling.”
“I was preheating the water!”
“That’s not a thing, Amelia.” Adam clamps his mouth shut, as if he’s one second away from laughing. “And that’s coming from someone who cannot cook.”
I hold up a wooden spoon and point it at him. “Look. I didn’t say I was good at this.”
Adam just chuckles and grabs the dish towel for the nth time since I started cooking—an attempt is more like it, but whatever—wiping down the tomato sauce splatter on his counter with the same resigned patience one might use to clean up after a messy toddler.
“I swear your sauce hit the ceiling,” he says, glancing up.
My shoulders slump, and I lean against the counter, burying my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
Adam puts the towel down, comes up to me, and rests his forehead on mine—not an easy thing to do, by the way, given our height difference. “You being here is more than enough, Amelia. I haven’t enjoyed weekends like this.”
“So three hours, a couple of hundred dollars wasted, and two smoke alarms later, we’re still ending up eating deliveries.”
He tilts my chin with his finger, kissing me softly. “Says who? I’m taking you out.”
“I only have last night’s dress.”
“And that’s enough.” He goes back to wiping the counters. “And don’t wear any underwear.”
“I don’t have one.”
“I know.”
The bar is loud. Like, can’t-hear-my-own-thoughts loud. Like, Adam-leans-in-and-yells-right-next-to-my-face-and-I-still-can’t-make-it-out loud.
“I said, do you want to try the smoked old-fashioned?” he shouts, his mouth inches from my ear, breath warm, eyes hopeful.
I blink at him, disoriented. “Smoke what?”
He bursts out laughing, shaking his head as he drapes an arm over the back of my seat, pulling me closer to his side and running his nose along my jaw. “Oh God.”
I nod solemnly, my voice still loud. “We’re so good at conversations. I feel like I’ll wake up hoarse tomorrow!”
We sit at a table in the corner of the bar-slash-restaurant, where the lighting is about to blind me, and the music is at full blast for reasons unknown to anyone but the DJ. The vibe is sexy, sure, but it’s also the kind of place where flirting is next to impossible unless you’re both telepathic.
“Come closer,” Adam mouths, already pulling me closer to him, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. Yes, I’m wearing the same dress I wore on our first date, and yes, no underwear.
“I guess we could—” I don’t finish what I’m saying because Adam wraps a hand around my jaw and kisses me.
It’s messy and hot and borderline inappropriate, right there in a crowded bar. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that makes my head spin. Our noses bump, and I giggle into his mouth, but he just groans and squeezes my thigh.
I lose myself in the press of his chest, the curve of his jaw, the way he kisses like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense to him.
My fingers slide into his hair, tug just a little, and he breaks the kiss with a sound that’s half growl, half laugh.
I rest my forehead against his, breath shaky, heart racing. “Do you think we’re too old to make out here while others are dancing and drinking?”
He smiles and nips my bottom lip. “No. But how about we take it up a notch and you sit on my lap?”
I pull back just enough to look at him. His lips are swollen. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are so dark they almost make me shiver.
With the music thumping around us, writhing bodies on the dance floor, people making out on the couches, no one pays us any attention. The songs the DJ plays are the type that usually give me a headache, but I don’t notice, not with the pounding of my pulse and the hollow ache in my pussy.
I do a quick scan of our surroundings and sit on his lap, facing the dancing crowd and fanning my dress around us. Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear a mermaid dress. It hugs my curves, but from the thigh down, it flares out dramatically.
From afar, we look like we’re just another couple, but I know better.
Adam quickly unzips his pants and takes out his cock. I can feel the head brush against my ass.
And then, all the lights turn off.
The moment it happens, I think I’ve gone blind.
The lights cut out so fast I flinch, gripping his muscular thighs.
BOOM.
A pulse of sound slams through the floor, the ceiling, my ribs, my freaking skull.
Blood-red laser slices through the dark, followed by another, then another, until the space is soaked in crimson light and electricity.
The music shifts—louder, dirtier, something with a beat so primal it curls into my spine and yanks my body upright.
The crowd goes wild.
I blink, eyes adjusting to the chaos. Shapes move around us, people shouting and laughing and dancing. Taking full advantage of the moment, I lift my hips slightly and impale myself on Adam’s hard cock.
“Oh fuck.” Adam leans his forehead on my back, his voice making my body vibrate with need.
He fills me completely, and I moan when his cock twitches inside me. God, it’s so good. I begin to move, rolling my hips and bouncing lightly on his lap. My eyes are in front, but I’m not really seeing anything.
Adam’s hand snakes under my dress and between my thighs. Before I can take my next breath, he teases my clit. I gasp so loudly I thought people would finally notice us, but the sound is drowned out by the music. Thank God for the DJ.
My fingers curl around Adam’s knees, and I grip them tightly.
He continues strumming my clit, but at the same time, he thrusts from underneath.
The combination of thrill, his cock, and masterful touching of my clit pushes me over the edge. Before I know it, I’m coming hard, and I clench my thighs together as I tremble, riding shockwaves of pleasure.
“Adam…”
Under me, Adam grips my thighs for one final deep plunge, his breathing ragged, the flood of his own pleasure unleashing into my body.
I slump into him, and he wraps his arms around me, kissing my back. “You drive me so damn crazy, Amelia.”
I chuckle. “Good. My main goal in life is to corrupt you thoroughly.”
Adam slips out of the booth with a teasing squeeze to my hip and a, “Don’t go anywhere, trouble,” and I watch him walk away, admiring his broad shoulders that taper to a slim waist, his lean and tall build.
Watching him alone makes my stomach do gymnastics.
I’m still flushed from fucking, still high off the way he looks at me like I hung the damn moon.
I’m breathless and so happy, I feel like my chest is about to burst.
His phone dings against the table, and I glance at it out of instinct. I’m not snooping, really, I’m not. The screen just lights up, and my eyes … catch something.
Flight confirmed: One way ticket to Lisbon — August 21st
Apartment access details: check-in code and key instructions
Lisbon, Portugal?
My heart trips. My smile falters. And I blink at the glowing screen like maybe it’ll shift, maybe I read it wrong, maybe there’s a reasonable explanation that doesn’t make my chest tighten or my skin prickle or that little voice in the back of my mind go, ‘Of fucking course. Everything’s too good to be true. HE is too good to be true.’
He’s never mentioned Portugal, not once. Not in our endless emails that dipped into fantasies and confessions. Not in bed, not over coffee, not during grocery store flirting, or when I almost set his kitchen on fire. He never said anything about planning a trip, let alone leaving the country.
Also, a one-way ticket?
There’s a dull throb in my chest I know all too well.
It’s the same one I used to get before a door slammed. Before a man changed his mind. Before I was left hung out to dry.
I know I should wait. I know I should breathe, that the rational thing is to stay in the booth, wait for Adam to come back from the bathroom, and ask him. Just ask and let him explain.
But I don’t because history is a heavy, burdensome thing.
And mine has made me an expert at bolting before I become the fool again.
My last situationship taught me that confrontation doesn’t end in clarity; it ends in yelling or gaslighting or tears or all of the above.
I want none of them, so I do what I’ve always done when something starts to crack.
I grab my bag, slide out of the booth, and run, leaving pieces of my broken heart as I do.