Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
KELSEY
Istop at the apartment door.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I bite my lip, unsure how he’ll like my starving-artist-esque apartment, where there is a good chance of discovering everything from bras hanging from lamps to the remnants of major snacking explosions.
“Keep in mind we didn’t expect visitors.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
I brace myself and swing open the door.
My eyes rove over the small dining table we found on the street and painted a sort of burnt orange; the couch that came with Lola and that we’ve since buried under a collection of throw pillows from various stages of everyone’s aesthetic lives; the bookcase that holds actual books plus Sienna’s ceramic cat collection and a hedgehog that Noelle gave us.
Sienna’s collection of vintage recipe tins lines the top of the refrigerator and Lola’s hats are all over the couch.
Some of Mia’s cross-stitch art hangs by the door—beautiful, meticulous stitchwork in a hoop; this one reads, in perfect sampler font, I will absofuckinglutely make this weird. Surrounded by tulips and a mouse.
“My friend Mia made that. She’s a bit of a joker.”
“She’s your friend who’s the lead in your Broadway show?”
“Yes! Mia is an amazing singer and, as you can see, very crafty. Sienna’s at rehearsal until ten and Lola has book club.”
I give him the tour of the common area, which takes about forty-five seconds and then lead him into my bedroom. “Best view in Manhattan! Of a brick wall!”
Bruno trails his fingers over my Japanese flower wallpaper, studies my various framed vintage Broadway posters—Chicago, A Chorus Line, Rent, a slightly warped Hamilton that got water-damaged.
There’s a long string of lights along the ceiling, three Persian rugs layered on the floor, and a collection of paintings of video game scenes from my friend Dara hung in a grid above the dresser, which is strewn with makeup and pens and mail and candles.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you’re not into the minimalist look,” Bruno says.
“You could say that!” I feel so self-conscious now. Bruno is all clean lines. Clean severe lines.
He picks up a small disco ball from my nightstand. Where did it even come from? I go over and take it from him. “You’re appalled; I can tell. Fess up.”
He looks around the room. Then back at me. “I love it. It’s all very you.”
“Meaning too much?”
“You could never be too much for me.” He picks up the small, framed photo on my dresser—me and Francine at what I think was a New Year’s party, both of us in sequins, mid-laugh.
“That’s Francine. We run a ballet school out of her home studio two days a week.”
He sets the photo back down.
“Time for some ginger ale.” I take his hand and drag him out.
“I’m drinking ginger ale now, too?”
“It’s that or water.” I fling open the refrigerator. “Or Sienna’s oat milk, but...”
“I’ll take the ginger ale.”
“With or without a cherry?”
“No comment.”
I fix us ginger ales, mine with a cherry, his without.
“Who’s Roger?”
I follow his gaze to the baseball bat with Roger’s name scrawled on it by Sienna. Somewhere along the line somebody put a ribbon around it like it’s a present.
“Right. That.” I hand him his drink. “Roger is Lola’s total scumbag stalker ex.
That’s him.” I point to the flyer on the wall where Roger Bancroft Junior stares back at us, twenty arrows pointed at his face.
“I made that when Lola first moved in. We distributed them everywhere around here. This jackass broke into not one but two of her past apartments, scaring the shit out of her roommates and making it so she had to move out.”
“Excuse me?” His voice sounds unusually menacing. “This guy broke into her home?”
“Twice. Nobody was there either time, luckily, but still! One of the times it was night and this guy is a big, scary cromag.” It’s here I catch sight of Bruno’s stormy expression.
“Don’t worry, this is a really secure building, and Roger is currently under the impression that Lola is dating her super terrifying boss.
But the bat—well, it’s always good to have one around. ”
He narrows his eyes at the poster. “I wouldn’t mind meeting this guy.”
I go to him and grab his shirt. “Would you bash him over the head for us?”
Bruno tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Something in that general neighborhood.”
“And you would go feral and beat him to a bloody pulp?”
“If you want me to, baby.”
I grin, gazing into his eyes. “And then you would throw the bat aside, chest heaving with brutal, monstrous passion—”
“Brutal, monstrous passion?”
“Go with me here! And you put me over your shoulder and carry me into the bedroom.”
“I see.” He sets down his ginger ale and unzips my hoodie.
Just the sound of the zipper in the quiet apartment turns me on. He pushes the hoodie off my shoulders, not rough, but definitely decisive. “It makes sense,” he says, voice low. “Why would I beat a man and not claim my prize?” He pulls the hoodie off of me and tosses it on the couch.
“You wouldn’t be able to resist, what with the monstrous beastliness coursing through your veins!”
He raises one eyebrow, and with one smooth, strong motion, he hauls me over his shoulder.
I make a full squeal, and I’m bouncing against his back as he walks down the hall, and suddenly I’m plunked onto my bed, ass first.
He grabs my sweatpants by the hem and pulls them clean off and climbs over me, bracing his weight on his forearms.
He swipes aside a strap of my undershirt and kisses my shoulder. “I haven’t had these tits in my mouth for days. I need to make them remember who they belong to.” He pulls down the shirt and my bra all as one unit. My breasts bounce up, ready for him. Begging for him.
“They totally don’t remember! They think they belong to the Empire State Building right now!”
His mouth closes over my nipple.
I gasp and shove my fingers into his hair.
He lifts his head. The wild expression has settled into something more deliberate.
“You better get those panties off,” he says, voice rough and low, “because I am going to put my mouth all over that flower of yours. And when I have you good and wet” —his eyes find mine— “I am going to make you come all over this nice bed. And then I am going to fuck you so hard you’re going to forget everything. ”
“I am currently removing my panties,” I inform him.
“Good.” His palm comes down on my inner thigh. “Wider.”
I follow instructions.
He settles between my thighs and for a moment he just looks at me—and the caveman-claiming-his-prize drops away and it’s just Bruno, all hot and stern and a little bit undone.
He kisses my mound, watching my eyes. “I should have never let you get on that helicopter.”
“Bruno—”
“I was a fucking idiot.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then the other side.
“You weren’t an idiot. I asked you for something that was—”
My words die as he licks me, slow and hard.
He does it again. His mouth is on me, and everything goes fuzzy.
His hands are heavy on my thighs, keeping me exactly where he wants me. He is thorough the way he is thorough about everything—precise, patient, brutally unhurried, and I don’t stand a chance. Or at least the usual composure of my flower doesn’t stand a chance.
My hips roll toward him. He makes a sound against me—low, approving—and that vibration alone almost does it. I tighten my fist in his hair, and he grips my thighs harder and works me with his tongue.
My eyes might be rolling back in my head and I don’t even care.
My orgasm rolls through me in waves, and he stays with me through all of it, slowing when I shudder, feeling the moment I need him to full-on cease and desist. My fingers loosen in his hair. He presses one more kiss to the inside of my thigh and then pulls back and looks at me.
“Come here.” I reach for him.
Getting him out of his shirt takes collaborative effort and one muffled curse on his part when the second button resists. Then the thing is on the floor and he’s over me.
I run my hands up the warm plane of his chest—solid, real, here. He’s here.
Here.
I glance up at my wild wallpaper. The seam in the corner has come up again.
“This is not exactly a million-dollar yacht,” I say.
“I like it.”
“Bruno—”
“Your beastly protector is going to enjoy fucking you amid all of your things and it’s going to be mind-blowing.”
He pushes a little ways in, stretching me. I gasp.
“It already is mind-blowing.” I move with him, holding him, rocking with him.
His gaze falls to my lips. He leans in, nips my lower lip, just softly.
I suck in a shaky little breath, trying to be cool about it all.
“One of my favorite things about you is how bad you are at hiding your emotions. You have to know that seeing you so into this turns me on like you can’t believe.”
“So you think I’m into it? That’s what you’re saying?”
He growls and rocks into me.
I move with him, and we find the rhythm easily, as though we’ve been doing this for years, like our bodies already know. I look down at where we are joined and my whole chest goes warm. He rocks deeper.
“More,” I say.
He moves faster. My hands are in his hair, on his back, everywhere, and he’s saying my name against my neck in a low, rough way. I pull him closer. He goes deeper.
When I go over, he’s right behind me—I feel it in the way he grips me, in the low sound that comes out of him.
After, he stays in me, forehead pressed to mine. Our breath evens out together. Outside, a bus goes by. The upstairs neighbor’s floor creaks.
“You can hear everything in this building,” he says.
“Just wait until my upstairs neighbor starts in with the flute.”