Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thunder booms, rattling the windows as lighting streaks attempt to stand out in broad daylight. This storm wants to be dramatic, but even dark clouds can’t create an ominous atmosphere in sunny Los Angeles.
I roll my eyes knowing Xander is home, getting off on being right. And then I scold myself for thinking about Xander. Who cares about whether or not he’s getting off.
Not me.
I am not now thinking about his own hand wrapped around his—
Another thought-shattering boom. Thank you, thunder.
I haven’t moved from the couch since I arrived home with a double-shot cappuccino in hand.
Actually, I lie. I got up for the DoorDash delivery.
Because I didn’t think it was appropriate to give a complete stranger explicit directions on how to access my apartment without a key. Even though the hangover warrants it.
I glance at the clock. It’s five thirty. Fuck. How did that happen?
I look down at Mom’s book on the coffee table. Did I really sit here and read through the book again, looking for an explanation as to why I can’t get Xander and his hands, Xander and his curls, Xander and his fucking mouth out of my mind?
When I got to the part in chapter three about the Madonna Whore Complex & Why Your Brain Categorizes People Into “Love” or “Lust,” I felt better. Because the horny little whore in me recognizes the horny little whore in Xander.
It’s pure lust, baby. And that, I can live with for now.
I sigh.
I should already be on Ventura Boulevard. I’m going to be late. I wince as I haul ass into my room to pack my sleepover bag. Which will absolutely not include wine. My head throbs even though I feel like I’m walking in slow motion. The hangover still hasn’t passed.
I mentally make a list of what I need for tonight, like this is my first rodeo, and not at all like a seasoned veteran who’s been doing the same thing every single night for the past week.
Pajamas. Toothbrush. I sniff my armpit. And clean clothes.
I catch a glimpse of my open wardrobe from the door and notice it’s bare. Where the fuck are all my clothes? The answer is underneath me as I trip over the laundry pile—once a dormant volcano now exploding dirty clothes everywhere.
Turns out spending every evening at the sleep study has set me back on domestic duties.
Shit. What am I going to wear to bed tonight?
I refuse to wear Xander’s sleepwear for another night in a row.
Not after I practically rode him in them.
Not after that heart rate monitor advertised exactly how he gets me going.
And especially not after waking up with my limbs snaked around him, snuggling. Now that was embarrassing.
And yet, it’s slim pickings. I stare at my empty wardrobe hoping something will materialize when a pastel pink set of folded sweats catches my eye. I haven’t seen those in forever.
I stretch on my tippy toes to pull them down.
Printed on them is: To mate, date, or masturbate. That is the question.
I completely forgot about the free merch Mom sent me after she recorded her exclusive interview with Oprah. I suppress a gag at the cringe creeping up, threatening to reject the bacon eggroll I DoorDashed earlier.
Oh, Mom, who signed off on this merch slogan? And then I recall an earlier conversation where my mom demanded full creative control for the Netflix series and there is no doubt in my mind that she didn’t just sign off on this. She created it.
And while I fully support her, I refuse to wear that shit in public.
I’m about to fold it right back up and find a bikini that could double as a tank top when right on cue, thunder booms followed by the pelting of rain on the window, reminding me that Los Angeles just dropped thirty degrees in the span of three minutes and a bikini top won’t cut it.
Looks like I’m changing into Barbie-pink sweats that advertise wanking as a valid alternative to dating and mating.
As I slide into the sweats, I’m thankful for the truce.
Surely, Xander will bite his tongue, no matter how hard he wants to tease me for it.
I think back to the lawyer bot from the car ride home and surmise that he’ll bite it until he bleeds, if that’s what it takes.
I throw my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back into the living room, searching for my phone.
It pings, reminding me it’s on the charger.
Thinking it’s Em, I swipe it unlocked, and that’s when I see it. A message from Xander.
I’d like to revisit the weather we discussed earlier.
That motherfucker.
My eyes slide to the clock.
5:37 PM.
Time of death on our truce.
And just when I’m about to throw my phone into my bag, a photo loads.
It’s Xander. Wet.
White T-shirt see-through. Black running shorts gripping his sculpted thighs. Curls stuck to his forehead.
Fuck. Off.
I pull my hoodie up over my head and close my apartment door behind me.
Angelenos don’t know shit about driving in wet weather.
I’m not just late. I am fucking late. And honestly, I’m lucky to be alive.
I race to the sleep study, skidding to a halt outside our room before flinging the door open and announcing, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
I pull my hoodie down and see Ben standing with Xander.
Xander’s wearing dry clothes, but his thick curls are still damp and clinging to his forehead. I ignore how badly I want to witness him run his hands through his hair and tousle them.
Ben offers me a kind smile. “It’s totally fine. Everyone is late today.” I project a smile toward Ben that tells him thank you before my eyes slide to Xander, who’s mouth is set in a straight line. “I’ll be back to wire you up later.” And then, Ben is gone.
I stare at the closed door. Every second I don’t turn around, the tension ratchets.
I don’t know why but with the gag order in place, the energy is charged.
“You’re late,” Xander says. A statement. Not a question. And I don’t know if he’s upset. Or if he’s making friendly conversation in Switzerland. Neutral territory.
“Yep,” I say, even-toned. I still haven’t turned around.
“Why were you late?” Xander says, and this time there’s no doubt there’s a touch of accusation around the edges of his voice.
“Because I left on time,” I say, a white lie for the sake of civility. That’s when I turn around to see a furrowed brow. Xander’s concerned. If he’s going to blame me for ruining this sleep study because it’s wet outside, I’m going to—
“There was a three car pileup on Ventura,” he says, giving me a totally different response.
He was worried. About me. My heart unclenches for a whole entire second.
For all he knew, his sleep study buddy was crushed under a pile of metal.
In this moment, I know my tardiness warrants an apology, but right before the words come out of my mouth, he cuts me off.
“I told you it was going to thunderstorm this evening.”
“You did,” I say, slow, trying to regroup after this U-turn right out of our truce and into hostile territory, where the temperature is hot. The satisfaction that Xander caved first has me biting my lip to suppress a smile. The truth is, unfiltered Xander does things to me.
“And you ignored me why?” he says, pressing me for more. “Because meteorology is a scam?” His sarcasm zips through my body, and I feel like I’m coming alive after lounging around at death’s door all afternoon.
I opt to remain quiet and watch as his jaw clenches. The last restraint leaving his body. And suddenly, I want nothing to do with this bullshit truce.
I want unfiltered Xander.
And almost like he can read my thoughts, his eyes slide over my sweats. “What are you wearing?” The judgment is coming through thick.
“Merch,” I shoot right back.
“You paid for that?” Xander scoffs.
“Fuck no.”
Xander’s eyes skirt over the slogan.
Date, mate, or masturbate. That is the question.
It’s printed directly over my chest. I don’t want him to look away.
“Well, what is it, Ash?”
“What is what?”
“Date, mate, or masturbate,” he says. Fuck, why is it such a turn-on when he says it out loud? Is that what my mom intended?
An involuntary smile creeps across my face, which Xander takes as an invitation to hook his finger along the waistband of my sweatpants and pull me closer. I stumble the distance between us, landing right in front of him.
“Definitely not date,” I breathe out loud. Our lips are so close.
“And we’re definitely not mating,” Xander says, his hands steadying my hips. “Which leaves us with …” He doesn’t finish the sentence. His fingertips dip below my sweatpants, playing with the lacy edge of my underwear.
Fuck.
I grab onto his forearm and pull him closer to me. Encouraging him.
Suddenly, the cure to my hangover is obvious.
“Chemistry.”
He pulls his body back and I’m about to protest when he says, “That’s not an option, Ash.
” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the sweatshirt I’m wearing, or the conversation we had earlier about our chemistry being irreversible.
What I do know is that when I look into his eyes, there’s smug amusement. He’s fucking with me.
And I am thoroughly enjoying it.
“Is our chemistry a scam too?” Xander says, low.
I swallow. I don’t speak. I don’t know.
Without another word, his hand falls away from my panties and I have to do everything in my willpower not to pout at him. His hand travels up my waist, skimming over my ribcage, up to my shoulder, and down the length of my arm until he’s holding my hand.
Then, he drags it under my sweatpants with him.
Mate. Date. Or masturbate.
And the third option is … oh.
Oh.
This is so fucking hot.
Together, our fingers glide over my underwear. The lace creates friction that I feel everywhere, but it’s not enough. I am so wound up that I slip my fingers under the lace, giving myself access to my wet, hot bare skin.
“How do you feel?” When I look at him, his usual sunburst hazel eyes now resemble aged whiskey. He’s drunk. On me.
“So good,” I say, voice raspy with want. Something flickers in his eyes and then he’s kissing me, drugging and addictive, like he can’t get enough.
It’s never enough.
I bail on myself in favor of fumbling with Xander’s belt when there’s a knock on the door.
I freeze.
Xander breaks contact but instead of pulling away from me immediately, he rests his forehead on mine, lingering for a split second. I can see that I’ve managed to get the top button of his jeans undone and I’m thisclose to ripping his belt through the loops and discarding it on the floor.
“Give us a minute,” Xander calls out to Ben. I take a step back, adjusting my sweats while Xander fixes his jeans.
When Ben finally enters, it only takes him one look between the two of us before he shakes his head and turns to leave again. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, please be ready.” A pang of guilt sets in, and I look over at Xander.
He runs his hand through his curls. Stressed. Then, he opens his mouth and says, “Date me.”
“Date you?” I say, my mouth echoing my thoughts. Objection: I don’t date.
“Come on. I don’t think we’ll last in this study past tomorrow at this rate. Date me for the sake of staying in it?”
I puff my cheeks and blow out a steady stream of air.
Xander’s eyes slide to my mouth, unintentionally suggestive, before his eyes shoot back to mine. This time, his eyes do all the talking. Or pleading.
Fuck, he’s right. Because if there’s one thing I know to be true, it’s chapter four. The dating scene: where love and lust go to die.
“For the sake of the sleep study.” I nod, reluctantly agreeing.
“For the sake of the sleep study,” Xander agrees.
As I head over to my side of the bed, my arm brushes past Xander’s chest. How the arm nerve is connected to the thigh nerve I’ll never understand, but they’re talking to each other. I tell them to calm down.
Because I may have agreed to this, but there’s one thing we need to get clear right now—dating is not mating.