18. Bad Ideas
BAD IDEAS
SAWYER
This mouth. Her scent. The sounds she makes.
They all go to my head so fast, it’s like a circuit breaker’s about to trip. Fuses are lit, and the grid’s about to overload.
All warning signs flash bright red.
And I know, I fucking know, I should stop.
Not only do we work together, we’re about to work together even more closely. Plus, she knows some serious secret shit about my charred heart thanks to our dessert contest one night in San Francisco.
But does that stop me from crushing my mouth to hers? Nope. I devour her kiss, our tongues skating together, our lips chasing the high that comes from this kind of chemistry. Chemistry that snaps, that crackles, that floods my goddamn bones.
My hand covers her cheek, my fingers brushing those strands of auburn hair that fall in soft, silky waves against me. I grip her face harder, needing to get closer and closer still.
This is a bad idea, but it has a red-hot hold of me, spurred on by that cinnamon scent of hers and the high of a deal won.
A deal won together.
That thought powers me on. We pulled it off in tandem. I sweep my lips across hers as my thumb strokes her jawline. She murmurs against my mouth, and I catch that sound with my lips, refusing to let go, refusing to stop kissing.
I’m driven by too much…need.
Lifting my other hand, I clasp her face, kissing her more deeply as the windows steam up and the Sam Cooke tune shifts into another one.
She reaches for my tie, tugging on it, pulling me closer. So close we knock teeth and wrench apart.
I’m breathing hard. Her eyes are wide and wild. I stare at her gorgeous face and hungry gaze as the windows fog up more. It feels like a metaphor—like the car is saying no one can see you. Keep going.
But it’s fucking ridiculous to think the car’s a wingman. The night though? The mood? Both are complicit.
I look down at Chloe’s fingers wrapped tight around the silk of my tie, noticing her nails for the first time. Sky blue and shiny, maybe newly polished. “Nice color,” I say, glancing at them.
“Don’t even dare suggest I did it for you,” she warns, her voice husky.
And fuck…that gets me going too—the way she holds her ground against me. Everything about her is too arousing. I dip my face to hers again. “I’d never suggest such a terrible thing,” I rasp out, then I go for a cheap shot. I brush my lips to her neck.
To the spot that drives her wild.
Her breath hitches. She stretches her neck. Invites more of my kisses. Moans. Murmurs. Sighs. Then grips my tie harder like she’s holding on for dear life.
I travel up to her ear, whispering, “Just like I remembered.”
Her shoulders shudder, and she sounds buzzed as she asks, “Yeah? What did you remember?”
“How good you taste. Your cinnamon scent. The way you melt when I kiss your neck,” I murmur against her soft skin, kissing the column of her throat now.
“It’s my lotion. It’s from Kind. All my lotions are.
And bodywashes. I love them,” she says, breathless, babbling as she mentions the brand too, like I needed to know that.
It’s sexy, though, the fact that she’s not thinking clearly enough to edit her thoughts.
She’s just rambling as I kiss her. And it feels like a peek behind the curtain into her feminine world.
“Drives me crazy,” I say as I travel back up her neck, finding her mouth once more and sealing my lips over hers.
She claws at my shirt as I kiss her. I thread my hands through her hair. The song ends. The car’s quiet for a beat, the only sounds the rustling of clothes, the slide of our mouths, the staccato breaths.
When the next Sam Cooke tune begins, I stop pretending I’m willing to let this night end in the car. I break the kiss, run my thumb across her top lip, then nod toward her home. “What’s it going to be?”
She nibbles on the corner of her bee-stung lips. That just-been-kissed look is real good on her. “What are you offering?”
“You want me to surprise you again, Chloe?” A tremble seems to rush through her. I can hardly wait another second. “Let me come inside, sweetheart.”
“Oh god,” she says, swallowing hard, then nodding like she can’t stop saying yes.
I’m out of the car in no time, striding over to her door right as she’s pushing it open, then picking her up and tossing her over my shoulder.
“Why are you always carrying me?” she asks, but it’s playful, her question.
“Because you like it.”
“You’re such a cocky ass.”
“Did you say you wanted me to smack your ass?” I roam my hand over the lush curves as I carry her up the steps.
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
Yep, this has bad idea written all over it, and I’m doing it anyway. “Ask and it shall be given unto you,” I say as I reach the door and set her down so she can open it.
She punches in a combo of numbers but stops short before hitting Enter, her hand hovering over the keypad. As she turns to me, her eyes swim with vulnerability, and maybe embarrassment. “It’s tiny. My house,” she says. “I mean. It’s not even mine. It’s…a rental.”
She sounds almost ashamed of her situation, and I’m not entirely sure what to say to assuage her concerns. I take a beat to devise a thoughtful response when she adds, “And there are rubber ducks on my coffee table. It’s a whole thing.”
My brow knits, and I’m suddenly dying to know about the ducks. But the ducks are beside the point. “Chloe, your house has a dog—it’s home. That’s all that matters. I’m sure it’s perfectly you.”
She snorts out a laugh, then shrugs. “That’s true.”
She swings open the door and Captain whimpers a happy hello, spinning in a circle in greeting. “I need to let him out,” Chloe says the second the door shuts.
I want to return to the bad idea and get my hands all over her, but nature calls. And clearly, it’s calling for Captain—he’s racing toward the back door, a whine in his throat.
“I’ll do it,” I offer.
“You sure?”
“I’ve got this,” I say, swatting her ass on my way to the door. But as soon as my hand hits the knob, reality smacks me in the chest. “Shit, I don’t have a condom,” I mutter, opening the door and letting the dog out.
He bolts into the tiny yard, makes a beeline for a tree, and lifts his leg.
I curse under my breath. Why didn’t I think of this? But I didn’t—I don’t carry around protection in my wallet, like I’m going to need to drop trou at any given second. I buy it when I need it, and I haven’t needed it since Chloe, and then a long, long time before that.
Maybe this is a sign for me to turn around and go home.
But I don’t believe in signs. I’m not a fate person. I stay in the lines. I work hard. Do the responsible thing. I’m the guy who takes the dog out to piss.
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. I don’t want to ask her if she’s on protection since that’s fucking presumptuous, and it makes it her responsibility.
Times like these, I wish I were an optimist. The rest of my night would be easier if I’d assumed we’d be fucking.
When Captain’s done, he bounds back up the wooden stairs. I ruffle his fur, then follow him inside.
Kitchen’s empty. No sign of Chloe in the living room either. I hesitate before heading toward the hall—unsure if I should knock or call out. A peek tells me the bathroom door’s wide open, the bedroom looks untouched, and the whole house is…too quiet.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging it down my beard.
Maybe I should believe in signs. Because Chloe disappearing is one hell of a hint at impending doom.
“Where’d your woman go?” I ask Captain, who’s now stretched out on a purple area rug covered in illustrated women’s shoes. “Do you know?”
He lifts his furry shoulders—no lie—in a shrug. Is that another command? I ask again to be sure. “Do you know?”
He scrunches up again. Like an actual answer.
Damn. She really is that good. She’s taught him another clever command.
Still, she’s nowhere in sight. I look around the corner, getting a view into the bathroom.
The bathroom vanity is covered in skincare products.
Well, I get that. It’s never a bad idea to invest in some eye cream, and any man that tells you otherwise is a dumbass.
I look the other way. The kitchen’s quirky and cute, and there’s a rubber duck soap dish. I glance back toward the living room.
Yup. There are indeed rubber ducks on the coffee table. Not sure what’s up with Chloe or the ducks.
“Chloe?” I ask, right as I hear the rapid smack of shoes on pavement.
What the—
I peek out the window and holy hell, Chloe’s flying up the front steps, flinging open the door, and thrusting something foil-wrapped in my face.
“Here you go.”
I blink, caught off guard by the slightly panting, fully flushed Chloe. “Um…what’s this?”
“It’s a condom. You use it to fuck me. Try to keep up, Dumont.”
I shake my head, still catching on as I take the condom. “I meant—where did you get this?”
“Dottie Birch. She’s like the block mom.”
“And she has condoms?”
“She’s the caretaker of The Horny House, Sawyer. She also has tampons. Band-Aids. Neosporin. Flashlights. Portable chargers. Multi-tool kits. Clif Bars. Pens. Bananas.”
“The bananas…for the condoms?”
“No. The bananas are for potassium, obviously. Dude, I’m losing my lady boner.”
And just like that, I’m turned on all over again. Weirdly. So fucking weirdly. Not because she said “lady boner” but because she’s so damn bold. So unapologetically clear. She owns her sex drive, and it’s hot as hell.
“We can’t have that,” I say, closing the distance between us. I cup her cheeks and kiss her hard. My head spins. My body’s on fire.
Any second thoughts vanish under the weight of that kiss. This is the woman who sprinted down the street at night to grab a condom. That’s the only sign I need. I manage to kick off my shoes as we stand there, and she slides out of her sandals.
I kiss her deeper, my hands coasting down to her ass, cupping those perfect cheeks. I squeeze, then slide lower and lift her up so she can wrap her legs around my waist.