Chapter 29
“No I’m not in Love” - Tate McRae
Maeve
The instant I smell the delicious interior of Pierce’s car, I’m reminded of why this is a bad idea. I open my mouth to protest, to tell him I’ll call a driver, but he places a hand on my lower back and gently pushes me into the Aston Martin.
“Just get in,” he says into my ear.
I obediently slide onto the leather seat and let my muscles relax. He can drop me at home, we’ll have time for a quickie, and that will be it.
It’s Friday night, and with my father out of town on business, I’m free to hang out with the whole crew.
We executed a flawless revenge plot on Saylor’s ex-husband, who tried to steal thousands of dollars from her parents.
Slate knocked the idiot out, then the guys stuck his head and arms through the first unlocked window they could find in the neighborhood.
Meanwhile, Lux called it in as breaking and entering, playing the part of distraught pedestrian perfectly.
All in all, it was a great night.
Pierce puts the car into gear, and I glance down at the gearshift. A pair of cream-colored lace panties hang from it. Before I can remove them, he grabs them and shoves them into the pocket of his trousers.
“Hey,” I say. “That’s a five-hundred-dollar thong.” He took it off me the last time I was in here, and I forgot about it, probably due to the incredible orgasm he gave me in return.
“I’ll buy you a dozen more.”
My cheeks flush. Is he a trophy guy?
His grip flexes on the steering wheel, grabbing my attention. A desire to have his hands on me rises up as thick veins bulge beneath his taut skin. The way they would feel on my body, caressing me, possessing me, finessing me . . .
As if he can read my thoughts, he reaches over and seizes my thigh. His fingertips just graze my bare leg. He doesn’t even try to feel me up, just drives with one hand staking claim to me.
I need something to distract me. Opening the glovebox, I search for something to pick a fight over. It’s what we do best, after all. True to form, however, the compartment is neat and tidy, just like the rest of his car, his flat, his closet. God, doesn’t the man have any flaws?
Pierce doesn’t ask what I’m doing as I continue rifling through it, but I can feel his quiet amusement. Finally, buried at the bottom, I find an old tube of lipstick.
“Use this often?” I ask, holding it up.
“Every day.”
I huff and sit back in my seat, turning the stick over. “Which one of your girlfriends wore Chanel in 99 Pirate?” Now I am pissed, no more effort needed. Everyone who’s anyone knows that’s my shade.
“None that I know of,” he says, glancing over. “You probably left it in here.”
I frown. It’s not like me to leave things lying around, especially not in other people’s spaces, but this is the second time something of mine has shown up in Pierce’s belongings. The scarf seemed like a coincidence, but twice in a row feels . . . I don’t know, odd?
“Why didn’t you throw it out?” I toss the tube back in the glovebox.
He sighs heavily. “I don’t know, Maeve. Probably because I didn’t notice it.”
I feel a little bad for picking on him, which is strange. Definitely not like me at all. “What you said the other night,” I blurt out before my filter can kick in, “what did you mean?”
He cuts me a side glance before hitting his blinker. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
Heat settles in my cheeks, mingled with regret at bringing up the topic. Who short-circuited my mouth to bypass my brain? “You said it’s your job to know my body.”
“It is.” His hand tightens ever so slightly around my leg. “Don’t you agree?”
My brows pinch together as I consider this. “Maybe if we were a couple, but—”
“Aren’t we?”
I whip my head to the side to look at him, even though it’s too dark to make out much besides his profile. “Of course we’re not.”
As carefully as you might pet a wild animal, his fingers begin stroking my inner thigh. “In one aspect we are.”
“That’s beside the point,” I say, flustered by his movements. “Even if we were . . . dating”—god, what an insane thought—“that wouldn’t make it your responsibility.”
“Then whose is it?” His touch causes goosebumps to flood every inch of skin below my waist.
“Mine.” I overemphasize the word, not because it deserves it, but because I’m on the verge of spiraling. Again. When did that become my default state around this man? “It’s my responsibility.”
His hand stills, and he turns to look at me, then focuses his attention back on the road. “That’s a load of crock.”
I gape at him. “I suppose you’re the master of sexual etiquette?”
“Practicing it doesn’t make you a master,” he grumbles.
I shake my head, truly confounded. “No one I’ve been with has considered my orgasms their responsibility.”
“Until me.”
“Until you.”
“Just because you’ve only dated wankers before now, doesn’t mean they’re right,” he says.
I can’t afford to focus on what he’s saying—not when the scent of him is seeping into my pores, when my head is spinning from the way he’s touching me—so I pick at the one thing in his sentence that’s safe.
“Yes, but we’re not dating either.”
Rain patters softly against the car windows, blurring the lights of the city as we zip down the streets. A gentle jazz melody oozes from the speakers, the kind you imagine someone dancing to when they’re seventy years old and have spent over half their life loving the same person.
Pierce is quiet for so long that I think he’s not going to respond. When he does, my heart jumps in surprise. “No, but we could be,” he says quietly.
I can’t help the abrupt laugh that bursts out of my mouth. “I’m not your type.”
His fingers continue their sensual dance on my leg, trailing up and down the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “What makes you say that?”
Grabbing a hunk of my black hair, I lift it off my shoulder. “I’m the opposite of blond. And my name doesn’t end in ‘-ella.’”
Pierce snorts and keeps his eyes focused on the street. “I don’t have a type.”
I laugh again, and it sounds a little maniacal. “You are the personification of a guy with a type.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I could open a catalogue and order your girlfriends for the next five years, and you’d have no complaints.”
He snaps his fingers. “So that’s where you found Celestia.”
Rolling my eyes, I shift lower in my seat, allowing our sparring to relax me. “The fact that I knew exactly what kind of woman would most annoy you only proves my point.”
A low murmur comes from his chest, but he neither confirms nor denies my statement.
My assessment is obviously correct—the guy is as predictable as Monday-morning traffic—but it bothers me a little that he seems to have forgotten the origin of this conversation.
Which is concerning. It’s not like I want to date Pierce.
I’m not waiting for him to offer a rebuttal and prove that I am, in fact, exactly his type. The two of us would never work out as anything other than what we are—frenemies who fuck. And I’m not so insecure that I need to be adored by every person I encounter.
Besides, if he were to say he wanted more, this whole thing would have to end, which would be a travesty, because I’ve come to quite enjoy our little rendezvous.
Everyone knows that when feelings catch in situations like ours, things go south very quickly.
So it’s for the best that Pierce and I are on the same page about this just being sex.
“Which number in line would you be?” His voice startles me, and I turn away from the rain-streaked window to look at him.
“What?”
“The girlfriends you’re ordering for me. Would you be the first or the last?”
I blink several times as my brain scrambles to find words. It seems they’ve decided to pass through the gray matter after all, except now they’ve gotten stuck, because I’m incapable of giving him a response.
As if sensing my dilemma, he adds, “We both know Maeve Wilson doesn’t do the middle.”
I swallow thickly. Several more beats pass before I locate my voice. “I told you, I’m not your—”
“My type. I know.” The vehicle swerves as he pulls into a car park and stops.
“Why are we stopping at”—I crane my head to read the sign on the pale-yellow building and scrunch up my face—“Mama C’s Pizzeria?”
Pierce doesn’t look up, just keeps his eyes on the steering wheel. Without the driving sounds drowning it out, his breathing becomes audible. He’s no longer grabbing my leg, both hands now pressing into his own thighs.
I’m about to ask if something is wrong when he speaks, his voice nothing more than a low rumble.
“What if I told you I only dated blonds so I wouldn’t accidentally say your name while I was fucking them?”