Chapter Twelve
Cece
By the time I come back out of the bathroom, the steam has finally started clearing and Revel has, somehow, managed to make himself completely at home.
He’s stretched across the king bed with one arm behind his head, shirtless, gray sweatpants sitting low on his hips, remote in one hand while some action movie plays across the TV.
The takeout containers are pushed off to the side, my equipment is still charging where I left it, and the man looks way too comfortable for somebody who has, technically, been in this room less than a day.
I stop beside the bed and look at him.
He glances over. “What?”
“You look way too comfortable over there. Like you’ve already moved in.”
“I mean…” His eyes slide over to me. “If you’re part of the deal, I could get used to it.”
“That was not an invitation to start imagining our weird little Miami life together.”
His mouth curves. “Too late, Mama.”
I climb onto the other side of the bed and pull the blanket over my legs, trying very hard not to acknowledge the fact that I’m wearing the shirt I peeled off him right before we fucked.
Not because I wanted to.
Mine was just, uncomfortable.
That’s my story. It’s a good story. Nobody asked him.
Revel notices immediately anyway, because apparently the man has fucking radar when it comes to anything he can use against me. His eyes drop to the black shirt hanging loose around my thighs, linger there long enough to be annoying, then slowly come back to my face.
“Is that my shirt?”
I keep my attention firmly on the TV. “Looks better on me.”
“Fuck yeah, it does.”
I can hear the grin in his voice without even looking.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Mama, we just fucked in a hotel bathroom and now you’re curled up in bed wearing my clothes.” He settles deeper into the pillows like he’s never been happier with his life. “I’m not making shit weird. I’m fucking thriving.”
I finally glance over. “You’re so easy to please.”
His grin turns downright smug. “Apparently, all it takes is hot bathroom sex and you stealing my shit. Who knew?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
“Keep it. Like you said, Mama, looks better on you anyway.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to the TV before he sees the stupid little smile trying to pull at my mouth.
Ay, cállate.
The asshole isn’t even talking anymore, and somehow I still need him to shut up.
We settle into the movie, and for a while, it’s weirdly easy.
Revel keeps making comments about the race scenes, because, apparently, watching a movie with a professional racer means being subjected to a running lecture on why every stunt is bullshit.
“That bike would’ve lost the rear three turns ago,” he says, pointing at the screen. “And there’s no fucking way he makes that corner at that speed.”
I look over at him. “You know it’s a movie, right?”
“Doesn’t mean they have to make it bullshit.”
“It literally does. That’s kind of what movies are for.”
He reaches for another fry, eyes still glued to the screen. “Nah, see, how he’s shifting way too early. Who the fuck taught this guy to ride?”
“Revel.”
“And that lean angle is fucking ridiculous.”
“Revel.”
“What?”
“Nobody cares.”
He finally looks at me, genuinely offended. “I care.”
“Yes, and you’ve made sure everyone on our floor knows it.” I grab the remote and turn the volume up a few clicks. “Can you just watch the hot man ride the motorcycle and stop trying to fucking coach him through the TV?”
His eyes flick from the screen to me. “You think he’s hot?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Ay, Dios mío. It’s a fucking movie, Papi. Now eat your fries and let the hot imaginary motorcycle man live.”
He settles back against the pillows with a muttered, “Still wouldn’t make that corner.”
I kick his thigh beneath the blanket and the asshole just laughs.
I shift lower against the pillows and tuck one leg beneath me.
At some point, my shoulder ends up against his arm. But neither of us moves.
Which should’ve been the first sign something is changing between us.
Normally, I’d make some comment, move away, do something to remind both of us there are rules here.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am.
Revel shifts beside me, his arm stretching along the headboard before eventually settling around my shoulders. I’m comfortable enough that I don’t bother giving him shit for it, which is probably mistake number one.
Mistake number two is how easily I settle into him.
Ay, cono.
This is exactly the kind of shit I was trying to avoid.
The sex I understand. Revel is hot, he knows he’s hot, and he’s been shamelessly hitting on me since the second he saw me. I held out longer than most women probably would’ve, so really, I deserve some fucking credit.
And today in the car?
Yeah.
I’m not touching that one right now.
But this is different. There’s nothing to hide behind when we’re just lying here.
No flirting until one of us gives in, no crew around talking shit, no reason for me to pretend I’m only tolerating him because he happens to be useful sometimes.
It’s just Revel, and apparently, despite how much of a pain in the ass he is, I actually like the asshole. Which, I wish was more annoying than it actually is.
Talking to him is easy, even when half our conversations are just us giving each other shit.
Whatever attitude I throw his way, he takes it without getting offended and usually sends something worse right back.
Four hours trapped together in a car should’ve had me considering whether leaving a man at a gas station counts as a crime, but somehow, he made the drive fun.
Then there was the coffee waiting for me this morning, like driving me to Miami was already part of his plans, and the way he grabbed my equipment without making some big macho production out of helping me.
It’s all annoyingly…nice.
Especially coming from him.
And when he isn’t running his mouth or looking at me like clothes are a personal inconvenience, he’s actually easy to be around.
Not going to lie, it’s becoming a little fucking inconvenient.
Wanting Revel is one thing. I can blame that on chemistry, poor judgment, and the fact that the man looks the way he does. But somewhere between all the flirting, arguing, and finally giving in to him, I stop just wanting him and start enjoying him.
That has consequences written all over it.
Still, I’m not about to turn this into something it isn’t.
We’re having fun. We get along.
The sex is ridiculously good, and apparently, we can spend an entire day together without one of us committing a felony.
Friends with benefits. Easy.
At least, it sounds easy when I say it in my head.
I let myself sink a little farther into his side until my head rests against his shoulder. His fingers pause against my arm for half a second, like he’s surprised I do it voluntarily, then start moving again. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
Smart man.
Because the second he gets smug about me cuddling him, I’m denying the entire thing and moving to the other side of the bed.
For now, though, I’m comfortable.
And maybe I don’t need to make every fucking thing more complicated than it is.
****
Saturday night comes way too fucking fast.
One minute I’m barefoot in the hotel bathroom finishing my makeup with music playing from my phone, and the next I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror wondering how the hell it’s already time to leave.
The outfit helps.
The dress is short, black, tight, and doing exactly what I bought it to do.
The hem barely clears my thighs, little silver details catching the light when I move, and with my thigh-high boots, my legs look fucking fantastic.
My hair is smooth down my back, my makeup is sharp, and if I ignore the nervous bullshit happening in my stomach, I look hot as fuck.
Good.
At least the outside of me has her shit together.
I’m smoothing my hands down the front of my outfit when Revel comes out of the bathroom behind me, halfway through buttoning his black shirt.
He looks up.
Stops.
“Well, fuck me, Mama.”
My hands still against my thighs.
There’s no pretending I don’t know exactly what he’s looking at. His eyes start at my boots and take their sweet fucking time working their way up, lingering everywhere they shouldn’t before finally meeting mine in the mirror.
The corner of my mouth pulls up. “You done?”
“Not even fucking close.” He abandons the last few buttons and comes up behind me, hands finding my hips. “You planning on actually wearing this shit to the festival?”
“That is generally why I put clothes on.”
“Nah.” His gaze drops again in the mirror, completely shameless. “Pretty sure you put this on specifically to fuck with me.”
I turn my head slightly. “Not everything is about you, Papi.”
“Maybe not.” His thumbs drag slowly over my hips. “But that dress is about to become a very serious fucking problem for me.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Control yourself.”
“I am.” He leans closer, mouth hovering beside my ear. “That’s why it’s still on you.”
Heat creeps beneath my skin.
Pendejo.
I turn in his arms and fix the front of his shirt, mostly because one side of his collar is folded under and definitely not because I need something to do with my hands.
His eyes stay on my face.
“You keep looking at me like that and we’re going to be late.”
“Worth it.”
“No.”
“Five minutes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Three.”
I flatten his collar against his chest. “You’re negotiating with yourself.”
“Two and a half. Final offer.”
“Ay, Dios mío.” I give his chest a shove, but he catches my waist before I get anywhere. “I have a fucking set to play.”
His grin eases slightly at that.
“I know.”
Something about the way he says it makes me look up.
His hands stay on my hips, but the filthy look softens around the edges. “You nervous?”
I consider lying.
He waits.
“Little bit.”
“Yeah?”
“I know the set. Everything is ready. I’ve gone through it so many fucking times I could probably mix it unconscious, but my stomach apparently didn’t get the memo.”
He gives my hips a small squeeze. “Good.”
I blink. “Good?”