“Fun. And I take offense at you calling other women bitches. That’s my name.”
He laughs loudly, his body shaking, making me smile. “Oh, Liv. You’re not just a bitch. You’re my bitch. My flighty, irritating bitch.”
“It’s good to know that you have such a high opinion of me.”
“Cuddle me properly and I’ll switch out the irritating.”
With a sigh, I lie my arm over his stomach. Instinctively, I snuggle in closer. His arms tighten around me a little more.
“There,” I whisper. “Happy?”
“Yes.” He kisses the top of my head. “My beautiful, flighty bitch.”
I close my eyes and try to fight the way my body wants to tense. It shouldn’t be a big deal—switching those words. He could have said sexy or hot or even gorgeous. None of those would be quite as intimate as beautiful sounds.
“That’s more like it,” I quip.
I feel his lips curve against the top of my head. Every second he holds me, every second we lie together in this way when we shouldn’t be, every second we break every one of our rules, a little of my armor chips away.
It chips and it falls away, despite the elephant in the room. Despite the unsaid words, the underlying current of tension I know neither of us wants to address, I feel myself soften a little more toward this man.
My danger. My temptation. My kryptonite.
“I love the way you can lie here and cuddle me but can’t go on a date with me.” Sarcasm threads every word.
Well, there’s the elephant. And it’s stomping its f**king feet toddler-style.
“I was under the impression you were going to make other plans.”
“I’ve had offers.”
Fucking ass**le. I pull away from him, shoving at his stomach.
He grabs me and pulls me back into him. “Get the f**k back here.”
“You’re a prize dick, Tyler Stone. Do you know that?”
“I have a prize dick, babe.” He chuckles. “But yes. It’s been mentioned to me once or twice over the last several years.”
“Really? I can’t imagine why.”
He flips me up onto his stomach. I flatten my forearms against the bed on either side of his head and stare down at him. My hair falls around his face in a blond curtain that shuts us off from the rest of the room.
He slowly runs his hands down my back, sliding them over the curve of my ass and back up. “Talk to me.”
“Would you really have asked someone else to go with you to the party?”
The vulnerable hint in my voice knocks us both off guard. Me because the hint of hurt over that idea was supposed to stay hidden. Him because he’s never heard me be anything other than mouthy and sarcastic.
“No, baby girl. No.” He shakes his head slowly. “I would have gone alone and left hours early because it’d be bloody boring without your mouthy arse there.”
I smile. “Really?”
He nods. “You said you needed to think. You’ve had two days. Will you put me out my misery now? If I’m going alone, I’m gonna need to update Candy Crush.”
I flick my wrist and slap the side of his head. “Bastard.”
He grins.
“I was actually trying to call you before you stormed in and nailed me against my wall.” My lips twist wryly.
He snorts. “One way to put it. Do I get to be a smug bastard at the weekend then?”
“Why would you be smug?”
“Answer the question.”
“Okay, okay. Yes. I’ll go with you.”
“Good choice.” He tilts his head up and kisses me softly. “And I’ll be smug because I know I’ll be the one taking you home to f**k you, not some knob who doesn’t deserve you.”
Knob. “I love your British words. They’re so adorable.”
“I think ‘taking you home to f**k you’ is pretty universal.”
I smack his head again. “I’m talking about knob. It’s such a great word.”
“And it sounds f**king hilarious with your accent.” He laughs, flipping me onto my back. He leans over me, his body hard against mine.
It’s not all that’s hard.
He kisses my jaw, one of his hands creeping from my back around to my breast. He cups it beneath my bra, his thumb finding my nipple.
“Really?” I breathe, my body responding to him easily.
“I have a date—and with a woman who doesn’t sleep with a guy more than once, doesn’t date, and doesn’t cuddle, no less. I need to celebrate. More specifically, my c**k needs to celebrate with your pu**y. You down with that?”
I bring my legs up, sinking my fingers into his hair. “I’d hate to be a party pooper.”
I don’t have anything to wear.
So go naked. I wouldn’t complain.
Tyler, this is serious.
You have a shit ton of drawers and stuff. You can find something to wear to a party.
I can. But I can’t find anything to wear to this party.
I told you, babe. Go naked. Or in lingerie. With stockings. And heels.
I roll my eyes.
I’ll be wearing that anyway.
So what’s the problem?
I sigh and shake my head at my phone.
But I need something nice. And I don’t exactly have the kind of money to buy something to fit in at this type of party.
“This type of party?”
Full of people who make more in a month than I do in a year.
Like it matters what you wear. You could turn up in a f**king paper bag and put all those rich gits to shame.
My lips twitch as a gentle warmth rises in my stomach.
Charmer. But it’s not solving my problem.
You’ll work it out. I gotta go. My model’s here.
I drop my phone face down on the floor next to me. I’m not quite sure what I expected from that conversation—but I guess something a little more than what I got.
I wasn’t joking when I said that I have nothing to wear. I know I’ll walk into that freakin’ party and I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t have the bank balance to make sure I don’t. Sure, I have some money, but I also have bills to pay.
As much as I wish I could default a couple of payments, I don’t want my car repossessed.
Oh well. I guess I could always ask Dayton.
16
“We’re going to dinner.”
I look up. Dayton is standing in my doorway, her hands on her hips and her eyes glued to me. Slouched on the sofa, like usual.
“We are?”
“Yes. We are. And we’re going now.”