18. Masterpiece

Monroe

As sunlight streams through the window, I glance at the time on the cat clock. Again. It's seven-thirty. I'm never still in bed at seven-thirty.

But I've been awake for thirty-four minutes, and my body's itching to get up. To work on my course. To putter around the house. To exercise.

And yet…Juliet's hair, and Juliet's skin, and Juliet's Juliet-ness is like a magnet, keeping me here. She's not even in my arms. She's curled up, facing the other way, snoozing quietly. I haven't quite gone full Edward Cullen, staring at her while she sleeps, but I'm too damn close for my own taste.

Yeah, that's enough lingering in bed.

Abruptly, I swing my legs out of bed and head to the bathroom. A few minutes later, I've brushed my teeth, I'm pulling on boxer briefs, and she's still asleep. I gather my clothes from last night, then fold them and set them on my suitcase. Then I pull on a pair of gray sweatpants, grab my phone, and make my way to the kitchen, where I attempt to make coffee that does not suck.

But that's a feat I haven't mastered. Because this cup of joe blows big time. After one more swallow of the disgusting mud, I snap a pic of my caffeine failure and open my messages so I can fire off a text to Carter, who is an espresso maestro. Ah, shit. There's a text from Sawyer winking up at me like it knows what I did last night.

Sawyer:First football game of the season is in a few weeks. Wanna go?

I'll just ignore that. Instead, I tap out a new text to Carter. I'm not lying by omission to him. Attaching the photo, I hit send.

Monroe:This coffee sucks. My barista better be ready with the espressos when I return to the city.

Carter's the morning-est person I know, so I'm confident he'll be up. He doesn't disappoint. A few seconds later, he responds.

Carter:Aww. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.

Monroe:Your bar is low.

Carter:Dude, it's you. Have you ever met you? Your emotional range is measured in micro-millimeters. So I translated your text to mean I miss you and your life-affirming espressos.

Monroe:Whatever you need to tell yourself.

Carter: My point exactly. So, how's spending every day and night with your crush?

I growl, annoyed at the blunt question. First, she doesn't seem like a crush. Second, because spending time with her in this house is challenging, complicated, and absolutely too wonderful for me to handle well.

I heave a sigh, wishing I knew what to do about last night. How to understand it. What box to put it in. I was so sure I had my thoughts and actions under control when we entered the house post-limo ride, but once she walked into the bedroom by herself, it took all of two minutes for my desire for her to consume me.

Now, in the light of the day, what am I going to do with this desire? It hasn't dampened. It's grown bigger.

But we're still co-workers. And we still live on opposite sides of the romance fence. Not to mention, she's Sawyer's sister. While he'd never pull that don't touch my sister bullshit, I still have to contend with the fact that I never told him about our fling eight years ago. Like I'm going to tell him now that I flung with her again.

When soft feet shuffle on hardwood, I push all thoughts of Sawyer aside. Juliet appears in the kitchen, wearing a long T-shirt that hits at her thighs. She's yawning and making my heart thump harder from a goddamn yawn.

Fuck, she's cute in the morning. I toss the phone on the counter, not giving a shit that it slides to the corner.

"Hey," she says, a little morning gravelly.

I didn't know she sounded like that in the morning. I tuck that into the ever-expanding Juliet file.

"Hey."

She tips her chin toward the coffee maker. "You made coffee. You are a hero."

"It's awful. I should be outlawed from making coffee again."

"That bad?"

"So bad I should go out and get you coffee right now if you want some," I offer, and I'm ready to go. All she has to do is say the word.

But she shakes her head. "I can do tea instead. I bet Eleanor has tea." Juliet heads to the cupboards and hunts around for a box. I can't stop watching her. The way she lifts her arm. How her heart necklace catches the light of the sun. How her T-shirt rides up to reveal she's not wearing any undies.

"You're naked," I grunt, stating the obvious.

She gives me a look like I've earned a cookie. "Yes, and the sky is blue."

But her tone doesn't deter me. I close the distance between us, crowding her from behind, pushing her hair off her shoulder, and dropping a morning kiss to her inviting neck—a slow, lingering one I don't want to ever end.

She murmurs, then leans back against me, her ass pressed to my groin, her back to my chest. "Monroe," she says.

"Yes?" I ask, utterly distracted by her neck.

"What are we doing?"

It's an icy dose of reality. I let go as she spins around, facing me. We didn't have the talk last night. We just crashed post-sex. This conversation was inevitable, though, and necessary. I run a hand through my hair, figuring out what to say. Let's do it again sounds crass. Let's fuck for the week even crasser. But the truth? You're under my skin—that's even worse.

I can't tell this bold, brave woman who's ready to find the one that I'm a little obsessed with her.

"What do you want to do?" If I had a shrink, they'd smack me. Well, no. My fictional shrink would give me the you took the coward's way out look, which is even worse.

Juliet's unreadable for a moment. That's rare for a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve. Then, her lips curve up. "I mean, I'd really like to summon Jumanji again."

I laugh, and it feels like it comes from the center of my soul. I reach for her, tug her against me, then cup her cheeks. "So what you're saying is sex with me is better than music."

She shrugs. "Some music."

"Woman," I say sternly.

"Well, I haven't heard all your songs," she says, then wiggles an eyebrow.

"Then, let me introduce you to my favorite one." I scoop her up, carry her out of the kitchen, and bring her straight to the rose chaise lounge in the den. I set her down on it, then move to the end of it. "This is what I wanted to do when you were picking through potential dates yesterday."

I don't give her a second to respond. I just push up her T-shirt to her waist and spread those beautiful thighs apart, groaning at the glistening reward of her pussy.

"You're already wet," I rasp out.

"And what are you going to do about it?" she counters.

"Enjoy my favorite breakfast," I say, then I dip my face to her sweet, hot center, kissing my Juliet in the morning.

Her taste goes to my head. So do her sounds, soft and greedy. Little yeses and mores. I take those words, and I heed them, lapping up her wetness, flicking my tongue across her swollen clit, bringing her closer to my hungry mouth.

Soon, she's moaning, and I'm moaning, too, as I devour this beauty who parts her legs wide for me, who rakes her hands through my hair, who rocks her hips against my face. Who gives herself completely to me as she cries out then orgasms on my mouth.

I kiss her slowly as she comes down from her climax, then stop when she opens her eyes and meets my gaze. "Better than coffee," she announces.

"But better than music?"

"Like I said, some songs."

She reaches for me and pulls me close, offering me her mouth. That's just…hot. She doesn't hesitate. She kisses me while I taste like her, and for some stupid fucking reason, that makes my chest warm up even more.

When she lets go, she says, "We work together."

She's answering the question for me. She's always been braver than I am.

I rein in a wince. "I know."

"You're not looking for a girlfriend," she says.

Talk about cutting to the chase. I could give a simple that's true. But she deserves more. "It's not that I'm not looking. It's that I'm not any good at romance," I say, a little embarrassed. I'm the intimacy expert who's no good at love. But is it any surprise, given how I grew up? My father detached from the world when my mom died.

"Did Elizabeth tell you that?"

"The evidence tells me that. My track record tells me that. And you," I say, running a hand through her hair. "You deserve the best."

She smiles brightly. "That's true. I do."

I fucking love that she knows that. And there's no need to keep that to myself. I run my knuckles down her cheek. "Good. I'm glad you know you're a masterpiece."

"Feel free to tell me anytime."

I press another soft, tender kiss to her lips, whispering, "Masterpiece."

When I break the kiss, she slides her hand down my chest, and it feels so good I close my eyes. I have to. I can barely handle how her touch lights up some part of my soul. Especially when she snuggles closer to my neck, sniffing me.

I laugh. "Are you smelling me?"

"Yes. I sniffed you last night too. And you smelled like rosemary and shea butter. Like you got that day."

I freeze. She remembers. I swallow, a little uncomfortably, but it's a good discomfort, like after a workout. "You like that?"

"I always have."

That's not helping my fight. I don't open my eyes, not sure I can handle looking at her right now. I'd probably melt. "I always use it," I mutter.

She's quiet again, then she asks, "Ever since…?"

Here we are again. Revisiting the past, like she dared to do last night. I open my eyes and look into hers, giving her the truth. "Always."

She gasps, then says, "I like it."

My heart thunders, annoyingly. I want to spend the day here like this, wrapped up in her. But there's work to do, and walls to paint, and a tee time with my father late in the afternoon. "Good," I say. That's all I can manage, or else I will say too much.

I sit up, extricating myself from her. "Forget about the tea. Let me go get you a coffee."

"Okay," she says, but there's a crease in her brow. She's concerned.

"What's wrong?"

She inhales deep, like she needs to fortify herself. "Are we still doing the experiment?"

My throat burns hotter than it did when I ate that chili pepper to spite my father. Jealousy thrashes through me, stomping in my chest like an ogre. But I swallow it down and say yes.

I can't stand in the way of her goals. I can get her coffee, though, so I do that.