38. discombobulation

38

DISCOMBOBULATION

I mull over the phone call as I get ready to head to Leo's house. I'm on autopilot. Not until I glance in the mirror do I realize what I'm wearing. A modest sheath dress and my only pair of heels. I even put on diamond-solitaire earrings. What the shit?

After a five-second existential crises, I rip off the dress and pull on cut-off jean shorts, a comfy T-shirt, and a lightweight cardigan. Battered Converse? Check. Instead of doing something with my hair, I stuff a beanie on my head. Instead of makeup, I put on chapstick and call it a day. I feel defiant. Borderline angry.

Because Callum was right. Despite my focus on the contrary, I've been blindly trapped in old habits. Obsessing over ways to get what I want from someone. A chameleon at heart who's never felt safe enough to simply be.

"Fuck that," I tell my reflection.

As I request an Uber and head outside to wait, I ignore the final dilemma. Tell him I want more and drive the train off the tracks tonight, or keep my mouth shut.

An hour and fifteen minutes later—because it's Friday evening in Los Angeles—I knock on Leo's front door. My hand has barely left the wood when it swings open.

"That was fas?—"

His mouth swallows the final consonant. Arms sweeping behind my thighs, he lifts me up, shuffles backward into the house, and kicks the door closed. Hanging in his arms, I lose myself in his rough, needy noises and the heat of his tongue against mine.

When we come up for air, Leo rubs his nose against mine. "It's so good to see you. Feel you. Taste you." He punctuates the words with soft kisses on my cheeks and lips.

The smile on my face might be slap-happy, but I don't care. Staring at the naked truth in his eyes, I don't care anymore whether I'm a lovesick fool. I don't care if he doesn't want to date me right now, or even weeks from now. I'll wait for him to figure out whatever's holding him back. I'll risk the possibility he never does. Because what I see on his face is a mirror of what I feel in my heart.

For now, it's enough.

Pieces of our clothing leave a trail from the entryway, up the stairs, and down the hall to his bedroom. When I expect him to veer toward the bed, he turns instead toward the bathroom.

"I have a thing with you being wet," he murmurs against my mouth, then sips from my answering smile.

We kiss as he fumbles for the shower knobs, caress and explore as the water heats. He is smooth, supple lines and hard angles. Remains of aftershave and delicious male musk. With his hands and mouth on me, I feel soft and small and pliable. Utterly wanted and fully possessed.

We make it into the shower, moving into the thick, decadent fall of water. A finger slips inside me, then another, as our tongues continue their slow, sensual dance. I rock against his hand, then hum in protest when his body withdraws from mine. Opening my eyes, I find him on his knees before me, my body blocking the spray from his face. The intent in his bright blues makes my knees quiver and sends a surge of blood to my core.

Leo leans forward, hands spreading my thighs for his viewing pleasure. "You were made for me, Amelia," he growls, then kisses me right where I need him most.

Clutching his shoulder with one hand and the wall with the other, I gasp at the sensation, then again at the first flick of his tongue. He begins licking in earnest, diving between my folds and sweeping up to circle my clit.

My ragged moans make him ravenous. Mouth still pressed against me, he pulls one of my legs over his shoulder and braces me with strong hands on my ass. Then he draws back just enough to give me a heated glance.

"Ride my face, Amelia. Don't stop until you come."

I nod weakly. "No protest here."

A wicked grin flashes my way before he…

goes

to

town.

I come with a strained cry, bucking against him, his name on my lips. There's barely a second in which to reacquaint myself with gravity before I'm hoisted against the wall of the shower and impaled with every last inch of him. The invasion is exquisite, the burn only adding to my pleasure.

My legs lock instinctively around his waist, my arms around his neck. I find his mouth and feed on the taste of him, the taste of me, until we both gasp for breath.

"Has it ever been like this?" he whispers in my ear.

I'm past speech at this point, so I shake my head. With a low growl of approval, he lets loose. The wet slap of our bodies joins the billowing steam. My sense of time and place shivers and blows apart as he drives again and again to that place of deep, brutal pleasure.

"Fuck, Leo, I'm—" The rest is lost in a cry of surrender.

He stiffens, pressed tight inside me, and comes with a roar. Aftershocks rock my womb like little firecrackers. I twitch in his arms and relearn to breathe.

"Holy shit," he pants. "I can't feel my legs."

I gasp a laugh. "Don't drop me!"

His eyes, full of wonder and tenderness, find mine.

"Never."

Takeout Chinese food boxes litter the coffee table. There's a movie on but neither of us is watching. My head in Leo's lap, I flip through an architectural magazine while he scrolls through emails on his phone.

Staring at an ad for a tropical resort with a tagline of Find Your New Oasis , a question pops into my head. "Hey, do you know if Preston is okay?"

Leo freezes for a moment, then looks down at me. Sensing his discomfort, I sit up quickly. "It's okay. Sorry I asked. I just, uh, never got his number and was thinking about him."

His expression softens. "He's fine. Doing really well, actually."

I sigh. "Good. Great, thanks."

For the rest of the night, we ignore how close we came to acknowledging the elephant in the room.