Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 16
I dust a kiss onto her inner thigh then her hip, then she reaches for my face, pulls me to her, and devours my lips.
Well, she’s as fearless in bed as she is out of it. Imagine that.
This time, she’s the one to break the kiss. The look in her eyes is wanton and hungry. I part my lips to tell her that I’ll get her there again. That I’ll take her over the cliff once more.
But before I can tell her all I want to do to her, she cups my cheeks in her soft hands and says, “I want to tell you something.”
I hope it’s that she’s on the pill. That we don’t need a condom. That would be fantastic.
“Tell me anything,” I say.
Her eyes stay with mine, her features go soft. “I’m in love with you.”
I both did and did not expect that. But now that she’s said it, I’m half frustrated I didn’t voice it first.
But I’m all elated.
I’m exhilarated by the feeling in my body. I want to wrap myself in those wonderful words and spend the night in them too.
“I’m so in love with you, Jo. You must know that. Tell me you know that.” My voice is desperate. No surprise. I want my feelings for her to be self-evident.
“I would never assume . . . I just hoped, Heath,” she says, running her thumb along my jaw, reverently.
Hope and bliss and wonder storm through me. “I’ve been falling for you since the night we met. I just can’t stop.”
“Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop falling in love.”
“I won’t,” I say and scoop her into my arms, carry her to my bedroom.
“This is your favorite way, isn’t it? You like to carry me before you fuck me.”
She’s not wrong. I love the feel of her in my arms. “Yes. Makes you feel like mine.”
“I am yours.”
“You are.” When I set her on the bed, she undoes the buttons on her blouse in a flurry as I shed my shirt.
Her eagerness is a drug. This hit of it intoxicates me to another level, and I didn’t think I could get any higher.
But I do as I rake my gaze over her. She’s wearing a white lace bra and nothing else. “If I were a boudoir photographer, I’d take a photo of you right now. The glow on your face, the radiance of your skin, the blissed-out look in your eyes. They tell the story of your Sunday morning,” I say as I unbutton my jeans.
“And what is that tale, Heath?”
My clothes are off and I climb over her, naked and ready. “That you’re having a very good day.”
She laughs softly. “Every day with you is a good one.”
As I reach for her hands and lift them over her head, I brush my lips along her neck. “Mmm. You’re most definitely my favorite friend.” I tease her with the words we used to dance around all these love confessions, saying it without saying it.
Now, we’re free to voice everything. But she’s the one who says the most beautiful words of all. “I love you,” she says again. “Also, I’m on protection. And I’m clean if you want to go without.”
As I kiss the hollow of her throat, I groan, pleasure throbbing through me. “I do. I absolutely do.”
“Good. I can’t wait anymore,” she says, then grips my shoulders and pushes me to my side as she removes her bra.
I take the hint, rolling on my back. “Come on top of me, love. Let me look at you.”
She straddles me, her hair glossy, breasts full, skin glowing. Then she takes my aching length in her hand, making me shudder from her touch, making me rasp out her name as she brings me against her, rubbing, stroking, driving me wild and hungry. I growl, “Get on me now.”
My naughty lover grins, rises up, and then takes me, sliding down over my dick.
“You feel so good,” I mutter.
“Oh God. Yes, Heath,” she murmurs on a breathless pant.
My fingers curl tight around her hips, my skin buzzing. Hell, my entire body tingles. Sensations rocket through me as I watch the woman I adore take me deep into her body, moving up and down, riding me as I drive into her.
Jo is a feast for all my senses. My eyes can’t get enough of her as they travel down her body—the sway of her breasts, the curves of her hips, the sheen of her skin. Most of all, the look in her eyes as she leans closer, sets her hands on my chest, and pins my gaze with hers.
Her lips part, and a breathy, needy ohhh escapes them. “You’re so worth waiting for,” she says, and it feels like we’ve been waiting the longest time. I know it’s only been weeks. But it feels like so much longer.
Maybe that’s how it goes when you fall so hard, so deep. So far that you’ll do nearly anything to keep her and make her happy.
Because she makes me the happiest, and I want her to be very, very happy with me. So, I slide my hand between her legs, rub my thumb against the delicious rise of her flesh, and stroke until she’s shuddering, breaking apart beautifully, then collapsing onto me.
Lust overtakes my senses, demanding release. I flip her over, hook her ankles on my shoulders, and drive back into her.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she says, urging me on.
I don’t need the encouragement, but I do love it. I love it so much, my own orgasm takes hold, blotting out the world as I come with her, like nothing else matters.
It feels like nothing can touch you—not when you find this kind of love.
Maybe fate’s not fucking with us, after all.
Later, after we clean up, I bring her into my arms, kiss her face, and hold her close.
Maybe I don’t have to let her go.
Maybe I won’t.
19
JO
I expected a library. I tell Heath as much as I wander back into his living room a little later, buttoning up my blouse, pulling on my underwear.
His home is small and clearly well-loved, but there’s a glaring incongruity. I gesture to the cream wall in front of his couch. It’s bare, where I’d expect a bookshelf bursting with tomes.
Instead, his living room simply holds a mantel with several framed photos. I turn away from the photos, parking my hands on my hips. “You’re supposed to have floor-to-ceiling shelves with dog-eared paperbacks.”
He shudders. “Who would dog-ear their paperbacks?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please tell me you’re not one of those people that considers dog-earing a paperback a crime.”
He points at me, all j’accuse. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people who dog-ears a paperback.”
“Fine. I do. But it’s a sign of love! It shows that a book is loved.”
He cringes. “I can hear the pages screaming. They’re literally begging you. Don’t hurt me, Jo! Don’t fold me over,” he says in a comical high-pitched voice that is so not Heath that it cracks me up.
I flop onto his slate-gray couch, patting the cushion next to me. He wears only boxer briefs, black ones that he looks good in, long and lanky and toned. But then, he looks good in everything, and also in nothing.
He joins me, and I run a hand along his arm. “All right, we disagree on dog-earing. But tell me, why don’t you have shelves and shelves of books? Wait. Have you been tricking me into thinking you’re a reader? Or . . . perhaps you actually read on an e-book app?”
He scoffs, wraps me in his arms to tug me close, my head against his chest. He sighs happily into my hair, and the feel of his arms around me is so warm and welcoming. It feels like he doesn’t want to let me go, and that’s why I like it. “I don’t have any books here because I don’t keep them, for the most part.”
I crane my neck, stare up at him inquisitively. “What do you mean?”
“I donate nearly everything I read. I buy the book and then I give it away. Which is another reason why I don’t dog-ear the pages—so others can have them and enjoy them.”
My heart thumps. This man and his generosity. “You can’t say that.”
“Why can’t I?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Because it makes me fall even harder for you.”
He holds me closer. “Then I’ll tell you more fabulous things about me.”
“Like where you donate them?”
He whispers low and husky in my ear, “A library.”
I shudder. Literally. A tremble rushes through my entire body. “Okay, I love that you do that. And now it makes perfect sense why you don’t have any books here. The fact that you donate them all is another incredibly hot thing on a long list of hot things that you do, Heath Graham.”
“What else is on that list? Hopefully, the way I fuck you, the way I kiss you, the way I lick and suck you.” He brings his lips to my ear, sweeps his tongue across my earlobe, finishing with a delicious nip.
I shiver, all hot and bothered. “Are you trying to get me turned on again?”
“Consider that my mission pretty much always,” he says.
I snuggle up against him. “Well, it’s working.” I turn my head and pat the edge of the couch where a purple throw blanket covers the cushions. “Is this for when you get cold at night while you’re reading?”
“Yes. And it’s for napping,” he says, his cheeks a touch pink.
I nudge his shoulder. “Why are you embarrassed to say you nap?”
“I don’t know. It seems so young. Or perhaps so old. But I do love a good catnap on a Sunday afternoon.”
I hum, getting lost in that delicious idea. “We should take a nap today,” I purr, seducing him into the plan.
“That would really make it a perfect day. Sex and love and you and a catnap.”
“Let’s make it a deliberate date to sleep. But not yet.” I pop up from the couch. “Can I see more of your place?” Then I pause as a worry pokes at me. Am I pushing? Is it too much to want a tour of his flat? “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.” I flap a hand at his abode. “It’s your life, and I get that it may be personal.”
His expression softens. “Are you asking if I lived here with Violet?”
I glance away, heat flushing my neck, and nod. I didn’t think about that at all when I walked in here an hour ago. I was just so focused on getting him naked, getting me naked, but now, it’s on my mind.
“Yes. I did. I’ve lived here for ten years,” he says, and I do the math easily.
That’s the last four years plus half of their marriage.
Standing, he runs his fingers along my hair, brushing it away from my cheek, watching my face with concern and curiosity. “But are you asking me if it’s weird for me to have you here, or are you telling me you feel uncomfortable being here? Because if you do, just say the word and we can leave. We can go to your flat. Or if you just want to leave . . .”
His voice pitches up with a tension I don’t usually hear in it—like it pains him, the thought of me leaving. It definitely pains me.
And of course, he’d be nervous about me being here in his space. I’m the first person he’s been with in four years.
My heart screams in protest at the prospect of leaving. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure?”
I glance around. His flat doesn’t feel like a mausoleum. It feels like his. On the coffee table sits a program from last night’s production of And So It Begins, his brother’s play that we saw together. Next to it is a new book we picked out for our book club. Near the corner is his camera, the one he uses when he takes photos of London—photos with me and sometimes photos with me and him in them together.
It’s all very Heath.
“I’m sure,” I say.
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” he presses, “But this is my home. It’s where I live. It’s where I went after the night I met you. I came through that door”—he points to the entrance—“still thinking about you, how you felt naked in my arms.” He pulls me closer onto the couch. “This couch is where I was the next night when I rang to ask you to dinner.” He waves to the kitchen. Teacups line the counter. A yellow kettle sits next to the stove. “That is where I was when I called you after your first day at work, hunting for an excuse to talk to you.” He cups my face then runs his fingers through my hair. “You’re everywhere . . .” He taps his chest. “Because you are in here.”
I feel like a fool. Emotions rise, clogging my throat. I’m not sure I’ll have room inside for all these things I feel for him. I shift around so I can loop my hands around his neck, play with the ends of his hair. “Will you show me the pictures on your mantel?”
“Of course. I’m an open book with you.” He takes my hands and takes me there.
I pick up a framed photo by the edge, a shot of Heath and Jude and two people who are clearly his parents. “It’s you and your family,” I say of the picture of them at the dinner table, wearing Christmas paper crowns, holding Christmas crackers. “I bet there’s a fireplace and hot mulled cider nearby.”
He just grins and shrugs out a yes.
“I think I love your family already.” I pick up another shot—Heath and Jude, outside a theater.
“That’s a play he did here. Pillow Talk. His breakout show,” he says.
“Has he ever performed on or off-Broadway?”
“Not yet. I wanted to take him to see some plays when I was in New York for a long weekend a few years ago. But he was shooting a BBC show.”
My eyes widen. “You were in New York! I could have bumped into you.”
“Wouldn’t that have been a bit of kismet?” he asks.
“It would. I can see it now,” I say. “You and me meeting a few years ago.”
And I truly can. Him and me in Manhattan, checking out restaurants, going to shows, kicking around the park, taking pictures on Bethesda Terrace.
I want to ask whether he wants to go to New York with me. If he’ll take a trip, meet my friends, do it all up.
But it does feel a little too soon. I’ll hold the idea close and ask him eventually.
I find a shot of Heath and the man from the store playing chess in the park, Heath’s face intense as the other man lifts a knight. “Nigel,” I say. “But who took this photo?”
He gestures to another image, one of a dark-haired man with his arm wrapped around a lovely redhead. “That’s my friend Griffin. He was in town for a few months, and he took that shot of Nigel and me in Battersea Park. Griffin runs tours in Paris. He’s English, but he speaks five languages. Sometimes I take photos for him of places around the city because he’s been working to expand those tours here.”
I clutch the photo to my chest. “I love it. It almost makes it seem like you like people,” I tease.
“Some people,” he says.
I set it back down as the light from the window casts its rays on a picture behind the one of his friends. It’s an image of Heath and a woman. She’s tall, with intelligent eyes and dark blonde hair. They’re standing by the river, and his arm is looped around her shoulders.
Violet.
A pang digs into my heart, but it’s not jealousy. It’s sadness—for what he’s been through and for how hard it must have been to lose her.
On the one hand, I’m only here with him because she’s not, but that’s such a black and white way to view the situation. Life happens. And you have to go forward. Allow your grief to run its course until you eventually reach a place of acceptance—and then you start healing. I know that all too well. “It’s a lovely photo,” I say softly—respectfully too.
“Thank you,” he says.
That’s all, and I suppose it’s all that needs to be said.
It’s the only photo of her.
This mantel isn’t a Violet shrine. It’s not a monument to his past love. It’s simply a place for pictures of the people in his world. It’s the stories of the years, of the things he’s done, of those who matter to him.
An empty gold frame stands at the end. “And that?”
Heath dips his head, looking sheepish.
“Come on. What’s that for?” I ask, giving him a gentle bump of the shoulder.
“Look, if you came into my home and I had a photo of you already, I would look like a stalker.”
“Are you saying you removed a photo of me from it?” I tease.
He laughs, tossing his head back. “That would make me very odd.”
I give him an I’m waiting stare. “So . . .”
“I could see you and me in there. Maybe that shot from the gardens. Maybe on a bridge. Perhaps we could take pictures of us kissing all over London, and I could have a shelf of kissing photos instead of books.”
My heart soars at that image, or rather, all the images. “You would take pictures of us kissing?”
A smile curves his lips. “I would. I want to.”
“Then you should.” I lift my chin. “Consider me your willing subject.”
There’s nothing to do then but to kiss. It’s imperative.
Then kissing leads to the bedroom, where clothes come off once again, and then we’re tangled up, bodies pressing, hearts connecting, sealing this promise to kiss all over the city.
The kisses turn hotter, hungrier, and then I’m under him, and he covers me.
This is where I want to be. Feeling his glorious weight as he presses into me. As he moves in me, I drag my nails down his back, making him shudder. I register that detail—he likes being marked. Maybe it makes him feel more connected to me. A little bite. A little scratch.
A tug. A pull.
Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, I drag his mouth to mine and kiss him ferociously as he takes me over the edge again.
Hands, nails, words, cries—and promises.
Promises to look out for each other. To love one another.
After, we lie together, wrapped up in the sheets. I don’t want this day to end. When it does, and morning comes, I’ll have to go back to work.
Work.
The thing that makes this . . . complicated.
As the sun starts to dip in the sky, I broach the subject. “What happens tomorrow when we go into the office? We’re still colleagues. We’re still competing for a job.”
“I don’t know, but we need to figure it out soon,” he says a little heavily.
Correction—a lot heavily.
“But what does that mean?” I ask. “How do we sort it out? You mean just living with whoever she chooses for the promotion?”
