Downtown Devil: Book 2 in series (Sins in the City) (27 page)

“And I wanted you, pretty much the second we met. I was like,
Damn, he beat me to her
. I totally would have tried to get myself introduced, if you’d just randomly been at that party, not with him.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. You were the hottest girl there. Hot, pretty, cute, whatever. I would’ve probably drunk a little too much, trying to work up the nerve to ask you out, then had to leave my car there for the night and walk home.”

She giggled, charmed. “I’d’ve been honored. And I’d have said yes, if you’d asked me out.” Asked her out . . . Mica had never done that. Only asked her over. She
was
thirty, after all. A last taste of reckless abandon had been great, but she was old enough to think she deserved to be asked out. Taken on a date, wooed a little. The grown-up stuff wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t as boring as she’d let herself think it was, hungover from that last serious relationship. There was something to being treated like a woman and not a girl.

“Would you still like to go out sometime?” she asked him.

“I would, yeah, if you’re up for it. Dinner, dancing, walk along the river or whatever. And I’ve got about one big, impressive, break-the-bank date in me before it all dissolves into tacos and Netflix.”

“I like tacos and Netflix. I don’t get much fancier than what we did tonight. Until my gallery opening, that is—then I’ll be all about the champagne and a new dress and a manicure. But until then, I’m easy.”

“You’re great. I’d like to treat you sometime.”

With an expensive dinner and wine and maybe flowers, he had to mean, but she had other plans. “Treat me tonight, if you want. Right here, in this bed.”

He grinned, his eyes crossing charmingly as he studied her own smile. “Any requests?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. You’re really good with your mouth.”

“Whatever the lady wants,” he announced, already tossing back the covers, making his way down her body. He gripped her hips and turned her forcefully onto her back, making her laugh.

“You don’t waste time.”

“Not when I’m excited to reach my destination,” he agreed, and he fumbled beneath the covers to find and tug free her drawstring.

He gave her his mouth, those talented lips and tongue, the tease of his thumbs as they traced her labia, the thrill of his fingers as he eased two inside her, slow enough to invite a protest—she wouldn’t issue one.

She said his name. Whispered it, sighed it, moaned it as he brought her to orgasm after ten exquisite minutes. He didn’t need instructions, didn’t need assistance. She wouldn’t have minded offering up either, but it was a bonus that he didn’t require them.

“You’re really, really good at that,” she informed him, giving his arm playful slaps as he lay down beside her. “Like, crazy good.”

“I try.”

“Like, the best I’ve ever had.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa indeed.” She would have said a week ago that Mica had been the best, but there was something about Vaughn’s doing that . . . He wasn’t aggressive the way his best friend was. It wasn’t a scary-hot ride Clare held on for dear life through, but more of a luxury. A treat. He left her panting in a far gentler way, from pure pleasure instead of adrenaline.

“So,” she said, turning onto her side so their knees flirted once more. She stroked the sparse hair between his pecs. “Your turn. What would you like to do?”

“It won’t take much. Want to kiss, and you could touch me? And I could maybe touch your breasts?”

“Easy.” Refreshingly so. “Just tell me
faster
,
tighter
, whatever.”

She didn’t have to, it turned out. Just as when he’d given her head, his sounds and subtle motions were all the instruction she needed. They kissed as she stroked him between their bodies, and when his mouth grew distracted and moans began sounding from deep in his chest, she kept up that speed and intensity. He cupped her breasts, kneading softly, hips pushing his cock to meet her grip, faster and less graceful the closer he got to orgasm. Eventually he gave up on the kissing. He put his mouth to the soft spot just below her ear, breathing heavily, grunting as things turned more frantic between them. He said her name when he came, and she caught his surrender in her cupped palm.

After a moment’s recovery he pulled away with a sigh. “I’d be the gentleman you think I am and sacrifice my shirt,” he said, glancing down where her sullied hand was resting, “except I don’t have a spare.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Clare rolled over and left the bed, grabbing a towel off the closet doorknob. She wiped her hand, folded it, offered it to Vaughn. When they were tidied, she tossed it in her hamper. They flopped onto their backs with matching exhalations to stare up at the dark ceiling, striped by the streetlight sneaking through the blinds.

“Well, that wasn’t how I’d pictured this evening going,” Vaughn said at length.

“Me neither. I mean, I figured there was a chance I’d wind up having sex with you, I guess, but not like this.”

“No, not like this . . . It’s weird, but . . . Does this actually feel almost more crazy to you? Or is it just me?”

“Crazier than if there were three of us? Yes and no. Weirdly more exotic.” And other things—more intimate, more genuine. Mica might keep her on edge, but tonight had left her feeling vulnerable in a
completely different way. “Funny how quickly one adapts to having bonkers sex, I guess, that now third base with just two people in the bed could suddenly seem racy, right?”

“Exactly.”

They fell silent at that, but in the dark of her bedroom, Clare felt Vaughn’s warm hand envelop hers, then squeeze. She squeezed back. “Good night. Hope you sleep well.”

“You, too. Thanks for having me over.”

“Are you kidding? Thanks for turning my day around. You may not have gotten my job back, or fixed my delusional love life, but . . . this was perfect, really. The best possible ending to a truly shitty day. Or any day, for that matter.”

“Good. Glad I could help.”

She took a little leap of familiarity, turned onto her side, and slung an arm across his waist, smiling to herself as she did. “Sweet dreams.”

“You, too.”

She had no doubt of that. Though which man would occupy those dreams . . . Well, she still didn’t know that for sure.

I
f either Vaughn or Mica did indeed rule her dreams that night, Clare couldn’t say. She slept more deeply than she had in weeks, remembering nothing of her subconscious’s preoccupations, be they sexual or professional or of any other slant. She woke when the sun began slipping through the blinds, finding Vaughn’s body close but not touching hers. He was on his back, and she watched his chest rise and fall and admired the gleam of the early sunlight on his bare arm and edging his profile.

After a few minutes’ laziness she slipped from the covers without rousing him. The apartment felt cold . . . or perhaps she’d just grown too accustomed to sleeping alone in that bed.

She crept back into her room after a shower, finding Vaughn still asleep and the sun now well past risen. The clock said it was eight thirty. Had he said he wasn’t working this morning? She thought so but wasn’t positive. It seemed kinder to wake him than to risk letting him oversleep. Once dressed, she climbed onto the bed and knelt beside him, gently jostled his arm.

He feels good,
she thought, enjoying the warmth and heft of that arm, firm even at rest. When he didn’t rouse, she shook him again, a little more roughly. “Vaughn?”

Finally, those brown eyes fluttered open. He looked confused for a breath, then surprised. He sat up with a charming grunt and ran a hand over his short hair. “Hey. Morning.”

“Morning. It’s eight thirty and I couldn’t remember if you were working.”

“Not until late. I’ve got another overnight.”

“Then by all means, keep sleeping.”

He took in her clothes. “You look about ready to start your day.”

“Not at all—just figured I’d make myself presentable while I had the chance. Nobody wants to witness my hair first thing in the morning. I was thinking of making breakfast. Do you want to stick around for that? No worries if you don’t, if you need to head out.”

“No, that sounds great. Or I could take you out for breakfast.”

A warmth bloomed in her chest. “Maybe some other morning. I was looking forward to cooking, actually. I’ve got bacon, waffle mix, syrup, coffee . . .”

“Sounds good.”

“Cool.” She paused before going on, feeling silly, but also soft and pleasantly . . . exposed. Vaughn made it easy to feel those things. “Those are some of my best memories, all through my life. Making breakfast with my parents, friends, roommates, whoever. Just drinking coffee and talking until it’s pushing noon.”

“Let me shower real quick, and you’re on.”

“I’ll have your coffee waiting. Now, you always seem to be making mine, so remind me what you take.”

“Black with just a little sugar.”

“Done.”

She gave his knee a pat through the covers, then stood. “Come find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

Clare went back down the hall, greeted by the smell of coffee and also by Bree, who was putting in earrings by the counter and looking poised to depart.

“Morning. Heading out?” Clare asked.

“And running late.” Her eyes made an inventory of Clare’s outfit—not her usual day-off MO, which involved pajama bottoms until well after lunch was eaten, whenever possible. “You got a hot date?”

“Sort of. But I’m staying in.”

Bree smiled. “He slept over, didn’t he?”

“It was late. And raining.”

“Such the humanitarian you are. Did you guys . . . ?”

“We had already. I think last night we both intended to just keep it platonic, but . . . anyway. I’m going to make waffles.”

Bree snorted. “He must be good. You haven’t made
me
waffles since Ethan dumped me.”

“Jesus, I forgot about him . . . Med student, chin-strap beard—those two things should
not
go together.”

“Amen.”

“And I would happily make you waffles if you asked.” Clare smirked, pulling mugs out of the dish drainer. “And yes, Vaughn is very good.”

“Better than that mystery guy you were seeing?”

“Different. Just as good, but different. The other guy’s way too hard to read. Hooking up with him was like trying to get a cat to love you, you know? The tiniest little scrap of affection and you’ll feed the thing forever, but you have no idea what it’s up to for the other twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day.”

“Does that make Vaughn the loyal guard dog, then?”

“Nope. Just a grown-ass man. One who shows up when he says he will.”

“And an EMT,” Bree added, rifling through her purse. “Very sexy. Both upstanding and rugged. Plus, he can restart your heart if he fucks you into cardiac arrest.”

Clare laughed. “Jesus, just go.”

Bree came in for a cheek kiss, then shouldered her bag. “Be good. Not
too
good, but don’t burn the waffles.”

“I’ll try. Is your flavor of the moment still out of town? I’m home tonight, if you feel like splitting a bottle of wine and binge-watching something cheesy.”

“It’s a date. Later.”

“Later.”

A date,
she thought, assembling breakfast components. Were these waffles a date? Did Vaughn think so? Did
she
want that? Was she
ready
for that? She felt ready, felt excited. And maybe that meant she hadn’t had it quite as terminally for Mica as she’d feared.

Vaughn appeared shortly in a familiar ensemble and a nice coating of stubble. “Yesterday’s clothes look good on you,” she said, and set a coffee on the table for him.

“Thanks.” He took a seat. “It was fun, you know.”

“Last night? Which bit?” she asked, curious whether he was being gentleman flirty or dirty flirty.

He shrugged and tasted his coffee. “Running through the rain. Playing Clue. And other stuff.”

She smiled, pulled a whisk from a drawer, and tapped her lips with it. “Other stuff?”

He played it cool, just a tiny flash of a smirk. “Certain other
stuff
, yeah.”

“Well, good. Also, if you hate waffles please tell me now before I make a huge mess.”

“I love waffles.”

“Excellent. Check this bad boy out.” She stood on her tiptoes and
hauled the ancient ten-ton waffle iron from off the top of the fridge. It was vintage but barely used, straight out of the seventies and finished in key-lime green enamel.

“Wow, that is some serious machinery.”

“Eight bucks at a yard sale. It’s probably a fire hazard, but it still works.”

They shot the shit while she cooked, and Vaughn took over the bacon when it became clear either it or the waffles were going to burn if she kept up the happy-housewife charade. They sat down with steaming plates and tepid coffee, everything about this morning feeling easy and effortless.

Maybe I’m not straddling that exciting knife’s edge of uncertainty with Vaughn,
she thought, studying him as he poured his syrup,
but I’m also not going to drive myself crazy, trying to guess what’s going on in his head.
If she wanted to know that, she only had to ask. In fact . . .

“What are you thinking about?”

He looked up as he capped the syrup bottle, those eyes just about the exact same maple brown. “Not much. Mostly about how weird a thing maple syrup is, and what other things do we eat that seep out of trees?”

“What are the other things?”

“None I can think of.”

“Huh.”

“Why do you ask? Did I look worried?”

“Nope. It’s just been a while since I’ve hung out with a guy whose thoughts I feel like I stand even a tiny chance at guessing. Not that I had my money on edible tree seepage.”

He smiled. “He can be mystifying, I know—”

“Try infuriating.”

“I get him better than anybody,” Vaughn said, “and I still never
have the faintest clue what he’s got on his mind. Or even what he’s feeling, half the time.”

Clare speared a hunk of waffle on her fork and used it to shuttle syrup around the rim of her plate, lost in the task. Lost in her brain.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Vaughn prompted after a minute’s silence. “Or maybe an equal exchange, since I shared my riveting theories about syrup.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head, needing to clear it. Needing to shake that man but knowing it’d take a little time, still.

“Where’d you go, there?”

She sighed, wondering if the truth would make her sound fixated and pathetic, and fearing she knew the answer. “Can I ask you sort of a weird question?”

“Sure.”

“Does Mica ever call you by your name? The times you two have been sexual, I mean.”

“I don’t know that he’s ever used my name. Not aside from trying to get my attention from across a crowded room, maybe, but even that I’m not sure about.”

She set her fork down. “Really? In, like, fifteen years?”

“Twelve. And honestly, no. I don’t think he has.”

“Huh.” She sipped her coffee, feeling a little relieved, a little sad. “Well, he’s never used my name, either, if it makes you feel any better.”

“I didn’t notice it for ages, but once I did, it was hard
not
to notice. He does it to everyone. Why, I dunno. Some weird emotional block, no doubt, like it’s too intimate.”

“Ex-
actly
. Thank you. I wondered if it was just me or what.”

He shook his head. “Totally not just you. He withholds that for some reason. Some facet of his not wanting to be known, or not wanting to let people know they matter . . . ? Fuck if I know.”

“And if you don’t, nobody does.”

“I swear the only time you’ll hear your name from him is when it’s written on a coffee cup.” After a pause, he continued through a heavy sigh. “He’s always going to be a part of my life. Not sexually, not forever. Not once I find the right girl. It feels like monogamy’s getting kind of old-fashioned these days, but I like it. I like the idea of it, and I’m good at it. But Mica might always be my best friend, for all his faults. Can you handle that? Can you handle that if you and I go on a few dates, maybe even get serious? Me and him, sharing an apartment, knowing what’s happened between us? What would probably
still
keep happening, if I was single?”

Did he mean because she’d liked Mica herself, or because he thought maybe his fidelity couldn’t be trusted, with Mica staying just one door down? Either way, she knew the answer. “I can. He’s not my ex-boyfriend. We were only ever lovers, and I’m starting to let him go. Really. The spell, or whatever it is he does to people . . . It’s fading. I can feel it. And I’d never try to tell a guy—or anybody else—who they can be friends with. Plus, he never made me any promises. There’s nothing to have hard feelings about. I’ll just feel a little foolish about it, for a while.”

“The way he makes me feel saddled me with about six years of shame and confusion,” Vaughn said with a guilty smile, “so go ahead. I get it.”

She touched his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ve got anything to feel ashamed of.”

“No, and plenty of people wouldn’t . . . but my dad would be disgusted if he knew, and disappointed, embarrassed . . .” He was looking down at the mug in his hands as he said it, as though his shame was burning at the mere mention of the man. “I can’t help it. He’s, like, everything to me. Just because I don’t share those values doesn’t
mean it doesn’t sting, knowing what he’d think about it all. All I’ve ever wanted is to make him proud, and be even half the man he is. It’s tough.”

She nodded. “I get that.”

Vaughn looked up. “So, where do we go from here, Clare?”

She warmed all over at the sound of her name. It was an intimacy she’d been missing lately, even more than she’d realized. “I dunno. My bedroom?” She laughed, letting him know she hadn’t the faintest trace of a real answer to his question.

“You still think you’re up for us going on a date? I know it’s all backward and a little absurd, given how we hooked up to begin with, but—”

“Yes,” she said, cutting him off. “Of course I would.” In a breath she forgot about Mica—all she could recall was the feel of this man’s strong, solid body against hers through the night, his smooth voice in the dark, his hand around hers and his scent in her sheets and her dreams.

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

“A date with a man I already know is fantastic in bed and who treats me better than anyone ever has? Fucking
yes
, of course.” Maybe she’d gotten a taste for a more doomed and desperate flavor of romance of late, but she wasn’t stupid. Guys like Vaughn didn’t come along every day, no matter how they’d met. She was well and truly over her ex, and while she might never quit fantasizing about the memories she’d forged with Mica—and, indeed, Vaughn—she was quickly growing weary of his siren song, as well.

“Good,” Vaughn said with a decisive nod, and put a forkful of waffle in his mouth.

Better than
good
—a man eager enough that he was trying to pin her down now? What a revolutionary concept. She’d happily let him
pin her down in any number of other contexts just to show her appreciation. She’d like his company with their clothes on, she knew that already. She’d like being seen with a man like Vaughn, like the way he’d no doubt hold the door for her and refuse to let them go Dutch. He’d treat her with all the courtesy Mica had been starving her of, offer her the affection and passion Davis had always withheld, and she’d welcome it. “What kind of a date?”