Going for Broke: Oakland Hills Friends to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Friends with Benefits) (12 page)

A
t the end
of the day, Ian finished sealing the grout on the new tile floor and squatted back on his heels, wiping the sweat off his brow. Billie and Jane had gone to the paint store again. While he’d tiled the floor, they’d washed the living room walls and masked the window frames, or begun doing so. He’d known better than to suggest he pay for a professional crew to come in and do it all in a day or two. Neither one of them would’ve agreed to that. But that was fine. He liked anything that kept Billie within eye range. And her voice was nice to listen to also, especially when it said certain things.

Jane has always had good taste
.

He stood, brushing dust off his jeans, and checked the time. Just after six. If he ran home for a shower, he might miss the chance to have dinner with her. He’d overheard Jane mention plans with her boyfriend, so she’d be out of the way, and he wasn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by.

He’d just have to take a shower here. Not in the master bath, which would need time for the tile to cure, but in the smaller one off the hall. Before that, though, he’d order something from one of her favorite restaurants and have it delivered.

Soon he was showering inside the canary-yellow bathtub, sudsing up his hair with cheap apple-scented shampoo. The bottle was mostly empty, diluted with water to extend the last ounce, and he regretted having to use it. She obviously pinched every penny. If she’d let him—

First things first.

The water pressure was pretty good, considering the flow-reducing emitters the plumber had put in, especially after he turned the head to its massage setting. He’d always been a sucker for massage and remembered the look on Billie’s face when she’d rested in his recliner at work. He’d never tell her, but her new shower nozzle had cost more than all of the tile materials put together.

When he stepped out of the tub, dripping onto the bare peach-and-lime vinyl floor, he realized his mistake.

No towel. They’d cleaned out the cabinets, deciding to recycle everything after a few sniffs detected cat, cat, and more cat. There wasn’t a piece of fabric in the room except for his own dirty clothes. The toilet paper was tempting, but it was the cheap kind that shredded in your hand, not the fluffy kind advertised on TV with cartoon bears.

After shaking his arms and wiping off his legs, he went over to the door and peeked out. It seemed quiet. “Billie?”

No answer. He glanced back at his dirty clothes. He’d have to put them back on anyway, but he’d rather dry off first. The hallway was empty. His bag with a few clean shop towels was only about ten feet away, resting on top of the leftover boxes of tile by the door.

He reached it in three strides, grabbing the bag’s strap with one hand as his bare heel struck an exposed staple. Flinching from the pain, he pivoted on his good foot, hopped back to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him, heart pounding harder than it did at the end of a five-mile run.

If she’d seen him walking around naked, she would’ve kicked him out for sure. During their meal on Monday, he’d decided not to do anything until she was ready for it. One stolen kiss or a single night of forbidden fun wouldn’t be enough for him. This morning’s pillow assault had reminded him she didn’t like him making himself too much at home. This was her house, and he’d have to be more careful about respecting her privacy.

Exhaling, he found a small white towel, fluffy and new, and patted his skin dry. His heel had survived serious damage, as had his pride, and by the time he stepped out of the bathroom in his jeans and T-shirt, he was feeling pretty good. He went to the kitchen to mix a drink for Billie to have when she returned.

But she was already there, sitting at the breakfast table with a stack of paint samples in her hand. And she had a drink.

He paused in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you’d gotten back.”

Murmuring something he couldn’t hear, she lifted her glass and took a sip as she continued to flip through the paint samples.

“I hope it’s all right I took a shower.” To his surprise, he found himself lying. “I got some grout dust in my eyes. Had to wash it out right away.”

She nodded, still looking at the colors, and took another drink. “Jane went home.”

His hair, still damp, fell into his eyes. He wiped the droplets off his forehead. “I ordered Indian food,” he said. “It should be here any minute.”

“Sounds good.” She stared down into her glass, tilting it back and forth.

Her remoteness was making him uncomfortable. Wanting a reaction, he lifted his bare foot and studied the heel that had been punctured by the staple. “Do you have a first aid kit? I stepped on something.”

Finally she looked at him, appearing alarmed at first, but then skeptical. “Don’t you have your own kit in the hall? You told everyone it was there if they needed it.”

Smart woman. But he wouldn’t give up that easily. “I don’t have a bandage that’s the right size.”

Too sweet to suspect him of lying so blatantly, she got to her feet and went over to a drawer. “I have a box, but they’re the cheap ones. They don’t stick very well.” She turned, holding it out to him, eyes slightly averted, not moving any closer.

He walked over and grasped the box, letting his fingers settle over hers and then leaving them there, curious to see what she would do. Her skin was soft but cold, and as the seconds ticked by, her tension increased until he could almost hear the air thrumming with it.

He edged closer, turning his wrist so he was clasping her hand, not the box, and when she sucked in a breath but didn’t move, he slid his hand higher, stroking the tender skin of her wrist with his thumb.

That morning, when she’d said her sister had good taste, he’d nearly chased her down the hall and kissed her again, not caring that Jane was there.

Jane wasn’t there now.

“Ian,” she said, closing her eyes.

This time he wouldn’t let her get away. “Billie,” he said, capturing her face in both hands and crushing his mouth against hers.

O
h
, Billie thought.

It wasn’t really so much a thought as a breath. A sigh. His mouth was hard and soft and fast and slow, making her want to spend a lifetime tasting it. Hours and days and weeks of craving coalesced into a single moment, this lifetime in a kiss. Him. Here. This was what she wanted; he was what she wanted. But she shouldn’t—

He slanted his head over hers and drove his tongue into her mouth.

Yes
.
Oh God. Yes, she should
.

Billie lifted her hands to his shoulders and opened her mouth wider, arching against his body, inhaling all his scents—shampoo and sweat, soap and dust, Ian and Cooper.

“I’m so weak,” she whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth, the curve of his chin, the dimple. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“Billie.” His arms came around her, drawing her closer.

The sound of her name on his lips sent tendrils of fire down her spine. Was this really happening? She tunneled her fingers into his hair, glorying in the silky feel of the thick strands, pulling his head closer to hers. His stubble was rough against her chin, which she loved. She rubbed against him like a cat until he caught her face again and forced her to concentrate on kissing.

Their tongues met in her mouth, then in his. The rest of the world fell away as she began to vibrate under his deft touch.

If she’d been able to hold a coherent thought, that thought would be:
he’s really good at this.

But at the moment, all she could do was invite him in and cling to him and stay on her feet where she could get more.

She’d changed into a loose scoop-necked top before she’d gone with Jane to the paint store, one of her favorites, and under that was her good-luck bra, a pink, lacy garment that didn’t look like the sort of thing she would wear but always made her feel sexy.

Although not in the same galaxy of sexy as how Ian was making her feel when he broke away from her mouth to kiss his way down her neck. His whiskers raked across her delicate skin, sending tantalizing shockwaves to her core. She clung to him and let her head fall back, inviting him to do whatever he wanted as soon as possible.

The world faded away, leaving only the sensation of his rough fingers dragging across her belly, up her ribs, her arms—

He was lifting her shirt. It was lifted, it was over her head, it was flying through the air.

It was gone. She stood there in her bra and tightest jeans, too dazed to remember to suck in her stomach.

“Jesus,” he said, looking her over slowly, taking in every inch from her head to her toes, with a lot of delays in between. Finally his gaze rested on the pink lace and the erect nipples trapped beneath it.

The desire in his eyes undid her. She reached for him, unwilling to wait another moment, shoving her hands under his shirt and flattening them against hard, soft skin and then exploring the contours of his stomach, up to his chest, where she delighted in the thick hair she’d imagined.

“Promise me you won’t regret this,” he said roughly.

She grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted it up so she could taste him, lick him, smell him. Everywhere.

Breathing heavily, he caught her hands. His shirt fell back down. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say, ‘I’m not going to regret this,’” he said. “‘I’m not going to hate myself.’”

“You should never hate yourself.” She wanted to nibble on him but he was holding her too tightly.

“Billie.”

She gathered her wits. Would she hate herself? All week she’d thought about moving away instead of facing him and her family. But maybe that was the wrong approach. Maybe she had to live her own life and let other people live theirs.

This was her chance to be with a man who was worth something. Not money. The other stuff. All right, not
that
other stuff. The really important things, like character, intelligence, humor…

“Billie, please,” he asked tightly.

“I’m not going to regret this,” she said, knowing it was true. Whatever the cost, she’d pay it.

He pulled her against him like he had that day when he’d been angry and she hadn’t known why. They stared into each other’s eyes, chests rising and falling with their hurried breaths, saying nothing, saying everything.

Then he broke away, one hand still in his grasp, and pulled her with him out of the kitchen to the room where she slept, to the only bed in the house. There he paused, holding her at arm’s length for a moment before ducking his head and biting her shoulder. No, the bra strap. He’d caught it between his teeth and was dragging it down the curve of her arm, his whiskers and his breath leaving a trail of molten honey as he pulled. When he reached the crook of her elbow, his mouth opened, releasing the strap, and then he moved to the other shoulder, trailing kisses along her collarbone. His teeth dragged the other strap down. There he began kissing her skin in the tender corner, slowly, nibbling with his lips and licking her like a kitten with a bowl of cream.

Unsteady on her feet, she watched the top of his dark head as he made love to her arm, vaguely aware she’d never been so turned on in her life, which was saying something. Until now, sex had been a quicker, more hurried business. She wasn’t blaming any of her partners, either. God knows she was impatient and had no self-control, and wasn’t that exactly why she was standing here right now with Ian Cooper giving her love bites next to the little infinity tattoo she’d had since she was nineteen?

Oh, it tickled. Laughing, she pulled her arm free and tackled every inch of his six-foot-one frame to the bed. He grunted as she landed on top of him, then somehow flipped her onto her back before she could take off his shirt, which had been her primary objective.

“I was in the middle of something,” he growled, pinning her on the bed by the shoulders. His gaze fell to her chest. “This.”

Giving up on removing his shirt for the moment, she went limp as he ducked his head again and bit down on the lacy cup of her bra.

And her nipple beneath it.

It didn’t hurt, except in the way that unfulfilled sexual arousal hurt, which was probably why she cried out and began bucking on the bed beneath him as he nibbled and sucked. His hands remained on her shoulders, gently holding her in place.

When he turned his attention to the other nipple, she let out another cry and grabbed fistfuls of the quilt beneath her. Vaguely she thought it would’ve been better if they’d removed it first, since it was a pain to fit it in the washing machine, but then his hands were sliding around her ribs to the clasp of her bra and it was falling away, flying away, and he was there again and there was nothing between his mouth and her skin, nothing at all.

Fed up with the delay, she released the quilt and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and finally, heedless of her nails raking across his skin, lifted the shirt up to his chin. He leaned back and lifted his arms to free it completely, giving her a breathtaking view of his muscles flexing over his broad chest and arms, those triceps and pecs and whatever else they were called. She didn’t care; they were all beautiful. He was beautiful.

Suddenly terrified, she lowered her hands to the quilt again and held on for dear life. He straddled her, gazing into her eyes. For several long heartbeats, neither of them moved.

She was topless, and he was topless, but they both wore jeans. This thought seemed to strike both of them at the same time, because they simultaneously reached for their waistbands—he to hers, she to his. The confirmation that great minds really did think alike made both of them laugh, and the fear that had gripped Billie a second earlier vanished.

His dark hair trailed down his abdomen into a pair of sapphire-blue boxer briefs that later she’d ask if he’d chosen because they brought out his pretty eyes. Later. Now she wasn’t thinking about making jokes, only about the way his skin got softer just beneath the elastic band and how he groaned as her hand journeyed all the way down.

He broke away and removed the jeans and boxers as fast as she’d ever seen the maneuver accomplished, giving her a too-quick view of his muscled thighs and ass.

Like the view she’d had about thirty minutes earlier when he’d run out to get that little towel.

She’d tell him about that later.

The other part of him looked different than it had earlier. Bigger and better, in fact.

She was going to touch him and kiss him and have him inside her. Ian. Ian Cooper. They were going to do things and go places she’d sworn they wouldn’t. Because she was so, so bad, this turned her on more than she’d ever been in her life.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t do this. I have to do this. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Yes, yes, yes.

His gloriously naked presence had wiped her thoughts clean—well, not clean, exactly—and she hadn’t moved to remove her own pants. But he was on the job, handy as always, grabbing the fabric around her hips and jerking them with her panties down her legs and over her ankles. Her breasts jiggled around with the movement, which did seem to confuse him for a second, but he plowed on heroically, and soon they were both naked.

He climbed on top of her. He’d already opened a condom. “Billie,” he said hoarsely.

“Ian.”

He kissed her hard on the mouth, then moved back a few inches and looked into her eyes. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “You?”

His expression darkened. She felt his hand slide up her thigh and push her legs apart. And then his fingers were everywhere, stroking her, discovering how wet she was.

“This is for me,” he said, breathing hard as he caressed her.

She arched her back, pressing into his palm, tired of waiting. “Do it.”

“Ask nicely.” He wasn’t smiling.

“Please,” she said through her teeth. He was touching her, sliding in and out but not deeply enough, not nearly. Torture.

He pressed his mouth against hers, his tongue moving between her lips and opening her the same way his fingers were invading her below, and in spite of the inadequacy of these gestures, she began to feel the tightening, spiraling start of her climax.

“Now,” she gasped, writhing under him. She didn’t want it to end too soon.

Did he want her to beg? She could do that. Pride had never held her back. But then she realized he’d only paused to put on the condom, and she stopped herself from helping, not wanting to highlight her expertise in that area.

The next moment, he lifted his weight, settled on top of her, and thrust inside her.

Filled her.

Oh.

“Billie,” he groaned.

Was that her name? She lifted her knees and took him deeper, however dangerous that seemed at the moment. He was huge.

With another groan, he began moving inside her, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, her ear, her eyebrow, her nose. “I’ll try to make this last.”

“Don’t,” she said, grabbing his ass, stroking his thick, muscled thigh. “Just do it. Do it. Fuck me, Ian.”

“God,” he said roughly, shuddering in her arms.

“Harder,” she whispered.

“You’re going to kill me.” But his next thrust nearly split her in half. “Oh, my God.”

They stopped talking. He pounded into her, hard and wild, the way she wanted it. She wanted him as out of control as she was. Yes. Yes. More. They were wordless, they said everything. Their bodies were slick and hot, joining and fighting one another.

The flimsy bed knocked against the wall, faster and faster. She dug her nails into his powerful shoulders, squeezed him inside her, dared him to give and take it all. He met her challenge, riding the wave, shoving his hand between their bodies to make her splinter and spiral and finally, with him shuddering inside her, fall over the crest into happy, sweet, mindless release.