Page 56 of Better Luck Next Time

“You can start by kissing me, you jackanapes. How long are you going to keep a girl waiting?”

He opened his mouth to explain, to tell her what he’d been thinking, but they’d all be the wrong words, so he let himself do what he’d wanted to do all night. What he’d wanted to do since that day at Dottie’s. He kissed her.

It was a soft kiss first, exploratory, but Adalia lifted that hand on his leg—the one that had maddened and delighted him—and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him closer, and something inside of him shattered. He opened his mouth and she did the same, and as they were tasting each other, breathing each other in, she straddled his lap.

Groaning, knowing Adalia was feeling his arousal, which had been there since the first act, he wove one hand through her curls, bringing her closer yet, and let the other slip under the hem of her shirt, touching the soft skin of her back as their mouths moved together, tilting for better access, never satisfied. Adalia rocked against him, the sensation maddening.

She started ripping at his shirt buttons, making a little sound of protest in her throat, and he broke away for a moment, already missing the feel of her, and unbuttoned a few before pulling it over his head.

“Hey,” she said, her voice husky. “I was supposed to do that.” Her hand tracked to his chest, tracing the muscles. “Don’t you punch numbers all day? How does a guy like you get a chest like that?”

She said it teasingly, her fingers tracing the ridges of muscle.

“I get some of my best ideas in the gym,” he said, sliding his hand under the hem of her shirt again, lifting it up slightly.

“Fair is fair,” she said, grabbing the hem and pulling her shirt off. She wore a lacy yellow bra—a sunny blast of fabric—and he took a moment to just take in her beauty, her curls all mussed from his touch, her eyes bright and glimmering even in the dark, her breasts cupped in yellow lace.

“You’re gorgeous. If I had even a slight bit of talent, I’d paint you.”

She smiled, fingers still exploring him, and he leaned in to kiss her neck and started trailing a line of kisses down to her breasts. She wove her fingers through his hair, gripping—maybe the longer hair hadn’t been such a bad idea—and said, “Maybe we can get Blue to knit me.”

And suddenly they were both laughing, their chests pressed together, Adalia cradled to him.

When had this ever happened?

Never. He’d never laughed with someone when he was this aroused. But it only made him feel closer to her.

He leaned forward and kissed her again, wanting to show her how much she affected him—how much this meant to him—but the doorbell rang.

Which might have been fine if River hadn’t shouted out, “Finn? You in there? I see your car.”

“Shit,” Adalia said, “shit, shit, shit.”

She grabbed her shirt and shoved his button-down at him, and even though he absolutely did not want River to see them like this, he couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“What are you laughing about, you ingrate?” she said in an undertone.

“Don’t you suddenly feel like you’re a high schooler and your dad just walked in?”

“Trust me when I say we’re both lucky River isnotmy father.”

“For any number of reasons,” he said as they both pulled on their shirts, and they laughed again. A helpless, semi-hysterical kind of laughter.

“Finn?” River shouted again.

“Be right there!” he called back.

“Any other evidence?” Adalia asked in that same urgent almost-whisper, poring over the room like a forensic examiner at a crime scene. Finn did the same. There wasn’t, not really, but there were a dozen little things that would stand out to his friend: the single fuzzy blanket, discarded on the couch, the smell of eggplant parmesan that hung in the air, the two wine glasses on the coffee table. Those damn candles centered on the table.

But there was no way they were going to strip the whole house of any sign they’d been on a date, or a sort of date, and truthfully he didn’t want to. He wanted those things to stay after Adalia left, because they were the things that made his house finally feel full.

His glance fell on her again, on the beautiful mess of her hair and her swollen lips.

“Do you have a hair elastic?” he asked softly.

“Oh my god, I’ve got sex hair, don’t I?” she asked.

The way she said it, so blunt and forthright, like everything she said, sent a zip through him that made him tempted to forget all about River banging down his door. But then she was throwing her hair up into one of those inadequate little buns that let the tendrils spill out, and he shook some sense into himself and made his way to the door, flicking the light on when he got there. Blinking in it like a bat thrown into the midday sun.

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