Page 40 of Getting Lucky Number Seven

He covered my hand with his. “No matter what happens, we’re friends first. I hope you know how much having you in my life means to me.”

Happiness bubbled up in me. I turned so that I could rest my chin on his chest and look into his handsome face. “Well, you’re not much for talk of feelings…”

He shrugged a cute, what-can-you-do shrug.

“But right back at you,” I said.

“Good. Now that that’s settled…” He pushed me over to lay flat on my back and then rolled onto his side. “I didn’t get long enough to worship your naked body.” My skin burned every place his gaze touched. “You have the most amazing boobs.” He kissed the top of each one, his whiskers lightly brushing my skin and sending a swarm of butterflies through my belly. “I could write a sonnet about them.”

“Iambic pentameter and fourteen lines even?”

His eyebrows drew together. “That’s what a sonnet is?” he asked, and I nodded. “No, screw that. How about an ode? Are there rules to odes?”

I laughed. “It depends if you’re going Greek ode with three stanzas, but I think the term is used more loosely nowadays, if you’re looking to go for the lazy version.”

“Definitely the lazy one.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “Love that you know that, by the way.” He cleared his throat. “Ode to Lyla’s boobs—wait, I don’t want to sound too crass. Let’s go with Ode to Lyla’s Breasts.”

“Much classier,” I said with a laugh. My stomach growled and I quickly put my hand over it. “Just ignore that.”

“I think that means it’s movie and ice cream time.” Beck got out of bed, pulled on a pair of boxer briefs and his jeans, and picked up a shirt off the floor. “Don’t bother with pants. We’re going super casual for movie night tonight.”

I stood and stopped him as he started to pull the shirt over his head. “Then don’t bother with a shirt.”

“Deal.” Beck lifted it off and then put it on me. When we got to the living room, I grabbed the bag I’d brought and pulled on my underwear. Then I headed to the kitchen, where Beck was dishing up ice cream.

I watched the muscles in his back move as he fought with one of the cartons—must’ve been frozen solid. I bent down and kissed the large bruise running down his side and he shot me a sidelong glance. “Maybe that’ll make it better,” I said.

Beck handed me a bowl with cookies and cream ice cream and nudged the chocolate sauce toward me. I wondered if that meant no kissing outside of sex time. Friends didn’t do that, right? Then again, it wasn’t his lips.

Which I was now thinking about gliding down my skin. Time to start making my own boundaries to stay in line with my goal of temporary fun and no expectations, and to keep from getting hurt. I wasn’t even sure we would have sex again. But I knew one thing for sure. Getting lucky number seven crossed off the list was something I’d most definitely never forget.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Beck

After weeks of no sex and hardly being able to think straight when I was with Lyla, my mind was finally clear again. Even better, I now got to kick back with my friend and enjoy a movie and ice cream, no pressure. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d watched a movie with a chick I’d slept with.

We settled onto the couch and I turned on the newest Fast and Furious movie, waiting for her protest. On cue, she shot me a look. “There’re at least as many hot guys as hot girls in it,” I offered.

She pressed her lips together, moving them to one side and then the other. “Fine.”

I wanted to kiss her, but that seemed too much like a boyfriend move. If this was going to work, I needed to create boundaries. Friend time versus sex time. When she shivered, though, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled her legs onto my lap and leaned over them to try to warm her up. And maybe so I could feel her soft skin against my bare chest again.

When I set my bowl down on her thighs, she squealed.

“Cold!”

I tapped the bowl on her other leg before setting it down on my coffee table. As the movie wound down and Lyla shook her head and muttered about how anyone with a basic knowledge of physics would realize the move they’d made jumping from one car to another would be impossible on several levels, I fought the urge to kiss her again—she looked damn sexy in my shirt.

Instead, I turned off the TV and patted her knee. “Didn’t you say something about tattoos? You want me to check them out, or do you want to do that another time?”

She glanced at her phone. “It is getting kind of late. Guess we’ll save it for next time.” She swung her legs off me and got dressed, facing away, suddenly shy—I was going to have to cure her of that. If we ever did this again, that is. She took a pencil out of her bag, wound her hair into a bun and stabbed it through, then handed me my shirt. “Maybe Wednesday after your hockey practice? Then you can help me figure out what to get and where, and we can find a parlor with lots of good reviews.”

Yeah, that wouldn’t keep me up tonight thinking about every inch of her skin at all.

…

Three nights later, Lyla showed up at my door wearing a cream dress with colored stitching that ended mid-thigh. Tall brown boots came up over her knees, leaving only a few inches of skin exposed. It was her old style, but modern at the same time, and without hiding her body. As I took her in, the only thing I could think about was running my hands through her fiery hair and then sliding them up that tiny skirt so that I—

---