Page 23 of Camera Chemistry
“Right.” Some of his bravado momentarily slips before he smiles again. “It’s a one-night thing. That’s it.”
‘Twenty-four hours,” I propose.
“Even better. I’ll cook you dinner. Then I’ll eat you out on my counter.”
My face flames. It takes effort to not slip my hand down my underwear. To relieve some of the ache building there. “I don’t need dinner,” I manage to get out.
“Yes,” Aiden says firmly. “You do.”
“Can I run home and grab some things? And I need to send your address to Lacey so she has my location. You know, because of the whole hooking up with a stranger thing.”
“Of course. Safety first. I’ll give you the door code, too, so she has it. Any food allergies?”
“Nope.”
Aiden grins and leans forward, a soft kiss pressed to my lips. This one is reverent, sweet. “Get ready for the best twenty-four hours of your life, Maggie.”
FIFTEEN
AIDEN
The shoot wrapsup forty-five minutes later. Maggie and I don’t kiss again, but we’re not cold to each other. There’s a mutual understanding in place; everything can wait until we get back to my apartment. We exchange phone numbers, and I give her my address as we pull our clothes back on. I tell her to call if she gets lost.
I stop by the market on my way home and pick up some things for dinner. On an impulse, I grab a bouquet of poppies, too, not overthinking why I feel inclined to buy her pretty flowers when I’m going to have her bent over a chair later tonight.
Now that I’m walking through my apartment, yanking off my coat and putting a fresh set of sheets on the bed, I don’t expect her to show up. In the time we’ve been apart, she’s probably come to her senses. Her friend probably told her it was a bad idea. It’s not entirely wrong; a night with someone you don’t know? It could be disastrous.
Maybe she only agreed because she was trying to be nice, to find an out from the conversation, not because shewantedto. Caught up in the moment of temporary lust, all rationality swept away.
Sure, her hands were tugging my hair and her breath was coming out in short pants. Yeah, her eyes fluttered closed and her thighs locked around my middle with a surprising amount of force. But, ending up outside my door in twenty minutes seems implausible. A fever dream, one I’ll believe when I see.
I dump a box of pasta into the boiling water on the stove and check the oven for the meatballs I bought because I remembered they are her favorite food. I’m not delusional; I’m well aware this isn’t a date. It’s two adults having a night together where we both get off and never see each other again. I still want her to be comfortable, though. Fed and warm. Relaxed. I want to peel off the lingerie she was wearing earlier with my teeth, but I also don’t want her to pass out from hunger. A couple of crackers at the shoot isn’t enough to last the whole night, and if she’s coming to my house, I’m going to take care of her.
I turn the burner down to let the sauce simmer. Checking the time, I swap the meatballs in the oven for a loaf of garlic bread. There’s only five minutes until she’ll be here—allegedly—and all of this will be real. Reallyfuckingreal.
My phone rings on the counter, and I snatch it up. Disappointment blazes through me when I see Shawn’s face on the screen.
“What?” I answer with unintended hostility. I prop the device in the crook of my neck and grab a spoon to stir the pasta.
“Hello to you, too. What’s got you all pissy?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to meet for drinks? Or hang at your place? Maven’s at Katie’s, right? I want to hear how today went.”
“I’m kind of busy.”
There’s a long stretch of silence before Shawn speaks again. I know I’ve shocked him by having plans. “With what?”
“I’m having a woman over, okay? And I don’t want you to say shit, because you’re going to make this a bigger deal than it is. We agreed to spend one night together. That’s it. So save the hopeless romantic diatribe. It’s sex. Nothing more.”
“What?” Shawn’s exclamation is so loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“I’m not allowed to celebrate my best friend getting laid for the first time in—hang on. Four years, eleven months and eight days?”
“You have a calendar that tracks when I last had sex? You fucking creep.”
