Page 8 of Sitting Pretty

“How about we kiss when it feels right and stop when it doesn’t?” She raises up on her tiptoes, tilting her lips up to be claimed. I have no choice but to oblige, cupping the back of her head and slanting my mouth over hers. She tastes like cotton candy, and melts like spun sugar in my arms, parting her lips and inviting me in.

I groan, sliding my hand down her spine to pull her against me, grinding my growing erection into her softness. Her tongue caresses mine, meeting me stroke for stroke, and fuck, I need to stop this before it goes too far. I don’t want to rush into sex with Aila—but I’m not sure how I’m going to resist her either.

I suck her bottom lip into my mouth and smack her ass before taking a step back. “Damn, woman.”

She rests her fingers on my waistband and looks up at me through her lashes. “I thought a kiss would take the edge off, but I guess not.”

“I guess not.”

“What should we do about it?”

I sigh and press my lips to her forehead. “We should get ourselves in public, so I have no choice but to behave myself.”

“I guess that’s okay. Especially since you didn’t say I have to behave myself, too.” She giggles and throws me a flirty wink as she takes a step back and grabs her purse off her kitchen table.

I shake my head and follow her out, forgoing the tour for now, my attention divided between my aching cock that I doubt will go down soon and the feel of her full lips, which are even better than I had imagined.

4

AILA

“Do you like live music?” Lucas holds my hand as we pick at the chocolate mousse cake in the middle of the table. I’m pretty sure our waiter hates us, as we’ve occupied one of their stations for over three hours, talking about our childhoods, siblings, career aspirations, and dreams. I learn Lucas still lives at home with his single mom, and will until his sister graduates and his mom can handle the mortgage on her own.

He seems almost embarrassed by the admission, which is stupid considering he’s been the man of his house since he was fourteen. I find him inspiring. He grew up with even less than I did—we were lower middle class—but he hasn’t let it hold him back. I have my suspicions about what he’s done toget byconsidering how territorial his female client was at the fitness resort, but honestly, what he did before me isn’t my problem.

I only need to be concerned with what he does while he’s with me.

I wonder if he’d tell me the truth if I asked?

“I love live music.”

He offers me his fork; the tines coated in ganache. “My friend Kirian sings for the house band at Hangry Henry’s Hideout. It’s always a good time.”

“Sounds perfect.” I wrap my lips around the chocolaty goodness, moaning low in my throat—more for his benefit than as an appreciation for the confection. His eyes flash with heat, and the corner of his lips quirk with a knowing tick.

He puts the fork down and waves the check over his head, as if he’s suddenly in a hurry to leave. “We should go.”

A few minutes later, Lucas is walking me out of the restaurant while holding my hand in a possessive grip. We pass a couple of tables, women stopping with food hanging in mid- to ogle Lucas, their eyes popping wide when they land on me.

I would be annoyed, but I catch a couple of their men checking me out, too, so they can bite my ample-sized ass.

And let’s be honest—Lucas looks amazing in a simple T-shirt stretched tight across his expansive chest and form-fitted jeans. If I weren’t the one with him, I’d be dropping a forkful of pasta carbonara in my lap, too.

He walks me to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door, helping me step up into the expensive cab with its leather interior that rocks a new car smell.

“This is a really nice truck,” I say.

A slight blush hits his cheeks, and he nods before closing my door.

We’re driving toward the south side when he clears his throat and turns the music down. “I should warn you before we get there. I went to high school with all the bandmates, so you might hear a thing or two about me.”

“Oh.” I rub my hands together. “What things? Were you the high school dealer or something?”

He chuckles and ducks his head. “No. I couldn’t risk doing anything that would get me arrested and taken away from my mom and sister, but I was a go-getter. Anything to make money. When I wasn’t in school or wrestling, I was working odd jobs. Roofing, tile setting, landscaping, flooring—whatever paid well and under the table.”

“You’re a hustler,” I state rather than ask, a sly smile on my face.

He snorts. “Actually, that’s my nickname.”

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