Page 99 of You're so Bad

“I didn’t know what to dream about. We can blame my lack of imagination.”

Then he lifts up, his mouth reaching for mine, and I lower on top of him, kissing him while I keep moving against him. And he’s right, it should be impossible to experience these sensations. I feel some of my darkness easing, the monsters slipping further into their cave.

My need for more of him—quicker—kicks in, and I lift my upper body up again, moving my hips faster. He groans and reaches toward where we’re joined, making sure I get enough attention where I need it. I push down harder as he thrusts up, and then I know it’s happening—I feel it sliding over me like a tidal wave that’s powerful enough to pull us both under.

“Give it to me, Tiger,” he says. “I can feel it coming.”

And with another thrust, it does. The pulsing pleasure grips me again and again. I must be grippinghim, because he groans and comes inside of me, the look on his face one of pure bliss. I lower down, both of us sweaty now, and kiss him.

He rolls me over, still inside of me, making me laugh, so he can pin my arms and kiss me deeper. His shorts go flying over the edge of the table, kicked by his leg, and there’s a crack as they hit the floor. He lifts his head to look, swearing.

“You left your phone in your pocket?” I ask laughing. “Don’t they cover that in Stripper 101?”

“I guess I wouldn’t have graduated,” he says, then pulls out of me with a regretful look.

“You wanted to stay in there.”

“As long as possible. Always.”

I reach down to grab his shorts and take out the phone to check the screen. I nearly do a doubletake, because the screen, while intact, has a lock picture of us. It’s a selfie we took last week at Murderland. We’re squinting because the sun’s in our eyes, but we look almost deliriously happy.

He shrugs when he sees me looking at it. “I figured Champ and Bianca would expect it, but I also don’t mind looking at it.”

* * *

We orderpizza to the studio, confusing the poor deliveryman, who can’t seem to decide whether we have a right to be here. To be fair, Leonard’s dressed in his workout clothes, and I refused to let him put those boots back on his feet. Ultimately, the pizza guy decides it’s not his problem and takes off with his tip.

We set up at a table in the atrium, which was designed so people can bring in their orders from the food trucks we’ve contracted to set up outside.

Leonard gives a whistle as he checks out the space. It’s lovely, with a gold-rimmed skylight embedded in the roof and indoor trees all around us. The gathering of wrought iron two-top tables and chairs look like they belong in a French cafe. Although I had my own tiny art studio before Sinclair got it into her head to start this place, it was a shitty little box of a room, and I was barely breaking even. This is a whole different playing field.

“Some place you got here,” he says.

Is this the kind of place he would have cased back in the day?

Probably. Sinclair’s a millionaire many times over. There’s discomfort attached to the thought, because even though I trust him, it occurs to me I’m trusting him not just for me, but for Sinclair. For Rafe. For Becca in The Paper Place and all the others.

Is it worth the risk?

I look at him, taking in the way his hair is curling at the nape of his neck, his bright hazel eyes, always mischievous but so often kind too, and I have my answer.

“You look mighty serious,” Leonard says.

“I take my pizza seriously,” I hedge as I open the box. We don’t have any plates and didn’t think to ask for any, so we eat it like that, right out of the box.

I tell Leonard about my idea for the Halloween event. He grins, saying he thinks we should dress as a tiger and her trainer. I counter that we should be a tiger and her prey, but my heart’s happy that he still intends to be here by Halloween.

And Leonard tells me about his talk with Burke, sharing more pieces of his past. I hate to think about him going through so much of his life alone, without anyone to have his back or tell him he matters.

He watches me as I close the pizza box. “You know, I intend to collect on that clay lesson I was promised.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Now?”

“What better time? Seems like I gave you a pretty good lesson on the male anatomy.”

I give his arm a shove, and he pantomimes falling out of his chair. “You really want to give your friend a clay rendering of your dick for his birthday?”

“What better gift, baby? He can mount it on the wall and hang his earphones on it. If you’re a good teacher, I’ll even make you one foryourbirthday.” His jaw tics. “And present it to you in front of everyone at the wedding, because hell, it’s your birthday.”

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