He was nowhere near done eating.
“Change of plans. A night and a morning and, maybe, an afternoon and, possibly, another night,” he amended and her eyes got softer as her hand slid up to cup his jaw.
“I have to work,” she told him.
“Call off,” he told her.
“I can’t. I own the joint.” She explained something he knew, that she ran her own advertising agency. “And things are a bit crazy.”
Things were always crazy for Lanie. The woman lived crazy. She thrived on it. If there wasn’t crazy, she stirred it up because she couldn’t breathe without it.
“Babe,” he pressed his body into hers, “told you, got more I want to do to you.”
He felt her shiver but her lips whispered, “Hop, I don’t—”
He cut her off with a quick kiss then lifted his head and asked, “Where are your keys?”
“We shouldn’t sleep together. Sleeping is bad. Sex is good, sleeping together is something else,” she stated and she was right.
He just didn’t care.
“Where are your keys?” he asked.
“Lady, we’re not sleeping, we’re resting then we’re fucking some more. Last time I’ll say it. Not done with you, got things I want to do to you and I’m doin’ them. Now, where… are… your… keys?”
She stared up at him, her gaze hot, her body bothered, shifting under his, and she whispered, “Jeans pocket.”
Stretching out to reach a hand to the floor, he grabbed her jeans, got in the pocket and yanked out her keys. Once he had them in hand, he went back to her and kissed her. He took his time, and it was wet, deep, and fucking brilliant.
When she was holding on tight and kissing him back like she never wanted it to end, he ended it. Lifting his lips to her forehead, he touched them there then dipped his chin and looked into her eyes.
“Rest, honey. I’ll move your car and be back.”
“Okay,” she agreed quietly.
He touched his mouth to hers, rolled off, grabbed his jeans, a tee, pulled on socks and his boots and made his way to the door. He turned back before he slid through the still mostly closed door.
She was curled in an “S” in his bed, pillow to her chest, cheek resting on it, arms around it, hair everywhere. Her bare back was exposed and he could see one leg and her ass in red lace panties. Eyes on him.
Fucking gorgeous, every inch, and she tasted and felt as good as she looked.
He returned her grin, slid through the door and went after her car.
When he got back, she was dead to the world.
He took off his clothes, dropped them to the floor and slid into bed beside her. Carefully, he turned her into his arms.
She didn’t wake. She just cuddled closer, her arm snaking across his stomach then holding tight, her torso pressing into his, her knee cocked and resting on his thigh.
This felt good, too.
She was right. They shouldn’t sleep together. Sleeping suggested something more. A kind of togetherness neither of them wanted. Sleeping like this with her, it feeling so good; it was, with everything else, enough to make you want a fuckuva lot more.
So it was good, Hop thought, that they weren’t sleeping, they were just resting.
On that thought, he fell asleep, Lanie curved close and held tight in his arm, her perfume all over his sheets.
* * *
Three hours later, Hop woke.
Lanie’s perfume was still all over his sheets.
Lanie just wasn’t in them.
* * *
That night Hop was stretched out on the fluffy cushion on the lounge chair in her courtyard, feet crossed at the ankles, eyes trained to the back door of the garage.
He had no idea how late it was. He just knew it was dark and he’d been there a really fucking long time.
Long enough for him to get pissed.
Or more pissed.
He heard her garage door go up and didn’t move when he heard its grind or when he heard the purr of her sweet ride moving into it. A pearl red Lexus LFA. According to word on Chaos, her father had bought it for her.
High class ran in the family. So did money.
He only moved off the chair when he heard the garage door going down.
He was on his feet when the outside lights to the courtyard that separated her brownstone from the garage came on but he didn’t move from his spot even as the door to the courtyard opened.
She strode out, sex on stilettos; tight skirt, tailored blazer that was unbelievably feminine, hair out to there; slim, shiny, expensive briefcase in her hand; trim, small designer purse over her shoulder.
A Cosmo girl tricked out in business gear.
“Yo,” he called when she shut the door. He watched her jump and swing around to him, face pale, eyes huge.