Page 26 of I Love You, I Hate You

Owen checked Luke’s water dish and flopped down on the couch. His phone buzzed on the table again, reminding him of the text, and he sighed, hauling himself up to get it. He looked at the screen, blinked, and looked again.

His mind was playing tricks on him. It had to be. Or else someone was pranking him, because there was no way—no fucking way—this text was real.

(507) 555-3901

It’s Victoria. Don’t freak out, I got your number from your email signature.

Are you up?

Owen scrubbed his hand across his face, still not believing what he was seeing.Are you up?He knew exactly what that meant, and he knew she did too. Those three words had precisely one meaning. He was partially surprised she hadn’t gone with the even more informal and crypticwyd, but then again, she probably didn’t want to risk miscommunication. Because of course she was precise, even when setting up booty calls.

Are you up?He never expected to get this text from Victoria, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant. It meant she was 1) awake, although that wasn’t too strange since it was barely midnight on a Saturday, 2) awake andthinking about himat midnight on a Saturday, and 3) willing to hook up with him again, despite her stated intentions the other night.

It wasn’t that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. It had, and with striking regularity. But he hadn’t considered that she was thinking about it too, and all thoughts of turning in flew out of his head.

Owen Pohl

Yeah, I’m up

Direct Messages: Luke @Lukethebarnyardcat

@Noraephronwasagenius

When presented with a wide variety of choices, I am eerily good at choosing the worst fucking one.

@Lukethebarnyardcat

Are you me? Because this is very me

Chapter Ten

Victoria blew out a long breath.Yeah, I’m up.The four minutes between hitting send on that text and his response had been the longest, most excruciating four minutes of her life. She had stared at her phone for a solid twenty minutes before she sent it. This opened her up to him, put the power in his hands. She would be vulnerable the moment she hit send, and might remain so if he never responded. But she had been restless all day, unable to settle on anything. Day had dragged into night and by ten she’d given in and admitted she was horny. It took another hour for her to admit to herself her vibrator wasn’t cutting it because there was one person in particular she wanted to sate her urges, and then another forty minutes of indecision while she told herself it was unprofessional and stalkerish to call up his work emails and steal his phone number from them.

But it had paid off—or it seemed it would, rather.

Victoria Clemenceaux

Wanna come over?

She made herself turn her phone over on the couch cushion so she wouldn’t be tempted to track his response time. She had thought about offering to go to his place, but if she was going to open herself up like this she wanted to maintain some power and control. She picked at her cuticles until her phone beeped with a response.

Owen Pohl

Send me your address

After another long exhale she sent it to him, along with some instructions for parking. She’d hate for him to be towed during a hookup, if only because then she’d have to drive him to the impound lot. The more transactional they kept this, the better.

Victoria floated aimlessly around her apartment while she waited. She knew exactly how long it took to get from his house to her apartment—twenty-three minutes if there wasn’t traffic—and there was no point in looking for him any sooner. She put her wine glass in the sink and brushed a few minuscule crumbs off the counter. She cinched her robe tighter around her waist and considered changing to something more provocative, but in the end she decided against it. A bralette and boyshorts were perfectly sexy on their own, and her robe just dusted the tops of her thighs. She had some lingerie tucked away somewhere but she didn’t feel like wrestling herself into a corset just for Owen. Or maybe she wanted to see his reaction to her when she wasn’t madeup. It wasn’t a test, not exactly, but she was curious. Was he attracted to her as apersonor just as a hot woman he got to have sex with? Some men took a lack of makeup as a personal affront, like she owed them that time and effort. She wanted to see what sort of man Owen was, deep down. Did he want to have sex withheror with a woman who was perfectly coiffed at all times? She’d bang him either way tonight, but she wanted to know which type he was. For science.

She was considering pouring herself another glass of wine and bolting it down for courage when her intercom trilled atonally. The clock above the stove said it had been exactly twenty-seven minutes since her last text. She buzzed him in and unlocked her door, making one last haphazard circle around her living room because she literally didn’t know what else to do. Owen knocked and she called for him to come in.

The door clicked shut softly. Victoria paused against the back of the couch and met his gaze across the room. She wondered if he had gotten dressed when she called, or if this was just what he’d been wearing today, but either way, her mouth went dry. The navy blue Henley stretched tight across his chest, and his jeans were molded to his thighs, the powerful muscles there bunching as he walked slowly towards her.

Victoria gripped the back of the couch for support even as she leaned nonchalantly against it. “I take it you found it okay?” she said, as if this were a totally normal thing she did with Owen all the time, instead of something terrifying and blatantly unprofessional. Although to be fair, they’d blown past that line several orgasms ago.

“No, your directions were terrible; that’s why I wound up in Iowa instead of here in your apartment,” he said wryly, his eyes dropping to her breasts. She tugged the end of her sash and her robe fell open, the silk sliding against her skin. He groaned softly and rested his hand on the curve of her waist. His other hand rose up to tug the band around her braid free. She tipped her face forward as he unraveled the strands, his fingers brushing her collarbone with each stroke. “Before we get started,” he said, sounding more than a little dazed, “we should probably have some ground rules.”

“Ground rules, sure,” she said breathlessly. His thumb moved in a slow arc, back and forth across her side, and she threaded her fingers into his hair.