Page 36 of I Love You, I Hate You
“Talent,” she preened, but when he kissed her again she forgot to tease him. The way he kissed her—thoroughly, possessively, deeply—drove all other thoughts from her head. And when he pushed her back against the cool tile, his hand slipping between her thighs, she gave in to oblivion. She started begging—her, Victoria Clemenceaux,begging—for him tokeep going, don’t stop, don’t stop, please, and he chuckled darkly in her ear as she came.
She’d barely caught her breath when he lifted her in his arms, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist. He was already hard again, pressing insistently at her core. Owen stepped out of the shower and set her down on the counter, roughly rummaging through his toiletry kit until he found a condom. And then he was inside her, and just like always, it was perfect. She braced her hands on the counter against his thrusts and he sealed his mouth over hers. Her world narrowed to the feel of him filling her and his fingers on her clit, coaxing her to fall apart one last time before he did the same.
He nosed at the side of her cheek, huffing out a laugh. “I think I might still have soap in my hair,” he said, and she burst into laughter.
“We should fix that,” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth just because she wanted to.
Owen guided her back under the warm, soothing spray and handed her a small bottle of shampoo. He kissed her forehead and just like that they shifted straight into domesticated intimacy. She washed her hair and he handed her the conditioner, and then she twisted out of the water to let him rinse his hair. But through it all they never let go of each other. It was gentle and easy, and it should have scared her instead of leaving her feeling fuzzy and happy.
When they finished the shower, Owen left her to finish taking her makeup off with the easy familiarity of a couple who had been together for years. But back in the room, the image in front of her drew her up short. Owen was stretched out in the bed in a soft-looking Harvard Law T-shirt, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and a thick book balanced on his chest. She had been planning on digging her own pajamas from her suitcase, but instead she grabbed a shirt of his he’d left on the floor—he really was a slob—and shrugged it on. “Whatcha reading?” she asked.
“The Color of Money.It’s about income inequality and race,” he explained, sparing her a glance.
There was a second bed right there. They hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements because they really hadn’t discussed anything, but if she chose the open bed, the message would be clear. Here was another Moment, where everything balanced on a knife’s edge.
Victoria slid under the covers next to him and he lifted his arm for her to rest against his chest. It was like they did this every night, and it struck her that she wished they did. “Sounds interesting.” She nestled closer, arm possessively draped across his stomach, and waited.
“It is,” he said, and to her everlasting surprise, Owen started reading. His voice rumbled against her ear and he ran his fingers through her drying hair, slowly and deliberately, and Victoria let herself be lulled to sleep.
The last time Victoria spent the night with someone was the guy she saw for a few months back in her 2L year. They were never very serious, but she sort of gave it a shot, even though she loathed trying to fall asleep with his arm crushing her ribcage while the rest of him twined around her body like a boa constrictor. She would wake up sweaty and annoyed, and after their fifth sleepover she developed an “allergy” to his dog and stopped spending the night. A few weeks later, they were done anyway.
So, it was a surprise to her when she opened her eyes and snuggled deeper into Owen’s embrace. Normally she would roll away, maybe even get up and brush her teeth to avoid the awkwardness of trying to escape a morning cuddle. But this time, she simply buried her nose in the crook of his neck and waited for him to rouse. He did so slowly, with some muffled noises that made her bite back a grin.
She craned her neck up to kiss him, heedless of their stale breath, and opened her legs easily when he rolled her onto her back.
The phone on the nightstand rang with an earsplitting shriek. They both paused, looking into each other’s eyes, and when Owen gruntedfuck itshe kissed him deeply, glad they weren’t going to be interrupted. The ringing stopped, only to start again a moment later, and he groaned impatiently. He rolled away from her and slapped blindly for the phone. “Yeah?”
Victoria attached her lips to the spot below his ear that seemed to make him putty in her hands. “What about—no, I, uh, yeah. That—makes sense,” he stammered, distracted by her touch. “Yeah, do that. Yep, same card,” he said, and hung up.
She’d been right before. Kissing Owen with no plan besides just kissing was almost as good as the sex itself. His weight pinned her to the mattress and his hands skimmed her sides and they kissed for so long she could have sworn the sunlight shifted before they broke apart.
It was only after they managed to completely disentangle themselves that she remembered. “What was that about?” she asked.
Owen sat up and pulled on his sweatshirt. “What was what about?”
“The phone call?”
“Oh, that,” he said, leaning over and kissing the spot where her neck met her shoulder. “We missed checkout.”
“What?” She twisted to look at the alarm clock, surprised to see it was already after noon. No wonder her stomach was growling. “Did you get us a late checkout?”
“Nope,” he said, moving down to kiss her shoulder. “They didn’t have that available but don’t ask why, because I definitely wasn’t listening. I just booked it for another night.”
Victoria sat up straighter even though her muscles wanted to dissolve under his touch. “I have to get back to the Cities tonight, though.”And I didn’t budget for a second night.
“Me too,” he said, tugging the fabric aside to bare her upper arm to his lips. “But this will buy us a few hours.”
“I can’t—”
“You’re not paying for it,” he said firmly. “My decision.”
“Only because I was distracting you.”
“Yeah, that was a real hardship,” he deadpanned. “How about this—I pay for the room if you pay for room service.”
Victoria had never once in her life ordered room service. That was something that happened in movies where people worked as journalists but somehow had 2,000 square foot apartments decorated entirely from Anthropologie. Hell, that was something that happened when you stayed in actual hotels, something she hadn’t done until she was twenty-two, unless you counted the incredibly depressing pay-by-the-week motel she and her mother had lived in near Fergus Falls for a month when she was nine, which she usually did her best not to think about. What Owen was offering was hardly a fair trade but somehow she didn’t feel patronized. “Deal.”
Owen guided his car through the maze of downtown skyscrapers in the early twilight to Victoria’s now-familiar building, wondering how the hell he’d just had a perfect weekend with Victoria goddamn Clemenceaux.