Page 26 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

Hadn’t I had the same thoughts, afterwards?

The massage oil, the home cooked food—he could’ve just gotten us McDonalds, for god’s sake.

I would’ve been happy with that. But no, it was a fancy home cooked dish from his homeland , that his grandma used to make him.

I could reason that he was an artist and presentation was therefore important to him, but would I have done half as much for a partner I proclaimed to love?

Well, yes. I had tried doing that for Jordan’s birthday last year.

Candles, flowers, the works. Gotten takeout from his favorite restaurant.

He enjoyed the food but the rest he hadn’t given a fuck about.

He said the candles were a fire hazard and blew them out.

The flowers he tossed, citing allergies and the fact it was too girly of a gift.

He’d wanted some limited edition album that had been sold out by the time I’d gotten around to buying it and he’d been less than pleased that I’d failed there.

Technically that was my fault—he’d reminded me repeatedly for days and days that it was launching and I’d just not done it.

I don’t know how long my arrangement with Luca will last but I’m going to enjoy it while it does, regardless of what Danika or Jamil think.

And I am enjoying it. I don’t know his motivations but I don’t need to.

I can figure them out—something about emerging from the loveless chrysalis of his marriage and finding himself an invigorated and passionate man with energy to spend on his young, clandestine lover—but it doesn’t matter either way. I’m reaping the fruits of his labor .

I am brilliant .

Although I question the wisdom of designing my own tattoo when I’m never satisfied with my own work. That might not be such a good idea—even though Luca was the one who suggested it. He doesn’t know that about me .

I tap my pen against my lower lip. That’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t be in love with someone you don’t know. Right? But we’ve known each other almost a month now, and lived together for about half of that.

I know Luca is a tattoo artist. I know he’s a little awkward and introverted, and stays home a lot other than the odd visit to the gym, and doesn’t have a lot of friends (at least, none he talks about or hangs out with often).

I know he’s very neat, much neater than I am; I’ve caught him cleaning up after me, the times I’ve left dishes in the sink or the cap off my toothpaste or towels on the floor. He’s a great cook, obviously.

And he’s sweet. Hot as hell. Great in bed; you wouldn’t know he’s out of practice. Enthusiasm makes up for a lot, I guess. He makes me feel sexy and wanted, no, needed , like he can’t get enough of me, can’t keep his hands off of me. At least in the bedroom.

Empathetic. That’s what Luca is. He picks up on my shifts in mood and tries to either alleviate them or encourage them, whichever way they’re going. He knows that I need it even when I don’t know it myself.

So maybe he does know me. A bit.

I puff up my cheeks and blow air through pursed lips, moving my hair off my face. I put the pen to the screen again and keep sketching, trying not to think about it. There’s no point, anyway.

The front door opens and Amelia’s through first in her little coat, and as Luca lets go of the leash, she comes over to the couch to snuffle at me. I smile and rub her ears as she digs her long snout into the crook of my elbow.

Luca whistles to her, and she returns to him so that he can undress and unleash her. “Hey there,” he says to me. “Did you eat yet?”

“I just ate out with friends.”

“Leftovers it is.” He tugs at the collar of his sweatshirt. “It’s warm as hell in here.”

“Is it? I didn’t notice,” I say.

I listen to him move around in the kitchen behind me.

Amelia returns to me for one last pat before she pads off to Luca’s bedroom, where she’ll nest in the center of his bed for the rest of the evening.

When the microwave beeps and kicks on Luca comes and sits down on the couch.

“What are you working on?” he asks me as I slide my legs into his lap, because I am nothing if not a whore for his attention.

Notice my nice long legs, fucker. “School work?”

“My tattoo.” I hand the iPad to him. “It’s only a rough idea, but...”

He props the tablet up against my legs as he inspects the design.

He’s quiet for a minute as he zooms in and out of the canvas, inspecting each element—the skull, the roses and their thorns—and I watch his face anxiously.

I don’t know why I want his approval so damn bad, but I do. I crave his validation .

“Where is this going?” he asks me at last. “Where do you want it?”

I stretch out my left leg. “Here. Somewhere.”

His answering smile is wry. “Where is here, Noel?” His fingertips brush the arch of my foot. I squirm and bite my lip because it tickles, grinning. “Is it here?” His hand glides up along the outside of my calf. “Or...” North to my thigh, stopping just short of the hem of my shorts. “Here?”

“Yes.” I have to clear my throat before I speak. “Sort of.”

“Then where? Show me,” Luca says. “And you need to stop chewing your lip. You’re shredding it.”

“Or what?” Because I just can’t fucking help myself.

“Or you shred your lip and it bleeds everywhere, I guess.”

“That’s not fun. ”

“No,” he agrees. “I imagine it’s not.” When I pout he laughs. “Noel, seriously. Where do you want this thing? It looks big.”

“I want it big. I told you.” I indicate the space between my hip and the outside of my knee. “Here.”

He pushes up the hem of my shorts as far as he can, exposing the length of my thigh.

“All of this? You’re sure?” His thumb grazes the skin just under my hip bone and I have to bite my lip again just to stifle the sound I want to make.

I can tell Luca is all business right now, no interest in flirting or entertaining me.

He seems to be memorizing it, the shape and lines of my leg, picturing exactly where the design will go.

I watch his eyes dart back and forth. “It’ll be a bitch healing,” he says.

“You’ll wanna wear something comfy for a couple weeks. ”

“That’s fine.”

He tugs the hem of my shorts back down, which is disappointing, and picks the tablet back up again. “Do you mind if I alter this a little?” he asks. “I just have some ideas I think you’ll like.”

I sit up and hand him the pen. “You’re the professional.”

“This is really good. But I think something like this will translate better...”

He starts sketching over my design and I set my head on his shoulder to watch.

I’m struck with that familiar feeling of envy as I watch him work, the same one as when I was looking through his Instagram the night we met at the club.

How effortlessly he improves on my sketch with a few bold lines here, some shadows there.

At the same time I could watch him work all day.

He really is an artist, there’s no doubt about that.

He’s trained himself better than a lot of my classmates.

“You wanted this in black and white?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking...” He shades the petals of the roses in red and adds hints of that same shade to the tips of the thorns, the horns of the skull. “This will really pop with the black.”

“Oh.” I lean forward. “Fuck yeah. That looks amazing. ”

And I like it so much better now that he’s put his mark on it. That it’s not just my work alone anymore.

He gives the iPad back. “Send this to me and I’ll finish it up at the shop, if you want. We can get something ready to go for you. ”

“When?” I’m excited now. Not just for the tattoo itself, but for the experience of being tattooed by Luca. Seeing him in his element. Being virtually branded by him. The idea is tantalizing and delicious and probably terrible but I don’t care.

He thinks about it. “Either first or second weekend in March, I think. I’ll have to double check.”

“That’s so far .”

“A week and a half,” he points out patiently. “Maybe two. It’s not that bad, Noel.”

Whatever. I’m done with the talk of tattoos, now that I know I have to wait so damn long.

I’m ready for the attention I’ve been craving since he walked in the door.

I toss the tablet on the coffee table and grab Luca’s collar, tugging him down onto the couch with me as I lay back.

He braces himself above me but I want us to get comfortable, so I move aside, maneuvering him into the space between me and the cushions where we face each other.

He doesn’t complain, just takes me in his arms and presses the length of his body against mine, our legs entwining.

“Hi,” he says softly, and he is so fucking cute. “Did you want something?”

If he’d been anyone else, I would’ve said yes. Because it’s easy to let things just lead to sex, and someone having sex with you means they want you in some tangible way. That you are attractive enough, worth something.

But then afterwards it’s so hard. Because then they’re done and they don’t want you anymore, and you realize you are the equivalent to a used tissue.

You are a living, breathing masturbator but more inconvenient, because you have all these needs too, and wants, and desires to be tended and fulfilled.

For some reason I keep making this mistake.

Throwing myself on people, begging, nay, demanding sex, and then becoming overwhelmed with revulsion after the fact. Every time it’s like this.

It’s not that I don’t want, because I do. It’s just that it’s not enough. It doesn’t fill that void.

The thing is, I don’t know how to ask for the affection I crave.

Never knew how to say just a cuddle. Just you.

I can worm my way into someone’s arms and see what happens.

I can butt up against them and see if they’ll get the picture.

Oftentimes, they don’t. Jordan either acted like I was a nuisance or escalated it to sex immediately.

And then anyone else was just...someone.

Someone random, someone who didn’t matter, and I didn’t want anything from.

I was in the business of being wanted , only.

But Luca is different. Of course he is. He didn’t care when I squirmed up into him the morning I made him coffee and he didn’t care when we held each other in the shower and doesn’t care now, lying here with me while the microwave beeps its insistent reminder that his food is ready and has been for some time now.

He lets me snuggle him and play with his hair; his eyes even slip shut, and he leans into the touch, like he enjoys it.

His bleached hair has no business being as soft and fine as it is, waving gently against his cheekbones.

The pale strands contrast sharply where they mingle with mine, our faces so close, noses touching.

I move closer and kiss him, almost experimentally, as if I’ve never done it before. I suppose I haven’t. I haven’t tried to kiss Luca of my own volition. It’s only after he initiates. I haven’t just gone and done it.

He’s receptive, though. More than. His lips part beneath mine as we kiss, open-mouthed, lazy and languid, and my fingers thread through his hair.

My tongue sweeps his, and he makes a sound in his throat, something that’s somehow both rough and sweet at the same time, not quite a moan but more like a sigh, and his thigh slides between mine.

My stomach is flip-flopping and fluttery, arousal but also something else.

Like the crest of a rollercoaster before the big drop, that split-second moment in defiance of gravity, except this is suspended, endless.

It’s different from anything I’ve known before.

I break away to rub my face against Luca’s neck and catch my breath.

He sighs again, his hand slipping beneath my shirt, palming my hip, my ribs.

My body arches into his touch and I press my mouth against the moth on his throat, tasting him before I butt my face beneath his jaw.

I want more, need it. This, my cheek swiping over his skin like I’m scent-marking him and his hand kneading the small of my back and thumb rubbing my hipbone.

His touch. Being touched. Just touched by him at all, I adore it.

Luca laughs suddenly, soft and breathless. “I haven’t done this in a while.”

“What?”

“Just making out on the couch like a teenager.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Of course not.” He nuzzles my hair. “Have you never just made out with someone before? Your teens aren’t that far behind you.”

I manage not to roll my eyes because of course he makes this an age thing. He fucking loves pointing it out and I’m not convinced he doesn’t get off to it in some small way. Older men love it when they’ve bagged something young. “Just laid around kissing? No.”

“Really?”

“I dunno. If someone started kissing me like this, we had sex.” Maybe that’s a little strange in hindsight. The guys I’ve been with didn’t want to just stop at kissing. To be fair, most of them were hookups, but Jordan was never particularly affectionate. Of course, I know why that is now.

“Hey.” Luca’s looking at me. I blink back at him. “Sorry. You just looked...I don’t know. Sad, I guess.”

“I’m fine.” I tip my forehead against his. “There is something I want, actually.”

“And what’s that, stunt girl?”

This nickname that at first bewildered me and then annoyed me I find is now growing on me. I smile at him. “For you to let me draw you.”

He heaves a sigh, the poor thing, and turns his face to look at the ceiling. He’s the most tormented man in the world, so utterly intoxicatingly handsome that someone wants to immortalize him in artwork forever. Woe. I just can’t find it in me to sympathize. “I don’t know.”

“I promise you I won’t show a soul. It’s just for me.”

“Will it make you happy? ”

“Extremely.”

He sighs again in the kind of way that makes me think I’ve won. And then he kisses me again, so I know it for sure.