Page 18

“We’ll fix it.”

He is good at breaking and entering. We’ve established that. I should definitely not look him in the eye. I shift so I’m staring at the metal torture device he keeps where other people park a nice, comfortable sofa.

The silence is comforting, but I can’t help but notice him anyway.

I have a thing for Ozzy.

And it pisses me off.

It may be a free world in which he’s a rent-paying, semi-law-abiding citizen, but I need him to leave.

I need him out of my space and my building.

I need…to delete all traces of kissing from my memory banks. Nothing good can come from this.

“I hate you,” I tell him.

I’m in a fury trying to make sense of tonight.

This week. My whole goddamned life. I can fix this.

I’m in charge. And yet I give up on contemplating the tasteful ecru paint job on his walls.

Instead, I do the worst possible thing. I’m locked out, running on no sleep, juggling my nightmare job, and I place the cherry on my own shit sundae.

I angry cry.

My eyes well up, and I stand there and cry in front of Ozzy Wylder.

My main engine comes online and I’m accelerating, rocketing at him, moving so fast that I’m not docking, I’m crashing. He mutters, “Whoa,” but his arms come around me.

Ozzy is a master hugger.

My hands hit his chest and slide up. I switch gears so fast that I am dizzy.

I wrap my palms around his neck and yank his beautiful face down to mine so I can kiss him.

My mouth covers his. Nope, nopity, nope.

We can’t have sex. Once he gets his penis inside me, it’ll be an open-door policy.

There will be no boundaries. I have to live next to him for the rest of my life. Or move.

I slip my tongue into his mouth anyhow.

He presses his mouth against mine. He licks away my tears.

He cups my face and kisses me back, swallowing up the angry words I itch to toss his way. He’s so, so good at this. His lips are warm and firm, so much fun in contrast to the annoying rest of him. I like Ozzy Wylder’s lips, to infinity and beyond.

He likes me back. He makes a rough sound as my tongue explores his mouth.

I’m inside him, under his skin. His hands cradle my face, his body bends over me.

I expect him to break off the kiss, to step back and tease me.

To declare himself the winner in this competition.

To yell Psych! He should. I would. Instead, he keeps on kissing me, pulling me closer against his big body and the enormous hard-on he’s sporting.

I kissed him for no good reason. Maybe to prove that I don’t want him for real. That we have no chemistry. That he’s just a pretty face that I can take or leave. But my body likes its new proximity, and it feels so good to let go and lose myself in the sensations.

My fingers tangle in his too-long hair. I pull it free from its stupid, stubby man bun. Use the glossy strands to tug him closer. His shampoo smells like sage and coconut. He’s sunshine and sex on a beach.

When he finally pulls back, we both breathe like sprinters at the finish line.

Oxygen is in short supply. I gulp it in.

I want to devour his mouth some more and then move south.

I want to get under his skin and under those stupid, sexy shorts of his.

But maybe he doesn’t really want to be kissing his hateful neighbor.

Maybe he’ll laugh now and point me toward the door and realize all the reasons why the two of us boning is the world’s worst idea.

Because it’s a terrible idea. Top ten worst ever.

He’s my neighbor and a jackass. I’m just a surf bunny. An Ozzy stan.

“I hate you.” I grab his hands, pushing up on my toes so I can reach his throat. Lick a path up his skin and latch on to his ear. “You drive me crazy.”

“And you talk too much,” he rumbles. Pot, kettle.

He solves the talking problem to our mutual satisfaction by covering my mouth with his. He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, teeth nipping, tongue stroking inward. I am on fire. I can feel every inch of him.

His hands roam everywhere because he’s a master of coordination, stroking down my arms, over my ribs, tracing the curve of my waist and hip. He squeezes, lifting, and then I’m pressed against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist. Ozzy has the best ideas. I hook my feet around his back.

Teeth nip at me.

I bite his bare shoulder. Lightly. Delicately.

I’m marking him. He tastes delicious.

I stare at the pale pink crescent I’ve made in his skin.

I’ve never felt this needy or this reckless before.

He’s not a casual hookup, someone I picked out on an app.

I miss that set of unspoken rules, the script for how sex goes, but this is Ozzy—he barrels ahead.

And there’s no time to feel awkward or unsure because he fists the hem of my tank top with one hand.

His other squeezes my butt. I hear him say my name. “Pandora.”

I look up.

“Can I take this off?” His cheeks are flushed—apparently, he does have some blood that hasn’t rushed south.

Pupils dilated, lips parted, he holds my gaze.

He’s leaning into me, angling his body toward me.

The hand holding me up squeezes, his thumb finding a tear in my pants and drawing circles on my skin.

He’s just as into this as I am. It’s astounding.

“Do it,” I say. And then, because I’m not conceding anything, “Let’s see if you can make me like you.”

He barks out a laugh. “Are we…?”

He’s taking too long. I jerk my tank top up, pulling it over my head. It flies off into outer space, and his hand cups my breast. I make a rough sound. Yes. Please.

“We need ground rules,” I say. It comes out more moan than words, which is his fault because, God, his thumb . His fingers are calloused, the skin deliciously rough. Is it all the surfing? I have no idea. I don’t care.

“Okay,” he agrees. He’s staring at his hand on my boob, his fingers teasing the swell, heading for my nipple. “Okay.”

“Once. One and done. We get this out of our systems.” It’s a solid plan—my usual plan—but the words get swallowed up by a needy whine because his thumb finds my nipple and it’s amazing.

And not enough. He adds a finger. Pinches gently.

I tighten my grip on his shoulders so he can’t let go without using his words. Which I need to hear. “Do you agree?”

Not that I think he’s going to be struck with eternal lust for me, but it’s important to be clear.

“Yes,” he groans. “And you’re really okay with this?”

“My body likes you, asshole.” I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging. Kiss him hard. When we come up for air, I add, “But if you say that you told me so, there will be consequences.”

He laughs. He’d thought about it.

I bite the tender skin beneath his ear, and he bucks against me. His dick bucks in his shorts. He likes that.

“Noted.” He exhales roughly. “So just to be clear, you want to have sex right now. With me. But only once.”

“Yep.” He still talks too much.

He also returns my bite with interest. His teeth press against my ear, move down my throat, pause at my shoulder. Holy crap, he’s strong. He lifts me up so he can feast on me.

“Is it negotiable?” His mouth finds my breast. Kisses a hot, sharp path. Sucks the skin just above the swell of my breast. “I feel like we should talk this out.”

New rule. “No talking.”

He looks up at me. Hazel eyes dance with laughter and something else. His mouth is. On. Me.

“Compliments? Dirty talk? A safe word!”

Heh.

“Do you need a safe word?” It’s important for partners to communicate, but I don’t think he’s inviting me to reenact Fifty Shades of Grey with him. My safe word is to use no words at all.

“No.” He gently bites down on my nipple.

My back arches. In my experience, boobs are the quick pit stop on a road trip, something to fly past and not someplace you’d choose to linger.

Ozzy makes me rethink that. He’s not interested in rushing, in getting on with the fully naked part of our hookup.

His mouth pays attention to me, kissing, nipping, soothing the erotic sting.

He kisses like there’s nothing else he’d rather do, and I don’t know what to make of that.

When he finally lifts his head, we’re both panting.

“Can we…?” he asks. Stops.

I’ve never seen him at a loss for words. He’s always the winner in our battles. He’s bigger, stronger, far more likeable.

“You make so much noise,” I scold him. He’s not chastened.

Something hard pushes up against me, eager to say hello.

“You keep me up every night. One of us has a job.” It’s humiliating how he’s always in the back of my mind.

He’s made a space for himself in my head.

I can’t evict him. “I bet you want me to notice you. Want me to come over here and take you in hand.”

“Great plan.” He exhales roughly. “Let’s do that tomorrow.”

“I have work commitments tomorrow. Tonight or never.” I sound more than a little dazed. Ozzy has that effect on me.

He shifts me effortlessly in his arms. Walks us both toward the stairs like it’s no big deal and he could carry me for hours. Across deserts. Through raging sandstorms. Is he like this with other girls? I’m not like this with other guys.

He kiss-walks us upstairs to his loft, muscles bunching beneath me as he climbs the steps like they’re nothing. He pauses halfway to the top, but not to catch his breath.

“Bedroom. Yes or no?”

“The asking for verbal consent is sexy, but why are you still talking?”

He curses and tosses me over his shoulder. We fly up the stairs. I pinch his ass, smack it once, too. I’ve never been into spanking games—they’re so much work. Ozzy has me rethinking my choices.