One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,59

body. I shudder with every thrust, every move.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I open my eyes, and I gasp.

He’s staring at me, desire blazing across those dark eyes. “This,” he rumbles.

“I know,” I gasp.

“I fucking know too.”

That’s all we say. Because he’s watching me, gazing at me with so much intensity. His passion—it’s who he is. But now, I feel that passion for me. In how he stares at me, touches me, talks to me.

Wants me.

With everything he has.

My heart slams against my chest, thundering powerfully.

Because I can see something else in his eyes too.

This isn’t the start of something.

No, this started a long time ago.

For both of us.

The trouble is, I don’t want to lose him for another ten years.

And I’m grateful, damn grateful for the orgasm that grips me, tugs me under, and ricochets through my body.

Blotting out all the emotions I haven’t a clue what to do with.

23

Lucas

She looks good in my T-shirt.

Hell, she looks good in everything, including my home.

She’d look good in my life.

No, she looks great in my life, and I don’t want to see her out of it again.

It’s nerve-racking. The last time I felt this way was with her, and look what happened.

We combusted, splintered into shards, and we’ve only begun to put the pieces back together, and that’s only because we were forced to.

That’s what happens when emotions take over. They break you apart.

The bags of clothes in the living room are a reminder that feelings this intense lead to arguments and splits, to makeups and breakups, and maybe even to capricious landlords scattering your things all over the tri-state area.

That’s why I’ve wisely avoided entanglements all my adult life, and keeping those blinders on has served me well. I have this sweet apartment, a growing business, and a healthy client list.

What I don’t have are the hassles and headaches that inevitably come with a relationship.

Something Lola doesn’t seem to want either, based on our conversation at The Cousin Sanctuary.

That’s why it’s a damn good thing we both know sex doesn’t change anything, no matter how stupendous it is.

When we’re fully dressed post-shower—her in her jeans and a shirt of mine that says If you can’t play nice, play lacrosse, and me in jeans and a gray shirt—she scans the walls of my apartment, landing on a Pollock print.

She points at it. “Hey! You still like Pollock.”

“I do. It makes me think about whether abstract art can represent a thing,” I say, recalling our conversation when we first encountered each other.

“I think it can,” she says thoughtfully.

“Me too. I like to think this piece represents . . . a lacrosse stick.”

She laughs. “You and lacrosse.”

“I love it. No matter what. In fact, I have practice tomorrow.” Those are two things that work well in my life—sports and friendship. “You should come to a game sometime.”

She arches a brow. “Be your cheerleader?”

I smile and nod at her, loving that idea. Then my gaze drifts to the Pollock. Right now, it represents something else. It’s my reminder that we started as friends the day we met, and we can stay friends now, no matter what else happens.

I clear my throat. “So, I guess we don’t smell like llamas anymore.”

“Group shower for the win,” she says with a pump of her fist and a glint in her eye.

I rub my palms together. “Ready to tango?”

Before she can answer, both our phones buzz, a second apart. I grab mine and click on the text from Rowan.

Rowan: Settle this for us. Do I look more like a llama or does Luna?

An image follows of the two of them making animal faces—or so I surmise.

Rowan: Luna says I look like an alpaca. I think she does, but she keeps insisting I’m the alpaca! But that’s nuts, right? She does. She totally does.

Shaking my head, I hit reply.

Lucas: Before you venture down this rabbit hole, are you sure “alpaca” is a compliment?

Rowan: Dude! I love alpacas. Love them so madly they’re all I think about sometimes.

Rowan: Also, that was hyperbole.

Rowan: But I do love them madly. I should write a simile song about loving Luna like I love alpacas.

Rowan: One more thing. I fucking love you like an alpaca too. But brotherly alpaca love, know what I mean? Also, cell service is spotty again! See you later.

Lucas: And I love you like a llama.

I close the text and look at Lola, who’s smiling as she types.

“Luna?” I ask.

She nods. “They’re arguing about—”

“Alpacas and llamas,” I finish, imagining the other