“I like it,” I say, too loudly, and my voice hitches a little. Because, fuck, I do like it. I like his hands and his mouth and the way his fingertips skim the waistband of my shorts.
Pulling back, he grins and studies my face. His hand dips lower, his knuckles grazing the fabric between my thighs. “Me too,” he whispers.
I dressed for comfort, but if I could have a redo, I’d put on skimpy lace panties and a skirt. I adjust my stance, shifting into his touch.
“Tell me you’ve thought about me this week. About this.”
So much. Too much. “Maybe a little.”
His grin turns lopsided, cocky, but his words are loud enough for Smithy to hear when he says, “I’m thinking gray on the wardrobe.” He turns his hand and slides it into my shorts, hovering just above the spot where I ache for him. “Would you like that?”
“I might.” I thread my fingers into his hair and watch him through my lashes. “I guess it depends on the execution.”
“I think I’ve proven I have skills in this area.” He finds my center, then draws light circles. “I promise you’ll be satisfied.”
Downstairs, Smithy’s singing along with Britney Spears and probably completely oblivious to everything we’re saying, even the part of this conversation we’re having for his benefit.
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” I say, but I ruin my bravado with a gasp when his fingers slip inside my panties. He holds my gaze as he glides his fingertips over my slick flesh. Kace’s eyes are dark, and his pulse thrums wildly at the base of his neck.
“Stella, didn’t you need to get moving?” Smithy calls from downstairs.
Shit. “Study group,” I blurt, trying to get my brain working again. “I have study group.”
Kace lowers his mouth to mine and sucks my bottom lip between his teeth. When he steps back, his eyes are dark and all over me. “Think about me,” he whispers. “Then keep next Wednesday night free for me.”
I swallow. “I work until eight on Wednesdays.”
“Then you’d better prepare yourself for a late night.” He brings his fingers—the fingers that were just touching me so intimately—to his mouth and sucks them clean. Winking, he turns toward the stairs. I want to yank him back and beg him to finish what he started, but I have study group at nine and a chemistry test I need to ace, so I’ve no choice but to follow on trembling legs.Chapter FourteenStellaAs fun as this morning with Kace was, my day went south pretty fast when I proceeded to bomb my first chemistry test, then struck out again on the roommate hunt. Meanwhile, Mr. Mixed Signals hasn’t messaged me via text or Random all day, and I feel a little weird about it, even though the rational part of my brain keeps reminding me that I saw him less than nine hours ago.
Luckily, Smithy’s is my favorite place in the world, and the second I walk in the door on Friday night, I feel lighter.
“Stella!” Smithy calls from behind the lacquered walnut bar. I remember when Dean and Kace helped him refinish and install that piece. Before that, a Formica counter stood in its place. “Whatcha drinking tonight, beautiful?”
I force a smile for the sake of my favorite bartender and slide onto a stool, hanging my purse on the hook beneath the bar. “Vodka soda?” It comes out like a question. The truth is, this week’s been a great reminder that I shouldn’t be wasting money on drinks, but roommate hunting in Orchid Valley is worse than dating here, so I’ve earned it.
Smithy prepares my drink and drops a lime in without asking. He knows me well. “What’s bringing you down, beautiful?” he asks, leaning on the bar. “Did you get stood up?”
I take a sip from my glass, and my eyes go wide. Hello, vodka, and God bless Smithy for making this one so strong. “Nope. I’m still looking for a place to stay.”
“I thought you were moving in with Matthews.”
I frown. Pool-house life is looking more and more likely. “I’d rather not take advantage of his generosity for longer than necessary, but I don’t know if I’ll have any other options.”
Smithy bobs his head. “Apartment hunting’s a bitch if you’re on a budget.”
I grunt at the understatement of the century. “I’ve been looking all week with no luck.” That’s not one hundred percent true. Someone named Taylor ran an ad looking for a roommate, stating “only females need apply.” The place was great and the price reasonable. Except “Taylor” was a middle-aged balding guy who barely looked away from my tits the entire time I toured his apartment. Hard pass.
“You could move in with me,” Smithy says.
I laugh. Smithy lives in a gorgeous condo with a view of Lake Blackledge, but it’s a one-bedroom. “And sleep where?”