Not Until You: Part III (3 page)

My throat was knotted and dry, the post-danger rush of adrenaline filling my veins. But I managed to nod. “Sure, yeah, I promise.”

He gave a swift, matching nod. “Good. Thank you.”

I stared at him for a few long moments, the from-a-distance crush I’d had for him before Friday night now morphing into a desperate longing inside my chest. I wanted to step forward, press against him, loosen that tie from around his neck and wipe that tense expression off his face. But everything about him said I wasn’t invited. I tore my gaze away to glance toward my apartment door. “Well, I better get going.”

“Cela . . .” he said, his gentle tone tearing into me.

God, why did that make me want to cry? What the hell was wrong with me? I’d seen Pike in the hallway earlier when I was heading out, and it hadn’t been like this at all. I forced my gaze back to his. “So is this where we have the awkward ‘let’s still be friends’ conversation?”

He frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“Right. So if I asked you over for dinner . . .”

He glanced away, his guilt like a fog invading the small hallway.

I shook my head, more disgusted with myself for asking the question than his response. “See you around, Foster.”

Before he could respond, if he had even planned to respond, I unlocked my door and shut him out.

The stupid tears came then.

So much for not getting my feelings involved.

Epic, one-night-stand fail.

Chapter 13

Foster lay in his bed in the dark, staring holes into the ceiling. The fan was on high, the chain
clink-clink-clinking
against the base, but he was still too hot and restless to sleep. He’d heard Cela come into her room about an hour earlier. The TV had gone on for a while, then off again. So he was all too aware that she was right there, beneath the sheets, barely a foot behind his head.

It’d been two days since he’d done everything wrong in the hallway. Now he was convinced she was avoiding him as much as he was avoiding her. It was juvenile of him. He’d never avoided a woman he’d slept with. Not even Darcy after she’d ripped his goddamned guts out. He’d had awkward before, but never had he experienced the brutal assault on his restraint that Cela caused. Being anywhere near her flipped all his fucking switches. When he’d seen her with that scumbag, Gerald, he’d been ready to kill the guy for even daring to breathe on Cela. He hadn’t even had time to form full thoughts—all he’d seen was red. It’d taken all he had to give Cela a chance to come willingly instead of simply picking her up and hauling her over his shoulder so he could get her safe as soon as possible.

Then in the hallway, she’d gone pale, shaken by the news of Gerald’s background. Everything about her had called to Foster. He’d pictured himself crowding her space, kissing away that fear, and dragging her into his apartment to make her forget about it all. But he’d stayed glued to the spot and had turned down her invite to come over. His knuckles had ached from clenching his fists so hard to hold himself back. After she’d gone into her apartment, he’d stood in the hallway for a full five minutes, staring at her fucking door.

Pathetic.

He rolled onto his side, yanking the sheet off his legs and closing his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. But the loud
ding
of his phone had him lifting his head. “What the hell?”

He grabbed for his phone, pawing around in the dark, and flipped it over. A text message. He sat up on his elbow.

For the love of God please turn off whatever is making that annoying sound.

He blinked, once, twice, shocked at the name of the sender. He peeked at the wall behind him, then tapped a message back.

Sorry. Crappy Fan. Will turn off.

He climbed out of bed and hit the switch. His phone dinged again.

Thx. Hope I didn’t wake you.

He sank back onto his pillows, hearing the words as if they were said in that spice-laced voice of hers. He typed back.

No. Can’t sleep.

He held the phone in his hands, wondering if she was going to respond, half hoping she would, but knowing this was merely a neighborly transaction—the modern equivalent to banging on someone’s wall and telling them to keep the racket down.

When nothing appeared on the screen, he reached over to set the phone back on the bedside table. But as soon as he put it down, the perky noise filled the silence again.

Count sheep?

He chuckled and tapped back a message.

Those bastards fell asleep hours ago. Got tired of all that jumping.

There was a soft sound from her side of the wall. Had he made her laugh? The thought warmed him. His phone dinged again
.

I could sing you to sleep.

He stared at the words, not registering them for a moment. It was so out of the blue that he didn’t know how to react. He typed back:

U sing?

Former choir girl. :)

Of course you are.

Watch the virgin jokes, smartass.

He laughed out loud, knowing she could probably hear it on her side of the wall. Somehow being in the dark, having that thin barrier of drywall and wood between them made it all easier, lifted some of the weight from the last time they’d seen each other.

I’d love to hear u sing.

There was a long pause before her reply, but when it came, it was a simple one.

OK.

He could almost sense her taking a deep breath, building up her nerve. Then, as if putting a needle to a record, the slightly muted sound of her voice leaked through the walls. A low, haunting melody filled his ears, and he involuntary closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t miss any of it. He couldn’t pick out the words, but it was vaguely familiar, something he’d heard before. And it was beautiful, her voice strong and unbroken, a sound befitting the nickname he’d given her—angel.

And he knew this was supposed to be putting him to sleep, soothing him. But instead, he felt his body prickling with each note, awareness brewing in his nerve endings as her voice strummed through him, stroking his senses. He could picture her there, sitting up in bed, wearing probably next to nothing because it had to be hot in her room as well, and belting out that song. A song that, though he couldn’t hear the lyrics, spoke of longing and need. Loneliness.

Those feelings bled through him, mirroring his own, and tightness built in his chest—like rope being wrapped around him and cinched. His body went unbearably hot. Too much more and she was going to drive him to middle-of-the-night madness. The sexy, throaty sound of her last notes drifted through the barrier between them, and he reached up to press his palm against the wall, feeling the faint vibration of her words.

When all had gone silent again, he opened his eyes and took a breath before lifting his phone again.

That was beautiful, Cela. *in awe*

Thx. Did it make u sleepy?

It made me hard.
But of course he wasn’t going to type that.

Yes.

Liar.

He ran his thumb along the side of the phone, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself.

Ur right. It made me want you.

Full minutes passed as he stared at the screen. She wasn’t going to respond. He’d given her the cold shoulder two days ago and now was making a pass at her. He
was
a fucking dick. He was about to type back an apology when his phone dinged.

I’ve heard that’s good for sleep too.

He rubbed a hand over his face and climbed out of bed with a groan—paced. But his good sense and self-control had left the building fifteen minutes ago. Hell, who was he kidding? Those two things hadn’t been around since the moment he’d invited Cela over to their apartment. The girl undid him.

There was a soft tap from her side. He stopped at the spot on the wall where it’d come from and leaned his head against it, imagining her mirroring him on the other side, staring back at him with as much longing as he knew resided in his eyes right now. He lifted his phone.

Invite me over, Cela.

Another long stretch of a pause, then:

Isn’t that against one-night-stand rules?

I’m good at making rules not following them.

His phone sat silent. He rolled to the side until his bare back was against the wall. His heart was thumping hard against his ribs, everything in him willing her to respond. He had no idea what had gotten into him. It was like being a fucking teenager all over again, waiting for the girl he liked to call him back. This wasn’t his style. But all he knew was that one time with Cela hadn’t been enough. This was a bad idea. A selfish one.

What the hell was he planning to do with her anyway? He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to have vanilla sex.

His phone dinged.

I don’t want to follow them either.

He tossed the phone on the bed.

***

This was stupid. I was stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

What in the hell had made me think texting Foster tonight was a good idea? I’d lain in bed for over an hour, listening to that incessant fan noise through the wall, unable to sleep because I couldn’t stop replaying Friday night. The way Foster had talked to me, how he’d felt against me, the sensations he’d coaxed out my body. I’d lived my whole damn life without having sex, and now I’d had it once and couldn’t stop thinking about it. About
him
.

And freaking hell—if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d just made a midnight booty text. I flipped my phone in my hand over and over again as I walked the perimeter of my apartment. It’d been at least ten minutes since I’d sent the last text. I’d managed to brush my teeth and pull on a pair of boxer shorts to pair with my SPCA charity walk T-shirt, but that was about as much prep as I could manage. Some seductress I’d make.

And this was a terrible idea on so many levels. First, I was sending the message to Foster that I was the kind of girl who’d make late-night hookup calls. And second, I’d already been struggling with my feelings about Friday night. Touching him again was only going to make it worse. But I couldn’t walk away yet. Even when he’d been hauling me away from Gerald, acting like an overbearing tyrant, I’d wanted to freaking melt at his feet.

God, how fucking lame. Who was this person? I didn’t act like this. I’d never lost my shit over a guy.

Maybe this was just how sex affected people. Maybe that’s why my friends got so insane when they were pursuing someone new. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Even though I’d been a virgin, I’d dated a few guys here and there. And the things I’d done with them had felt absolutely nothing like being with Foster. Everything seemed to be amplified with him—bathed in neon and pulsing color. I couldn’t turn off the desire.

I freaking
craved
him.

The sharp rap on my door made me yelp. I slapped her hand over my mouth, hoping to God he hadn’t heard that, and made my way to the door. After one, two, three breaths, I swung it open. All the oxygen I’d sucked in whooshed out of me. Foster stood there as disheveled as I’d ever seen him—black hair sticking up in a few places and falling over his forehead, a five-o’clock shadow turned full stubble, and his T-shirt wrinkled.

I’d never, ever wanted to touch someone so damn much.

“You should never open your door without the chain on, especially at night,” he said in a serious tone.

I blinked at the random comment, still breathless from the fact that he was really here. “I knew it was you.”

He stepped forward, filling up the doorway, and put his hands on my shoulders. “Always double-check.”

“Right,” I said, still a little foggy brained.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.” At that moment, I would’ve pretty much promised him anything—money, sex, my firstborn child—anything as long as his hands stayed on me and he kept looking at me like that.

He nodded and without another word, backed me up into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. His eyes devoured me in one long, sweeping glance.

Self-consciousness swamped me. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to change. I don’t really have anything that . . .”
Is sexy. Worthy. Grown-up.
“Isn’t this.”

“Hush, Cela,” he said, his voice like a warm gust in bitter winter. “Never apologize for how you look. I’ve spent two hours lying in bed, unable to sleep or cool off because I was imagining you on the other side of the wall looking just like this.”

“Sloppy?”

“Fuckable.”

“Oh.” My body went hot all over, his crudeness pressing some unknown button inside me.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. I got the sense he was reeling himself back in. “Sorry.”

“For what?” I whispered, my brain still humming from the previous comment.

“Never mind.”

Then I realized what he was saying. “Please. Don’t censor yourself because of me. I’m inexperienced but not innocent.”

He stepped closer and cupped the back of my neck, the firm touch sending branching bolts of awareness through me. “You
are
innocent, angel. More than you even realize because you don’t even know what you don’t know. But God help me if that doesn’t make me want to do really, really bad things to you.”

I swallowed hard, every nerve in my body standing at attention, begging him. “Show me.”

Something flashed in those blue eyes, predatory, but he hid it quickly and brushed a soft kiss over my lips. “Not tonight, angel. Tonight I want to show you what a first time should be like.”

Chapter 14

Foster swept my legs right out from under me before I had a chance to process what he’d said. One second his lips were on mine, the next I was cradled against his chest, and he was moving toward my bedroom. His heartbeat was a hard, steady thump against my side—utterly calm—whereas mine was trying to crack a rib and tear through my chest.

He turned both of us in the hallway and pushed my bedroom door open with his foot. I’d left a lamp on and had hastily made the bed, but I still cringed, knowing there was a pile of dirty laundry in the corner and boxes waiting to be packed stacked against the wall. It definitely wasn’t an opulent setting like the room at the Hotel St. Mark. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to clean up.”

Foster’s gaze dipped down to me, amused. “First rule of first times—they usually occur in less-than-romantic surroundings. It’s part of the deal. But I love this room. Red. I never would’ve guessed you’d pick such a bold color.”

I smiled. “Maybe I’m more daring than you give me credit for.”

He set me down on the bed and cocked an eyebrow. “Angel, you went to a hotel room with two older, obviously demanding guys to lose your virginity in a threesome. I haven’t met a girl with more guts than that.”

I leaned back on my elbows to enjoy the glorious view as he tugged off his T-shirt. Foster was in my room, getting naked. My brain could hardly process that. “I’m not that brave. I didn’t sleep with Pike.”

Foster paused, his head out of the shirt but his arms still wrapped in it. “Hold up. You
didn’t
?”

I attempted a casual shrug even though absolutely no part of me felt casual or relaxed right now. “We just ended up chatting in the bathroom while we took turns showering.”

Foster didn’t smile, didn’t comment, but his eyes glinted with something that made my stomach flip. He finished tugging off his shirt and tossed it aside, then he was crawling onto the bed, an imposing figure looming over me—one I’d lain in this very bed and pictured above me more times than I’d ever admit to.

The cool material of his athletic pants brushed my bare legs as he insinuated a knee between my tightly clenched thighs. His dark hair fell across his forehead as his eyes crinkled around the corners and the hard length of his erection brushed against my hip. “Relax, angel. I’m not going to make demands on you this time or hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” I said, my words hardly a whisper. I was breathing too hard, heady with the smell of his skin, to manage much else. “Not on purpose.”

He lowered his head finding the curve of my neck and kissing me there. The soft press of his mouth made my nipples go hard against my T-shirt. “I hit you, Cela. Hard enough to raise welts. And believe me, it was very much on purpose.”

I shivered as he nipped at my collarbone. “I don’t remember the pain.”

Just the pleasure. The grind-my-brain-into-useless-bits pleasure.

He lifted up, his elbows braced alongside me, and gave me a searching look before the veil slid over his expression again. “Are you still sore from the other night?”

I knew he wasn’t asking about the spanking this time. I reached up and looped my arms around his neck, relishing the freedom to not just look but touch him. “Totally recovered.”

His smile was slow, wicked. “Good. In that case, you have far too many clothes on.”

He lifted me up a bit and eased my T-shirt over my head, then let me fall back to the bed. His pupils went black in the lamplight as he gazed down at me and drew the tip of his finger around one of my nipples. I moaned at the featherlight touch.

“I love how sensitive you are,” he said, offering the same gentle touch to the other side. “The slightest touch makes you shiver and flush. It’s beautiful to watch.”

I almost admitted that even a look from him made me shiver, but I knew revealing how much he affected me would only make me look like some girl with a mad crush. Hell, I
was
a girl with a mad crush. “You’re good at the touching.”

He laughed softly before leaning down to take my mouth in a long, languid kiss. His bare chest pressed against mine, the light dusting of hair teasing my sensitive skin, and his lips took command of mine. Unlike the urgent hunger of our first few kisses together, this one was like a lazy summer night, making everything go slow and warm inside me. He tasted of toothpaste, and I smiled against his mouth at the thought of us both rushing into the bathroom after the text message to erase all signs of midnight breath. Somehow I found the humanness of that comforting. Here in my bedroom he wasn’t the untouchable sophisticated businessman, just Foster—a guy who was maybe trying to impress me as much as I was him.

But I couldn’t hold on to the thought for long because Foster’s hands were cupping and kneading my breasts, and his tongue was sliding along mine in a way that had moisture gathering fast between my thighs. I lifted my hips against his, and his erection pressed hard against me. He groaned into the kiss, biting my bottom lip. His fingers dug into my ribs, hard enough to make me gasp.

His grip instantly released, and he broke away from the kiss, breathless. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I slid my hands into his hair. Every part of him that pressed against me was tense, as if he was the only thing standing between me and some avalanche. “Please, don’t stop.”

He turned his head into my palm and kissed it. “Not a chance.”

He grasped my wrist and trailed kisses down my inner arm until he reached my shoulder and gave it a gentle bite. I closed my eyes and worried I might simply sink into the sheets and never get out of bed. As long as he kept doing what he was doing, I couldn’t imagine anything worth getting dressed for again. I wanted to stay here, beneath him, feeling his mouth on mine, his body molded against me.

Foster’s mouth worked down over my sternum, touching and tasting and teasing. Then his lips were closing over a nipple, sucking firmly enough to make sharp bolts of pleasure shoot downward and make my clit throb—as if the erogenous zones were connected by some invisible wire. I shifted restlessly beneath him, and he clamped a hand over my thigh. His tongue flicked my nipple again. “Stay still, angel. Let me enjoy you.”

“I’m trying,” I said, desperation lacing my voice. “Maybe you should’ve tied me down or something.”

His head lifted, his gaze dark when it met mine. “Don’t tempt me.”

My vocal cords seemed to twist and knot, that dangerous look of his not unlike the scary one he’d given Gerald. Only instead of this one chilling me, it made me burn. “Yes, sir.”

His eyebrow lifted. “I didn’t ask you to call me that tonight.”

“What?” My mind scrambled for a moment. Then I realized what had rolled off my tongue—some weird automatic response.
Sir
. “Oh, right, sorry.”

His jaw twitched and so did his cock, right against my thigh. “Lie back and relax. One rule I’m breaking about first times tonight is that you get to come. Often.”

Before the
oh
even slipped past my lips, he dragged my boxers down my legs, leaving me in my white cotton bikini underwear. I remembered too late that I probably should’ve switched those for something sexier—not that I had anything really impressive. But before I had time to stress about it, I saw the heat flare in Foster’s eyes. He dragged a knuckle along the front of my underwear, the material clinging to my wet skin. “You’re so fucking sexy, Cela. Even more so because you have no idea.”

He probably said that to all the girls—an experienced guy who knew how to say the right thing. But somehow I couldn’t find it in myself to care. With the way he was looking at me, I
felt
fucking sexy. Powerful. “You’re not so bad yourself. Though I have a feeling you know exactly how crazy you drive women.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Women? Or you?”

I licked my lips. “Me.”

He hooked two fingers in the waistband of my panties and slid them down, leaving me completely bare while he still wore a low-slung pair of black track pants. “Believe me. The feeling’s mutual. All those nights you made those sexy sounds on this side of the wall . . . I can’t even tell you what that did to me.”

The corner of my mouth lifted. “I probably have some idea. Remember, I’ve listened to you, too. Though, your noises weren’t always solo like mine.”

His eyes lifted to mine and darkened, as he ran gentle hands along my thighs. “Did that bother you?”

I wanted to look away but couldn’t. I also wanted to say no and brush off the question, but I couldn’t do that either. That stare of his was like feeding me truth serum, making it impossible to lie. “Part of me was jealous, though I had no right to be.”

“Hmm,” he said, his touch tracking lower, closer to where I most needed to be touched. “And the other part of you?”

Heat spread up my neck. “The other part of me was turned on, picturing it all. Picturing you.”

“Want to know a secret?” Two long fingers slid inside me, making me gasp with pleasure. “I knew you could hear us.”

My eyelids fluttered shut, his stroking fingers making it impossible to concentrate. “You didn’t care.”

The bed dipped as he situated himself between my thighs, all while continuing to touch deep inside me. “Oh, angel, I cared. I liked knowing you were listening—probably a little too much.”

His tongue slid along my folds, making me arch against his mouth. God, how was I supposed to form sentences when he was doing that? “You liked to torture me?”

He chuckled against my skin, his soft puffs of breath making my damp skin tingle and tighten. “Torture’s a favorite pastime of mine.”

He was torturing me right now, that talented mouth of his hovering right above my needy flesh. I tried to lift my hips upward, and he held me firm against the bed with his free hand. But before I could let loose a whimper of protest, he lowered his head, and his tongue was back on me, his fingers pumping inside me in time with the hot assault of his mouth.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, the tide rising inside me like a flash flood. I grabbed fistfuls of his hair and canted my hips against him, riding the growing waves of sensation. How could he bring me to the brink so fast? Everything inside me felt ready to crack open already. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but when he curled his fingers inward and sucked my clit between his lips, light flashed behind my eyelids and a sharp cry burst from me. He held onto me with his free hand, keeping my orgasm going until I thought I’d die from the intensity of sensation. Then he was easing away and letting me sink back into the bed.

I lifted my heavy lids. He was there between my knees, smiling like a wicked god—beautiful and dangerous. He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. The move made my still throbbing sex, clench. “You’re good at the torture and the rewards.”

He slid his wet finger along my bottom lip. “Both can be fun. And maybe I would’ve felt a little guilty about you having to listen to me had I not heard you getting off whenever I was done with someone else. You’re a dirty little voyeur, Cela Medina.”

The words fell over me, chilling some of the bloom of warmth from the orgasm.
Dirty.
That inevitable stab of humiliation washed over me. He was right. What was wrong with me? The guy I liked had been screwing other women on the other side of the wall, and even through the jealousy, I hadn’t been able to stop my body’s reaction. Listening would make my skin flush, my panties wet, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I touched myself. “God, you must’ve thought I was pathetic.”

His grip on my hip tightened, displeasure marking his features. “Cela . . .”

I put my hands over my face, unable to handle that judgmental stare right now. The glow of orgasm was fading fast, and the reckless abandon of being too turned on to care shut down. Suddenly, the truth of the situation was there, swooping in. And as if it’d been lying in wait to claim me after all of the crazy crap I’d done since graduation night, shame enveloped me. Once again, I was fourteen and in the rec room at my parents’ house, my mother having a conniption because she’d caught me looking at a naughty site on the Internet. The words
depraved, perverted,
and
sinful
being thrown my way. I’d been dragged to the confession booth at church before the sun had set that day, my mother’s words ringing in my ears.
What were you thinking, Marcela? Imagine if your father had seen.

And I’d felt wrong, so very wrong, for not just looking but also liking what I saw, feeling my body stir and heat at the scenes portrayed. It’d been the first time I’d felt separate from that nice, obedient girl I’d been raised to be—different and other. Bad.

I tried to roll from beneath Foster, but he slapped my thigh with a sharp pop. I gasped, the pain snapping me out of my memory and freezing me in place. But still, I couldn’t face him.

“Look at me, Cela,” Foster commanded.

I shook my head, my hands staying over my face.

He grabbed my wrists and pried my hands away, pinning them alongside my head. His face was inches from mine when I forced my eyes open. “Don’t you dare be embarrassed.”

“Foster, please, I can’t.” I focused over his right shoulder, unwilling to meet his eyes.

He released one of my wrists and cupped my jaw—none too gently—guiding my gaze back to his. The firm grip both shocked and focused me all at once. “Listen to me. You will
not
lie here and feel ashamed. That’s unacceptable, angel.”

I blinked, stunned—both at the ferocity of his tone and the instant
oh yes
melting reaction of my body under his. God, what the hell was wrong with me? He was pissed and pinning me down, and I was getting hotter?

“Of course I never thought you were pathetic. I thought—think—you’re the sexiest damn woman I’ve ever seen.
I’m
a voyeur, an exhibitionist, and a laundry list of other things that would probably make most people want to lock me up in a padded room.
I
should be the one worrying that I’m going to freak you out with the things that get me going. So don’t you dare apologize for what turns you on. Ever.” His thumb grazed my parted lips, a glimmer of gentleness despite his firm hold. “You understand?”