Sticky (3 page)

T
he wait
from my first glimpse of her in person until midnight is physically painful. I can practically feel my balls turning blue. I want to shut my eyes, picture her ass in those running pants again, and wrap a fist around my hard dick. But I’m not going to do that yet. I’m saving up until I can sink my cock into her tight, wet pussy, and even then, it’ll only be after I make her come a few dozen times first. She deserves nothing less.

I lingered as long as I dared in the diner, taking as long as humanly possible to eat that steak, even though I’d normally speed my way through it.

Taking things slow was easy, with Sloan to distract me. I’ve already memorized the way her hips sway when she passes back and forth from the kitchen to the tables. She’s got this subtle roll in her walk that makes her ass bounce too fucking irresistibly. I can’t decide if I want to spank her or grope her, or just lick and kiss and suck that ass. Her whole body, really. Every milky-white, porcelain inch of her.

It doesn’t help that she kept making eye contact, either. Every time she walked past my table (which seemed to happen a lot more often than any of the other tables, to the point where I could tell she was walking a whole aisle out of the way just to seem like she was accidentally passing me), her eyes would flash to mine, hooks snagging on my chest.

I want her.

The only problem? This fucking job. The whole reason I met her in the first place. If she ever finds out that I’m doing this to use her, because an asshole like Aaron ordered me to do it in the first place, and even worse, that I plan to fuck over her brother in the process?

Well, I can’t imagine her being too interested in me if she found that out.

But that’s the problem. Because after today, after just one day of watching her, following her, trying to plant myself in her life as firmly as possible, I cannot stand the thought of her hating me. Of never getting to kiss those luscious lips. Of never getting to taste her, to lick her from head to toe and savor every inch of her body.

Fuck
. She can never find out about this job.

So I keep reminding myself, as I sit in my truck in the parking lot, windows fogging up, my gaze trained on the silhouettes inside the diner. But every time I blink, I swear she shows up behind my eyelids, her perfect bow-lips smiling, her eyes heavy-lidded and seductive, her hips cocked to one side the way she does whenever she’s standing still, taking orders or poised at the register, cashing people out.

It’s not just her body. It’s her throaty voice, her almost shy smile, the way she blushed so fiercely every time I complimented her, like she’s not used to that, which is a fucking crime against humanity, if no one compliments this girl.

Finally, after a painfully long wait, my dick hard at least half the fucking time, and my head swimming the rest of it, the door to the diner swings open to let the last flood of people out, this time the staff who worked close, having finished divvying up their tips.

I pop my door open and jog into the light real quick, because I don’t want her to mistake me for some creep lurking around a dark parking lot, trying to catch her alone. I want to woo her, not send her running for the hills.

So when I call out her name, I make sure it’s while she’s still standing with a semicircle of other girls, their manager right behind her, so she can tell me to fuck off if she wants to.

But her eyes light up instead, the same spark of desire I thought I saw in them earlier, and I know I’m in, before she ever says a word.

“Hunter Gage,” she says, which for a second sends a shock of panic through my system, because I definitely never told her my full name, until I remember that I paid with a credit card, of course.
And she bothered to memorize the name on that card
, a voice at the back of my head adds excitedly.

“Just Gage,” I reply as she breaks away from the group.

“You waited,” she adds, after jogging the last few feet to my side. Behind her, her coworkers linger, their eyes on us, curious, searching. I watched the way those girls acted around her. All smiles to her face, but then every time her back turned, they’d start whispering in huddles, their smiles turning mean and ugly. They think she’s beneath them. They can’t see that she’s a million miles out of their league.

Or maybe they can, and that’s why they’re jealous.

“I told you, Sloan. You’re worth waiting for.” I keep my voice just loud enough for our audience to hear, and I try not to enjoy it too much when a couple of those girls’ faces fall, their expressions souring into jealousy.

Her cheeks flush again in that adorable way she has. “But I can’t . . . I mean, I’m busy tonight, so . . . ” She frowns at me. “I’m sorry you hung around all this time for nothing.”

I reach my hand up to cup her cheek, and the moment our skin touches for the first time, the fire that erupts nearly knocks me off my feet. “It wasn’t for nothing,” I murmur, and she leans in closer to catch those words. I lean in too, and press my lips to hers, my hand still cupping her cheek, my thumb brushing the edge of her mouth as we kiss.

She melts. That’s the only word for it. She melts against me, her soft, warm body relaxing against mine, so trusting, so full and gorgeous. I wrap my other arm around her waist, kissing her deeper. Her lips part, and I slip my tongue between them to twine around hers, savoring the honey-sweet taste of her mouth. Her hips dig into mine, and there’s no way she can’t feel my cock, hard as a rock, digging into her stomach.

Her arms wind around me in reply, and I let my hand at her waist dip to her ass, fully aware of her coworkers’ gazes on us as I grip her ass hard, hoisting her against me, grinding my hips against hers. She gasps into my mouth when my cock hits the warm spot between her legs, and I slide back and forth, squeezing her ass to pin her in place, loving the way she squirms every time I pass over her clit.

“Get a room!” one of the other waitresses finally shouts, and only then does she break our kiss, her eyes huge and stunned, locked on mine as she stumbles out of my grasp, back a few steps.

“Have a good night, Sloan,” her manager says, his voice deeply amused, almost smug.

“She will,” I answer for her, my gaze flashing to his, and any challenge in his eyes freezes at the sight of me. I can practically hear his tiny brain screaming at him, pointing out that he’s nearly a foot shorter than me, and about as thick as my left arm.

Right on cue, he breaks eye contact and scurries toward his car, the gaggle of gawking girls fleeing in his wake, until soon enough, we’re the only two people who remain bathed in the pool of streetlights out in the diner parking lot.

“I really can’t tonight,” she repeats, and this time there’s a definite note of sad regret in her tone.

“Tomorrow then,” I reply without missing a beat. “Let’s do dinner somewhere. Do you like Chinese food?”

Of course she does. I noticed the cartons in her trash, when I dug through that for clues before I came to the diner tonight. But I pretend to be delightfully surprised at the coincidence when her face splits into a huge grin.

“It’s my favorite. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” For a second I almost feel bad, with her huge, trusting eyes trained on mine, her lips still curved in that smile. “Can I pick you up at seven? Where do you live?”

She gives me directions to the house I spent half the day scoping out, and the bad feeling worsens. She’s going to hate me, I think. If she figures out who I am. What I’m doing to her.

Unless she never finds out
, the darker corner of my mind points out. I need to find a way to keep her in the dark, to shield her from everything her jackass brother has gotten himself embroiled in, and protect her from the revenge that Aaron’s no doubt concocting against him.

“It’s a date, Gage,” she’s saying now, and I catch her wrist and lift it to my lips, turning her hand palm-up to kiss the center. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sloan.”

But I already know I’ll be seeing her sooner. This woman will be in every dream I have tonight.

I am so fucked.

“
W
hat do
you mean you’re canceling movie night?” my brother shouts at me from the phone I’ve left on speaker on the bathroom counter while I bustle around the kitchen.

“Something came up!” I yell back, flinging open cabinets and bending to root through the ones under the sink.
Where
did I put my damn eyeliner? It’s been way too long since I bothered to give a shit, as evidenced by the fact that everything except my everyday makeup has gone missing.

“What could come up on a Tuesday night that’s more important than watching James Bundy fumble his way through the much-anticipated sequel of his failed secret agent attempts?”

“
Something
,” I repeat angrily.

There’s a long pause from the other end. “Oh god, it’s a date or some shit, isn’t it?”

Dammit. Sometimes I hate having a twin. “Don’t sound too excited there, dear brother,” I mumble.

“Who is it? It’s not your creepfest boss, right?”

“Martin? Gross, no. I have
some
standards, you know.”

“Apparently not, if you’re prioritizing some random dude over your own flesh and blood!” But he’s laughing as he says it, so I know he’s not too seriously pissed.

“Whatever, you’ll enjoy having ammo to tease me about and you know it.”
Aha!
My fingers light on the missing makeup bag, wedged behind the toilet cleaning supplies. Lucky this is a plastic bag, I think as I rinse it off before unzipping it to inspect how much eyeshadow remains. The mascara’s gone clumpy, I notice with a sigh.

“Yeah right. Like you’ll tell me anything about him.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” I point out, rummaging through the kit. Shit. The eyeliner’s a bit melty too. It might still work, but I’m afraid I’ll give myself raccoon eyes if I risk it.

“Where did you meet this guy? What’s his name? Do I need to threaten him yet? Because I haven’t stocked up on leather jackets and intimidating hats, so if I need to do some threatening, you’ll have to give me more than a couple hours’ notice.”

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my head. “I’ve got to run, Freddie.”

“See! You’re already not telling me things!”

“Well you just reminded me I only have two hours left to get ready, and I still haven’t found even half the makeup I need, let alone a dress.”

“Ew. Girl problems. Bye sis,” he replies, hanging up faster than it takes me to cross the room and shut off the phone. I’m grinning as I do.

Predictable as clockwork. At least I always have that secret weapon to get him to shut up when necessary.

Now to address the bigger problems at hand. I have hardly any makeup, no idea what to wear on this date, and no one to text for advice. I run a hand through my hair, surveying the mess I’ve made of my bedroom trying to root out an outfit. Clothes are strewn everywhere, jeans hanging off my desk chair, dresses scattered across the bed like a new patchwork bedspread.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my train of thought, and I frown at the door, confused. This better not be the landlord again. He already rang my doorbell this morning asking if I’ve seen any roaches in here. Gross. And no, but now I’m afraid to know why he’s asking.

Oh god
, I think as I cross the room.
It can’t be him, can it? He’s not early?
I’m not ready. And now my place is a worse disaster than ever.

I peek through the peephole and breathe a sigh of relief. Just the blonde girl who lives next door. I undo the locks and open the door. “Hi?”

She breaks almost immediately into a smile so huge and genuine that I can’t help smiling back. “Hey neighbor! Sorry, I know this is random, but, um, my roommate is out of town, and, well . . . ” She trails off, biting a lip, before she half-turns to show me her back. The dress she’s wearing, an adorable lacy number, is only zipped about halfway up.

“I’m the least flexible person on the planet, I swear to god,” she says over her shoulder.

I laugh. “I know the feeling, don’t worry,” I reassure her as I zip her dress the rest of the way. “There you go.”

“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver, thank you so much.” She catches my eye and smirks. “Guys just never know what we go through for them, you know?”

I snort. “You’re telling me.”

Her gaze darts past me at the room behind me. “Uh oh. You in date prep mode too?”

I kick the door open wider. “You have no idea. I don’t even have any eye makeup left that’s not a total disaster, let alone an outfit to wear tonight.”

“You need some help?” she asks, already crossing the threshold. “I’m Lacey, by the way.”

“Sloan.”

“That is an awesome name,” she tells me as she surveys the wreckage that is my normally tidy studio. “Okay, what date number?”

“First,” I reply, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. “It’s, uh . . . it’s been a while since I’ve gone out.”

I’m not sure she hears me, because Lacey has already jumped into motion, pulling a shirt from one corner of the bed and a pair of tight black jeans from the chair, then brushing past me to root through the closet. Before I know it, she’s got no less than three actually cute and viable outfit options laid out on the bed, and we’re comparing the various looks against my (admittedly lacking) accessory collection.

“Okay, I’m voting for the black jeans, the ruched gray shirt, cause ruching is a girl’s best friend, and the triangle earrings because they make the whole outfit kind of punk. Oh, and the leather-sleeved blazer—that is
killer
, can I borrow it sometime?”

Next thing I know, we’re both crowded into her bathroom, and she’s doing the best cat-eye liner on me that I’ve ever seen, before picking out the shade of red lipstick that she swears will make him stare at my lips all night long.

“So how come you haven’t gone out with anyone in a while?” she asks as she passes me a simple gold drop-necklace she’s insisted I borrow.

I shrug, double-checking my teeth in the mirror to be sure I haven’t smeared red all over the front. “I dunno. A combination of things I guess? No one’s really caught my eye, but also I’ve been kind of distracted with work, and saving up to pay off my student loans.”

Her expression turns knowing when she catches my eye in the mirror again. “Girl, you cannot wait to be debt-free to start living. No one in our generation would ever get married, let alone reproduce.”

I stifle a laugh. “Well, it’s hard to think about anything like dating or committing or whatever while still being so . . . you know. In debt. Unsure about the future. I don’t know.”

“Well what would you want to do, if you could do anything?”

Open my own restaurant
, I think immediately. Which is stupid. Insane. If I learned anything in the business management classes I took in college, restaurants fail at least seventy-five percent of the time. And if I’ve learned anything more working at Morton’s for the last few years, it’s that restaurant owners—or at least our owner—seem chronically depressed. Like, I would not be surprised if he slit his wrists in a bathtub one day level depressed.

Granted, a struggling diner in the middle of a slowly dying city (or quickly dying, depending on who you ask and where the most recent hurricane broke ground) isn’t the restaurant of my dreams. But still. The life dream I entered school thinking about—owning my own business one day, making people happy, concocting delicious menu plans with the chef partner I was sure I’d find in college—that seems a lot more pie-in-the-sky (no pun intended) now that I’ve experienced the daily reality of this industry.

Lacey’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer, so I shrug one shoulder and try to laugh it off. “Probably the same thing I’m doing now. I’m not that creative.”

Her lips purse again in an I-don’t-believe-you expression, yet she doesn’t call me on it. “Okay. So, what about this guy made you break your not-dating-till-debt-free streak?” She runs an eyebrow pencil along her brow with expert precision, feathering in the line so neatly that it just looks like her eyebrow is growing darker and thicker before my eyes, not being drawn onto her practically white-blonde facial hair.

That’s a good question. What
is
it about Hunter Gage that has me acting like a damn high schooler?

Yet there it is. I have actual fucking butterflies in my stomach. Battering my guts in a whirlwind every time I close my eyes and picture his strong square jaw, his dark, piercing eyes boring into mine. That dark line of stubble on his cheeks, and above all, his big, strong hands, the muscles in them flexing whenever he wrapped them around his coffee mug at the diner yesterday. Something about those hands—those dangerous, rough, strong hands—makes me want to throw myself headfirst into his grasp.

“His hands,” I say, and Lacey busts out laughing.

“What, is he a pianist or something?”

“Definitely not. Those babies are way too calloused.”

“Okay, so big hands are your thing. I mean, promising start, I’ll grant you that. That’s all it took to get you to go on a date?” She smirks, and my cheeks go red again.

“Well. He might have also been sweet as hell. Okay, sweet might not be the right word. Complimentary as hell? And . . . I don’t know.” I groan and rest my forehead on the mirror. “He looks like he could totally wreck me,” I grumble against the glass.

When I steal a peek at Lacey again, that knowing smirk has widened. “You’re in trouble, honey.”

“That’s a stupid reason to date someone, isn’t it?” I agree.

But she’s shaking her head. “Oh no. That’s a great reason to date someone. You just better hope that he’s the kind of guy who, after he wrecks your world, will stay around to put the pieces back together.”

Despair must show on my face, because she slaps my back after that, in what she probably means to be a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry,” she says. “When it comes down to it, that’s always the gamble, no matter who you go out with.”

Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better. But I force a smile onto my face, and turn the topic to Lacey’s impending date instead.

At least I’m not the only one going into battle tonight.