Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

told her the reason her features were plastered on every scrap of canvas in my studio, and logically, she’d gone. Because the draw I felt toward Dominque was intense, and it didn’t make sense, and . . . she’d made it clear that she didn’t do connection.

Why would she be tempted into furthering a fledging link with a man she didn’t know?

I flicked off the light, slipped out of the room, and closed the door behind me. I’d finish cleaning, go to bed, and in the morning, I’d try to excise her from my head. I’d paint however many fucking canvases it took.

And then I’d move on.

I sprayed down the table, rinsed the coffee pot and mugs, grabbed my stack of clothes. Then checked that the front door was locked, the lights were off, before going into the bedroom . . . and stopping in my tracks.

My bed wasn’t empty.

Instead, there was a beautiful woman tucked under the sheets, her bare shoulders gilded in the moonlight, her hair down and tumbling around her like a shining brown cape.

“What are you doing?”

She held up the remote. “Getting ready to watch a movie.”

“I—uh—”

She patted the bed. “You going to get in?”

“You didn’t go?”

“You’re making me want to.” Her mouth curved.

Since I didn’t want that, I hustled across the room and crawled under the blankets, feeling strangely out of sorts, considering it was my bed. As it was, I held my breath when I wrapped my arm around her, half-expected my hand to pass right through, as though she were an apparition and not a real woman.

“What do you want to watch?”

Her eyes sparkled and she cuddled up next to me, her palm on my chest. “Porn.”

I choked on my tongue, first from the cuddling then again from her matter-of-fact declaration.

She laughed, the sound filling my blood with helium. Without the heft of the blankets, without the weight of her body curling up on me, I might have just floated up to the ceiling.

She shifted, resting her head against my chest, her gaze on the TV as she flicked through the menu of a streaming service.

“Did I break you?” she murmured.

“Yes.”

More laughter. A pat on my chest. “You’ll be fine.”

Quiet fell as she put on an action flick, and we watched in silence for several minutes, but then I found myself breaking it, finding a question bubbling in my throat and escaping. “Why did you stay?”

She went still then paused the movie, studied my face.

I held her gaze.

Eventually, Niki relaxed. “Because I wanted to,” she said, poking me. “You got a problem with that?”

“No.”

A narrowed-eye glare. “You going to use my blood to make new paintings?”

“No.” A beat. “However, I was planning on creating new canvases with your skin.”

She settled back down. “Well, if it’s just that.” Then promptly lifted back up, hitting me with the glare again. “This doesn’t mean anything, and I’m only staying for the movie, and maybe some more sex.”

I lifted my hands in surrender, feeling like I’d won a battle I hadn’t even fought in. “Duly noted.” She hit play; the sound of gunshots and explosions, curse words and tires squealing filled the room.

But I didn’t watch the movie.

Instead, I watched her.

And it was infinitely more enjoyable than the film.

I woke to empty arms and sunlight slanting through the windows.

I inhaled, smelled the sweet spice of Niki on the air, on my pillows, my skin. The bed next to me was still warm, meaning that she’d been with me at least part of the night.

Progress.

Of a sort.

Because I still woke up alone.

Sighing, I pushed out of bed, wandered into the front room, was drawn into the kitchen, where the smell of coffee filled the air.

I saw the cup steaming on the counter the same time I heard the door click closed.

Bypassing the tempting brew, I hurried to the door, opened it, and saw the top of Dominque’s head disappearing down the stairs.

“Coward!” I called.

“Put some pants on, Archer,” she called back.

I glanced down, realized that I, indeed, wasn’t wearing pants, and as tempted as I was to chase after her, getting arrested for indecent exposure wasn’t on my list of things to do.

“I’ll see you soon, Niki!”

“No, you won’t.” A beat. “Also, my name is Dominque!”

My lips curved. “Soon, sweetheart!”

“Not that either!”

“I’ll—”

His neighbor poked his head out. “Will you shut the fuck up? It’s too goddamned early.”

“Sorry,” I said, nodding my head in apology.

“Assholes,” the neighbor muttered, slamming the door.

Niki’s head popped up the stairwell, mouth curved into a smirk. “Bye, Archer.”

I lifted my hand, watched her disappear.

Only then did I go back into my apartment and close the door.

For the record, the woman made a hell of a cup of coffee.

Chapter Twelve

Dominque, or apparently Niki

I was smiling as I strode down the street, my walk of shame more like a walk of a hell of a good lay.

But the glow faded as I walked to my car a block away.

Because I’d spent the night.

What a singularly stupid thing to do.

Sighing, I turned the corner, Archer’s apartment complex at my back. My car was just around the next bend, and—

I stopped.

Because the entire street was empty.

Or, at least, the side of the street where I’d parked was empty.

As in, my car was gone.

As in, all of the cars I’d parked around were gone. “What the fuck?” I whispered . . . and then my gaze caught on the sign overhead.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

Street sweeping. This morning.

Fucking hell.

My car . . . had been towed?

I tilted my head back with a groan, staring up at the cloudless, bright blue sky and tossing a mental curse its way. What right did it have to look so cheerful, so clear and sunny when my car had been towed?

This was what I got for not following my rules.

This was the result of my idiocy in staying the night.

I’d known better, but I’d wanted to spend more time with Archer because he was sexy and kind and because of the paintings,