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

No, you said you’d probably ignore me. I said I’d text again.

I thought back, realized that—shit—he was right.

I will neither confirm nor deny.

He was probably laughing his ass off right now.

Also, my texting strategy was successful since you’re texting back.

Also right, the fucker. Which had me lying.

I was done with work.

Because I clearly hadn’t finished what I needed to when I was a tangle of anticipation.

The “. . .” appeared then disappeared. Then reappeared again. Then disappeared again.

And finally, when I was getting so exasperated that I was ready to launch my phone out the window, it rang.

Who talked on the phone nowadays?

That was just . . .

It stopped ringing.

Another message buzzed through.

Do I need to come to your front porch again? Pick up the call, Niki baby.

I shouldn’t. More conversation would breed more connection . . . but I’d already promised to go to his apartment the next day, and then again for another time. It would be silly not to talk to him now when I’d said I would be going to his place for two more dates—

Not dates.

Um . . . mutual satisfactory happy time . . . with orgasms thrown in.

That didn’t sound delusional, right?

Not. At. All.

My cell rang again, and living in that delusion, I swiped my finger across the screen and lifted it to my ear.

“Was it the baby that got you to pick up?”

I sighed, leaned back in my very expensive office chair. It was technically a gaming chair with amazeballs lumbar support and enough adjustability that my short ass legs could reach the floor and my T-Rex arms could touch my keyboard.

“The Niki then,” he said when I didn’t speak. “I can’t say I hate that I’m the one with the special nickname for you.”

“It’s all that possessive maleness.”

“You say that like it’s a disease.”

My brows lifted, not that he could see them. “Isn’t it?”

He paused. “I suppose it is.”

My laughter bubbled up like champagne threatening to escape from the top of the bottle. And it did escape, a silly-sounding giggle that had me cringing and sobering. “What are we doing, Archer?” I asked. “I have rules, but you and your dumb cock have me breaking them.”

Except, even as I said that, I knew it was more than the sex.

It was just . . . Archer.

He made me wonder about possibilities and consider if perhaps my rules were less about protecting me and more about . . . hiding. Fuck. Was I hiding?

The silence stretched before he spoke. “I like you,” he said. “For me, it’s as simple as that. I saw you across the bar, glaring at me, deliberately ignoring me, and I had to know you.”

“So you’re saying I was a challenge.”

“Was?”

“Ugh.” I pushed my chair back, the wheels squeaking against the floor. “You’re just trying to be annoying.”

“You are rather pretty when you’re annoyed.”

“But not at other times?” I asked, my tone deadly.

A beat. “Nope.”

I laughed, despite myself, pushing out of my chair and heading down the hall to the stairs. I was finished pretending to work for the night. I’d gotten enough done that I wouldn’t be critically behind the next day, and clearly, staring at my phone for over an hour hadn’t done me any favors. I might as well stop spinning my wheels and just really get back on it tomorrow. Plus, I was hungry. I was tired. I wanted some of my canned pasta and a glass of wine.

The perfect pairing.

“I know I shouldn’t encourage you,” I said, strolling into the kitchen and opening the pantry. “But—”

“I’m infinitely charming?”

“But you’re occasionally amusing, so I don’t mind keeping you around,” I said, making my tone joking, even though what I’d said felt a bit like the truth. Scarily so. And for a moment, loathing filled me, hating that I was scared of something as good and pure as Archer. I was supposed to be fearless. I’d left my life behind. I’d rebuilt this new one in my image.

I wasn’t supposed to be scared of a single fucking thing.

But I was.

Fucking hell. Pushing the slicing disgust down, I reached up to grab my favorite can of pasta—tiny raviolis filled with something that was supposedly cheese, although I wasn’t entirely convinced of that fact.

“I’ll take occasionally amusing,” he said then paused, and I could practically hear the gears of his brain working through my speaker. “What are you doing?”

I dipped my finger into the cold contents, scooped up some of the yumminess. “Eating,” I said between bites.

Yes, I was eating it cold.

Yes, I was really hungry.

Yes, I had questionable nutrition habits.

But c’est la vie and all that.

I hadn’t eaten since the pancakes that morning, and I was wasting away. Pretty soon my hollow leg would grow, would consume my torso, my arms.

Ha.

If only that were true.

“Eating what?” Archer asked, suspicion evident.

“You don’t want to know,” I said, retrieving a spoon from the drawer because I could only be undignified for so long. Heh. Mostly, it was because my spoon was simply a better utensil for shoving my tiny raviolis into my mouth. My stomach rumbling, I returned to the pantry and grabbed another can. I’d eat this one cold while I waited for the other to heat in the microwave.

Well, I’d dump it into a bowl first. I couldn’t risk blowing up the single appliance I used.

“Niki,” he warned.

“Not gonna tell you.” Though, of course, it sounded a lot like, “Snof donna shmell to.”

Apparently, Archer could speak Dominque—or rather, Niki baby, I thought with a smile—because he said, “Put the can down and step toward your front door.”

Brows drawing together, I spun in a circle, half-convinced he’d somehow made his way into my house and could see me noshing on my baby raviolis. But, dumbshit, if he were inside, I would have heard him talking, especially if he were near enough that he could see me playing raccoon while I tried to scrape every last bit out of my can.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know