Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (14 page)

"Landon said he's nine…so, he was born when you were…eighteen?"

It's clear that this topic is difficult for him by the significant pause he takes before adding more sections of batter to the griddle. "Nineteen."

"Must've been hard. Having a kid so young."

"It would've been hard, yes. If I'd known."

My eyes widen a notch, despite myself.
 
"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

For a moment I think he's not going to answer me, but then he meets my eyes and says, "His mother and I, we had a thing the summer before college. We met during orientation. But first semester, she started missing a lot of classes, and then she dropped out and disappeared. Turns out, she moved back to Arizona with her parents because she was pregnant."

"Why wouldn't she tell you?"

 
"My guess is she was sure I wouldn't want it. I went through a pretty bad phase after high school. I was partying a lot, didn't really take anything seriously. I guess you could say I was reckless. Wasn't ready for a kid back then. But being ready doesn't matter." He sets the container down and runs a hand over the back of his neck as though the memory weighs on him there. "I would've gotten ready. I would've figured out how to be a dad if she'd told me. But she chose not to. Took away my chance to own up and be a man. Worst part is I can't exactly hate her for it now."

"What happened to her?"

"Car accident. I hadn't heard from her in almost ten years but when her mother reached out to me a few months ago, I thought it was to invite me to the funeral. I'd heard about the accident, from mutual friends. But the reason her mother called was to tell me I had a son. My name's on the birth certificate and everything. One look at the kid and it's obvious."

"Yeah," I say, feeling stupid for not noticing it before. "Can I ask—I mean, I get the sense you two don't really get along."

"It's been rough. We're strangers and nothing I do seems to change that," Owen says, wiping his hands on a towel, eyes cast to the circles of yellow batter slowly cooking. "He lets me know every day how much he hates it here. How he misses his life back in Arizona, but his grandmother can't look after him—and obviously, I want to."

I draw circles on the metal surface of the counter, absentmindedly. "Sounds like he's making friends. Making plans to hang out."

"Rob, you mean? No, that's his cousin. My sister's kid. I don't understand what they have in common. When you were thirteen, did you hang out with nine-year-olds?"

"Not really, but Landon seems pretty mature for his age."

"I wish he acted more his age." Owen crosses his arms and I get the sense he is going to change the subject.

But this conversation is satiating my curiosity. "So you find out you have a kid, your dad has a heart attack…seems like an eventful few months."

"You could say that. I'm guessing there's a good reason you're job hunting right around Christmas?"

"Yeah. There's a good reason." I narrow my eyes and decide it
is
time to change the subject. "Do you keep in touch with anyone from school?"

"Not really. I've seen two or three people over the years."
 

He goes on to name a few people, none of whom I recognize. But he was a year ahead of me and ran in different circles, so that's not surprising.

"You know—it's funny. I don't have a single picture from high school. Not one. I'm not sure how that's even possible."

"You never took a photography class, then. I've got them by the dozens."

"Get out," I say, slapping his arm. The tinge of heat on my palm is something I should expect by now, but it takes me by surprise. "I'd kill to get my hands on a cheerleading picture. I didn't even buy a yearbook."

I don't tell him it's because I couldn't afford to.
 

"I have a box full of pictures," he says. "Back at my apartment."

"Trying to lure me back to your place, huh?"
 

A grin curving the corners of his mouth, he sets a hand on either side of the counter, trapping me between his arms. "And what if I am?"
 

Our proximity makes my heartbeat pick up, but I pretend it doesn't. Even while my phone's speakers cut off to a song with slower tempo, fitting the mood a little too well.

"What exactly would we do? Back at your place?" I ask, squaring my shoulders.
 

He looks down at my chest in an obvious way, wanting me to see the way he takes in my cleavage. Wanting me to imagine his hands peeling away my dress.
 

"Anything and everything you'd like to do."

What a goddamn tease, this man. I'm distracted by the heaviness between my legs, the weight of my need for him. My skin tingles in anticipation of his touch. I can imagine what he would feel like, pushing inside of me. Sliding in and out as my naked body heaves under his. It's all so clear it might as well be a memory, but it's only a fantasy. A vivid one that gets me all hot and bothered.
 

"It's burning," I say.

His voice grows deliciously low. "What is?"

"The pancakes."

He spins around to the griddle. The smell of burning batter wafts overhead as he flips the pancakes over to reveal their charred backsides.
 

"You really, really suck at this whole running a diner thing," I tease.

"Yeah. Good thing I didn't quit my day job." He flings the spatula aside. "Forget the pancakes. How about I just show you what I've got back at my place?"

Hands down, the most appetizing thing I've heard all night.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Owen's apartment has the distinct feel of a bachelor's pad. The furniture is modern and of functional design. There's minimal decor. No curtains on the windows, a few mismatched pieces of art on the walls.

"You should really close your blinds," I tell him, looking out the nearest window and seeing the street outside.

"You planning to show me something you don't want anyone else to see?"

"If you play your cards right," I say, after laughing louder than I normally would.
 

Why am I nervous?

Walking over to a large bookcase at the end of the living room, I take in the books brimming every shelf. At the very top sits a few boxes. Not moving boxes, but smaller ones, like for shoes.
 

"You read a lot."

"Yes. Yes, I do…" He sits down on the edge of the sofa, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees, and peering up at me with those insanely alluring eyes.

The man's not doing anything remotely sexual, just sitting and fixing me with an unassuming look—yet the sight of him floods me with lust.

I want to jump on him, right where he sits, tear away his clothes, and hurt him in all the best ways. I want to know what his kisses feel like down below. Fuck that. I want to smother him between my thighs…

Cool it, Emily. You don't want to go all
Animal Planet
on him and scare him off.
 

My urge for him is so overwhelmingly intense, I have to turn my back on him. Reeling myself in, I focus on running a finger along the spine of the books. Trying to sound unaffected, I say, "Crime novels. Why so many crime novels?"

"They're interesting. Do you read?"

I glance over my shoulder at his question. There's a genuine interest spiking in his eyes.

"Sometimes."
 

I rarely read. Every once in a while, I'll find my nose in a good book, consuming it quickly. I tell myself I should read more often, but I never get around to it.

Owen reaches to the table beside the couch and grabs a paperback sitting on the base of the lamp. "Here." He hands the book to me.

I hesitate.

"I think you'll like this," he explains. "The main character's a detective. Reminds me a lot of you, actually."

His last words pique my interest. I walk over to him and take the novel, spying the cover. There's a city backdrop, blending into an empty street at nighttime, crime tape spewed across it, police cars in the distance. In the foreground, a brunette kneels over a lump of white sheets, which I presume cover a dead body. The title is in blood red:
The Dead of Night
.

"Will you read it?"

"Yeah. I will." I put the book in my purse, which is on the coffee table, and sit down beside him. Our bodies are a foot or two apart. His arm is over the head of the sofa, body tilted to face mine.
 

"I had an interesting talk with Landon last night," he says, "about the advice you gave him."

I hang my head in pretend shame. "I was trying to get him the girl."

"That's not how you get the girl."

"Really, now? Doesn't sound like you were lucky with the ladies when you were his age."

He laughs and looks down. When he casts his eyes upward, there's a glint of mischief there. I swear the sofa slides sideways a few feet, but it's not the furniture that slides. It's my stomach.
 

I'm staring at him so hard I forget to take a breath. And, for the first time, we both seem to go still enough to hear the crackling in the air between us. The attraction whipping and lashing at us, demanding to be acknowledged.

"I want you, Emily. Bad."

I grin. "Nothing ever changes."

"You're wrong." He leans in. My body responds before I decide to let it, pulling away from where I sit to meet him halfway. I somehow feel every millimeter separating our lips as though the air between them was taken up by something tangible; tiny strings, pulling me in. Yet he holds steady, precisely where he is, stopping short of the kiss he knows I crave and says, "I can think of one thing that's changed."

I nod, somehow understanding exactly what he means. And I know what he's waiting for. Pulling up on my knees, I straddle him where he sits. Desire eclipses his expression, a fog of heat falls over us both. Holding his face with both hands, I say, "I want you, too."

In the split second before our lips part for the kiss, I feel his twist into a smile. Then his mouth commands mine, owning every curve, deliberating each taste. My dress is hiked up, almost all the way to my hips. His hands run up the sides of my exposed thighs, settling over my hips, tugging them inward, and pressing me as close to him as humanly possible.

The heat our kiss generates clouds my mind; all I see is need. And all I need is Owen. He buries his face in the nook of my neck and bites me slightly, making my nerve endings go haywire.
 

Hands holding me tightly in place, he gets to his feet with me still on top. My legs lock around him even though I feel weightless in his arms, unconcerned with falling.
 

He leads us into the bedroom, and the effortless way he carries me is an unbelievable turn-on. Every inch of my skin sears from the blaze raging inside of me. I don't realize where he's guiding us until my back hits the wall between his nightstand and dresser. He lowers me until my feet touch the ground.

"Put your hands up," he says, voice low.

I do as he asks, biting my lip at the way his words echo between my thighs.

He lifts up my dress, his fingertips dragging against my skin from my thighs all the way up my arms as he pulls the material over my head. The moment my face is in view again, his lips are on mine. Much greedier than ever, bordering on ravenous, and he takes my bottom lip into his mouth as though biting into a supple fruit.
 

All the while, his hands explore my body, over my breasts, down my stomach, over my hips. And everywhere he touches, my skin revs up like an engine anticipating the ride. I unhook my bra and toss it aside as his fingers slip between the material of my panties and close over my ass, pressing me up against the bulge in his pants.

Why the fuck is he still wearing pants?
 

My underwear falls to my ankles and I kick it aside. A drunken sort of haze comes over me, naked and completely at his mercy. All I want is to feel him inside of me, but he moves without urgency, taunting me. Making me burn from the inside out.
 

If it's possible to die from horniness, I'm about to go code blue.

When he tosses his shirt aside and lets his pants hit the ground in a thud, I can't help but take in the outline of his hard cock through his underwear. Letting out an impatient breath, I reach around to pull his goddamn underwear off.
 

"Arms
up
." His voice is thick and sends a shiver of delight right down my spine. I oblige, resting my wrists on the top of my head. I'm about to ask him if he has a condom when he reaches into his nightstand drawer for one.

He brings his hand in for a sneak peek, and I tremble as his fingers slide against what's waiting for him. Wrapper tears open. A sigh parts my lips as his warm hands come over my hips again. Thoughts are a desperate blur of anticipation, unable to wait a second longer to—

A moan rips through me as he plunges inside of me. No longer a tease, right when it matters most. I melt in relish from the delicious burn—he's unbelievably hard and I'm nearly bursting at the seams from him.

Owen fucks me there, against the wall. Holding and anchoring my weight on his arms again, his strokes long and steady. With a taunting slowness that I'm beginning to recognize from him. The burn drives me insane. But I can tell it's what he wants. He likes to watch me squirm under him, likes to see my body angling for more, quivering and begging for him to take me with everything he's got.
 

"Faster," I breathe out.

He picks up his pace, hands securing my hips in place. The frantic tempo is enough to send me clinging to the very edge of control. The sounds of his hard pounding echo loud around us.
 

"Can you take it?"

"God, yes." I'm breathless and trembling, the euphoric pressure building until it almost hurts to feel this good.
 

I'm overwhelmed by the way his body commands every inch of mine, making me delight in the midst of the building flurry of sensations. He plays me like an instrument, with complete control and confidence, stroking me in ways that make me whimper.