Midnight Visit

 

At midnight, there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Aubrey? Are you up?”

“Shit, Brent!”

I’m awake, reading in my bed. Throwing down my Kindle, where I’m discovering the joys of book boyfriends, I jump to my feet.

Then I sit back down.

Then I’m up again.

Help! I don’t know what to do.

“Aubrey?” Brent calls out from the other side of the door.

“Hold on a minute, okay?” I reply.

Should I let him in? I’m torn. Apart from feeling kind of pissed at him, I’m stressing over my sleepwear. I have on the new jammies I bought the other day. And that’d be all fine and good, except I never planned on them being seen by anyone outside this room, especially not Brent. Bad enough I had on my squirrel jammies the night he brought me dinner.

These are far worse, though.

It’s not the top half, the rose-colored tank, that’s an issue. Except for maybe that it shows off more nip than anticipated thanks to the near-sheer material. But really, I don’t mind if Brent gets a little breast peek. It’s the pants I’m worried about. They happen to be covered in colorful little hockey sticks and pucks.

He’s going to think you bought them because they remind you of him.

“Ah, that’s kind of why I did buy them,” I mutter to myself.

Admit that you like little hockey sticks and pucks all over your ass and crotch. That also reminds you of him.

“All true. If it can’t have Brent’s big stick, then I guess I have no choice but to settle for little sticks on my pj—”

“Aubrey? Are you talking to someone in there?”

Poor Brent, he’s out there waiting. And now he sounds concerned. He probably thinks I have a guy in here with me. Why else would I be talking out loud and not opening the door?

The idea he’s sweating it out gives me an empowered feeling. And when you think about it, he deserves a little grief for being such an ass earlier.

But then I remember he knows about Brent 51.

Crap. What if he thinks I’m talking to my sex toy? Not that I’d be doing much talking. Probably just some moaning and—

Enough!

Rushing over to the door, I throw it open as wide as it goes. “Hey, hi,” I say, out of breath.

He cocks his head, which makes him look absolutely adorable. Adding to that, he’s sexy as hell. He’s half-clothed, as usual, wearing only a pair of navy blue lounge pants.

“Is everything okay in there?” he asks, looking beyond me to the interior of the room.

I shift from one bare foot to the other, feigning nonchalance. “Everything’s fine. What’s up?”

Maybe not the best choice of words, seeing as he’s now staring at my boobs, prominently displayed in my skimpy tank.

I clear my throat and his whiskey-colored eyes snap up to mine, but only for a second. Still, it’s enough to give me a tingle down my spine.

With a smirk, his gaze drops to my bottoms. “Nice,” he mutters. “Pucks and hockey sticks, eh? That’s cute.”

Cute?

He’s acting a little strange, and when our gazes once again meet I notice how bloodshot his eyes are. Letting out a disappointed huff, I exclaim, “What the hell, Brent? Are you drunk? You are, aren’t you?”

That bad influence Nolan. Fuck him!

“Maybe just a little,” Brent confesses.

“How much is a little?” I warily inquire.

He raises his hand and squints down to the inch of space he’s trying to indicate with his index finger and his thumb. “About this much,” he says.

Clearly, this is his smartass, and not very successful, attempt to indicate he’s only a tiny bit drunk. I question that, however, seeing as he’s here at my bedroom door.

I can’t resist giving him a hard time, a little payback for the way he treated me earlier. Plus, what the hell is he thinking, getting trashed like this? A beer or two is one thing, but he’s throwing weeks of progress out the damn window.

Pointing to where his hand is still hovering in the air, I nod to the teeny space between his fingers and say in my snarkiest tone, “Are you sure that’s an indication of your level of drunkenness? Or is it something else. Like, is that tiny space an approximation of your, uh, you know.” When I gesture to his groin area, he quickly drops his hand.

And then he scoffs, “Well, we both know that’s not true. And what exactly are you gesturing to anyway, Aubrey? Are you too shy to say the word ‘cock’?”

“No,” I snap. “I can say that word just fine.”

“Really?” His tone drips with doubt. “It sounds to me like your avoiding it.”

Crap, does he mean the word cock…or his cock?

To prove him wrong, at least on the first count, I start chanting out, “Cock, cock, cock, cock. See? Are you happy now?”

He breaks into a grin, a very smart-alecky grin. “Wow. If you add a few a-doodle-doo’s you’d totally sound like a rooster.”

“You must really be annihilated, Brent.”

“And you must really be horny, Aubrey.”

“What?”

“You’re clearly obsessed with my cock.”

“I am not.”

“Don’t deny it. You bought a sex toy with my number on it. And don’t think I didn’t notice the dimensions of that weird-ass thing. I have to say, they’re pretty spot-on.”

“Weird-ass thing? What the hell does that mean?”

He gives me a look. “Really, Aubrey? You need me to spell it out for you? Your sex toy is bright green and glows like a—”

“You…you…” I’m so mad I can’t find the right words, so I go with an old standard. “You’re such a prick!”

“See, another cock reference.”

I try to close the door on him then, but he puts his foot in the way. “We’re not done here,” he says.

“Yes, we are,” I grind out.

Again, I try to shut the door, but his damn foot won’t budge. “I’ll smash your toes if I have to,” I warn.

That makes him laugh. “Good luck with that.”

I give it my all, struggling and straining to close the damn door. I don’t really plan to break his toes, but I do want him out. But my efforts are all in vain, anyway. The door doesn’t move. And neither does Brent.

And then something happens, something awful. Due to my vigorous attempts to close the door, a strap of my tank falls down.

And then a damn boob falls out!

“Oh, shit.” Brent moves his foot immediately, adding a mumbled apology.

That just makes things worse.

Unbalanced from him releasing the door so quickly, I stumble forward, right into his arms, loose boob and all.

“Quit touching me!”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to grope me.”

“I am not. That’s your shoulder I’m grabbing.”

“Oh my God, you have clearly touched far too many fake boobs. My tits are not hard like bone, asshole.”

Brent rights me as fast as he can. Then he steps back and looks away. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

I slip my wayward breast back into my tank and snap, “How about a little warning next time? You could’ve said something before you moved your foot and let me fall.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen, I swear.” His voice is full of remorse and he keeps his eyes averted, so I believe him.

Sighing, I say, “You can look now. I’m decent.”

He does look at me, but then he starts to smirk. “Decency after that debacle is a debatable point.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He lets out a sigh. “I’m just being an ass.” Scrubbing a hand down his face, he says, “Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“But it’s so fun,” I snidely remark.

I’m trying to sound irritated, but truth be told this actually is kind of fun. Brent looks so hot standing there that I don’t care he saw—and sort of touched—some boobage.

“It really is kind of fun, isn’t it?” he says when he sees the smile I’m trying to hide.

“It is,” I admit.

“And why do you think that is, Aubrey?”

He casually leans against the doorjamb, making all those damn muscles in his chest and arms pop.

Please. Don’t do this to me. Not now, not after your hand was on my boob.

Brent 51 has already gotten a workout lately. And a lot of my fantasies—okay, 99.99 percent of them—involve Brent showing up at my bedroom door, maybe not drunk, but definitely looking hot like this.

Unable to make eye contact, I murmur, “I don’t know why.”

He takes a step closer. “Oh, I think you do.”

God, he smells good. He must’ve showered upon returning from Nolan’s place. Come to think of it, his hair does look a little wet, especially at the ends, where it curls a little in the most adorable way.

I want to reach out and touch just one dark strand.

Oh, what the hell.

Emboldened, I do exactly that.

And he lets me.

I’ve never touched him before, not like this.

My fingers linger at a droplet of water at the end of the strand that’s touching his neck. I press my index finger to the drop…and next thing I know I’m touching his actual neck.

His hand goes to my cheek, where he softly caresses my sensitive skin. Our eyes lock, and we both know there’s so much we should say right now.

But neither one of us utters a word.

I think we’re too afraid we’ll sever this amazing connection we’re feeling. It’s more than the usual pull. This is something electric, something that’s pulsing in the air.

So when he lowers his face to mine and our lips finally touch, I don’t stop him.

It’s just a brush, but it’s filled with a promise of more.

And I want more. God, do I want more.

I’m about to go over the line with Brent, and I don’t care. Still, my conscience makes one final appearance and I murmur a half-hearted, “We shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re right,” he agrees.

But neither of us stops. Instead, we start kissing, really kissing. And holy hell, it’s hot. Brent Oliver is kissing me. Not all aggressively like I expected him to, but softly and tenderly, which is probably worse for my restraint.

Yeah, it is. I melt in his arms and let out a whimper. To which he becomes a little more forceful.

Passions we’ve been fighting are ignited. And fuck touching that one strand of hair; my hands go all up in his dark locks. His hair is damp all over, but so incredibly soft. A striking contrast to a guy who’s so hard everywhere else.

Speaking of which, his substantial erection is pressing into my belly. No Brent 51 tonight. I’m going for the real thing.

I swear I hear bells ringing in my head, like a joyful jubilation that this girl is about to get laid by a massive c—

Wait, those aren’t bells in my head. Someone is ringing the doorbell downstairs like a goddamn maniac.

Pulling away from Brent, I breathlessly inquire, “Who the hell rings a doorbell like that at this hour?”

His eyes, hooded with lust, scan down my body. Lowering his head to nuzzle my neck, he murmurs, “Who cares?”

Not me.

But while Brent sucks and nibbles at the sensitive skin along my collarbone, the incessant ringing continues. It’s like the worst make-out soundtrack ever.

“Christ,” he breathes against me. “I don’t think whoever’s down there is going to give up anytime soon.”

I sigh. “Yeah, me neither.”

Smiling, he takes my hand and says, “Come on. We can go kill ’em together.”