Bastian

Although I’m still tired from being so sick last week, seeing Julia helps me forget all of that. Who knew she’d be the best kind of medicine?

She’s quiet as I drive her to La Mariposa, but when she catches my gaze, she smiles. I hope that this is a sign that she’s forgiven me for ghosting on her last week.

Just seeing her in that little black dress? I’m hard already. I can smell a whiff of perfume, and it makes everything worse. She’s not wearing as much makeup as last weekend, but she’s still beautiful, no matter how much or how little lipstick she has on. I have to force myself to watch the road because I’m about to start counting the freckles scattered across her nose.

Jesus, I’m turning into a sentimental dork. Lucian would laugh at me if he knew I was thinking about counting a woman’s freckles. He’d also say that I have it bad. I clench my hands on the steering wheel.

I can’t say that he’d be wrong, either.

Arriving at the restaurant, I take Julia into a private room that has benches filled with brightly colored cushions and pillows. The lighting is dim but warm, and it smells like spices and fruit. I order us a pitcher of sangria to share, which cools me down some but doesn’t stop me from staring at Julia across from me.

She’s looking at the menu, though, biting her lip with her front teeth. It’s an adorable little quirk she has, and it makes me want to nip at that bottom lip. Which leads to thoughts of how she arched underneath me, how hot and wet and tight she was, how good she tasted…

I have to shift some in my seat, my trousers tightening uncomfortably.

We order various tapas to share, the sangria constantly flowing, and Julia warms up to me again. She’s laughing and teasing, her eyes shining.

“So how was your week?” When she gives me a look, I add, “Except for me ghosting on you, that is.”

Luckily, she’s the type who doesn’t hold grudges. She smiles, but then sighs. “Nothing much to tell. Work, work, sleep, work. The usual.”

I take a sip of sangria, which is sweet and cold, perfect for the warm evening. “Do you work somewhere else? Besides Cooper’s?”

“Not right now, no. I worked part time at Greta’s, the clothing store downtown. But let’s just say I wasn’t as polite to the clientele as my manager wanted.”

I know Greta’s is a snobby kind of place, and I can just imagine Julia getting irritated with rich, gossipy old ladies who come in to buy their Sunday church dresses.

“But what about you?” she asks, raising a blond eyebrow. “Since you were so busy with work, something must have gone down.”

Ah. So she’s naturally assumed that me being busy was about work, and though it’s on the tip of my tongue to correct her, I don’t. Not yet, I tell myself. She’s just forgiven me. She deserves to relax and have a good time without me bringing her down. And frankly, after the week I’ve had, I deserve to enjoy some time with her, too. So work it is. “My brother, Lucian, and I came up with a strategy regarding Ryland. We seem to be making progress, but he’s still not our number-one fan, shall we say.”

Our tapas arrive, and I watch as Julia samples each. She moans a little when she eats some of the goat cheese and bread, and it sends a zing down my spine. Does she have any idea how sexy she is, doing that? Watching her, I realize she probably has no idea, which makes it even more alluring.

“So you mentioned you used to be a music major. That you sing and play the guitar. Do you miss your studies?”

She shrugs. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but instead is intently looking at the tapas plate in front of her. I’m reminded of how she’d frozen me out when I’d asked her similar questions on the way to her place after the concert. Maybe she’s embarrassed about dropping out of school, and I admit the fact that she did surprises me. She seems too smart and savvy to give up on a college education like that.

I wonder: did something happen? My gut churns, thinking of possibilities. I then swirl my sangria before taking another sip. Seeing that her glass is empty, I refill it.

“May I ask why you dropped out of college?” I ask.

She drinks her sangria, swallowing a few mouthfuls. Her expression is grim, and I have a feeling she’s not going to share this part of her life with me. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she admits.

I’m hurt, I won’t lie. But I shrug it off. “Then at least tell me about your music. Even if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I smile encouragingly. She’s shy about it at first, but as she talks, she becomes more animated. She talks about composition and range and harmonies and melodies until my head spins, but the excitement in her voice is intoxicating. I wonder again why she’d give up something she so obviously loves. Even I don’t love my work as much as Julia loves singing and playing. I wish, suddenly, that I could hear her play.

Our conversation comes back around to Ryland Masters. Can I not get rid of him for at least one evening? But Julia doesn’t seem to know that he’s into her, and I’m fine with that. Let the kid pine from afar; she’s mine now.

“Just hearing his music, though,” she says, her sangria glass in hand, “shows that he’s a risk taker. I know you think that investment isn’t a great idea, but I don’t think you’re looking at it through his perspective.”

“But why hire a financial advisor if you won’t let yourself be advised?” I counter.

“Advice is one thing; refusing to look at both sides is another.” She points at me; she’s a little tipsy, and it’s adorable. “Did you even look at the business he’s interested in? Or did you see that it’s not foolproof and say no?”

When I don’t respond, she raises her eyebrows.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sometimes,” she says prosaically, “things are simpler than you realize.”

As we talk strategy and Ryland and things I never, ever talk about with girlfriends, I become more and more impressed with Julia: she’s sharp as a tack. She analyzes situations with an astuteness that is rare in someone so young. She’s not that much younger than me, but she doesn’t have the experience in the field that I do. Yet for some reason, she gets a situation and is able to take it apart, understand each side and angle.

Leaning back as the waiter takes our dishes, I half-wonder if I should hire her myself.

After we finish eating, we go back out to my car. Julia is fumbling with her purse. When she looks up at me, she blushes, biting her lip. She fidgets, leaning against the car door.

Going solely on instinct, I lean down and kiss her. She stiffens at first, but then melts instantly. She tastes of sangria, and I can’t get enough. I deepen the kiss. Tangling her fingers in my hair, she presses up against me. If she didn’t feel my hard-on already, she’ll definitely feel it now.

I can’t stop wanting her.

When she pulls away for a gasp of air, I say, “Come back to my place tonight?”

Her eyes are wide, a little glassy. She’s breathing hard enough that it pushes her breasts up in her dress.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

Julia

His last name. The sharp suit and office. His fancy car. All those things should have clued me in. But when Bastian asked me to go back to his place, I hadn’t expected this. Based on that picture in his wallet—the one of him and his sister posing in front of that cute, one-story home—and how down-to-earth he seems despite being drop-dead gorgeous and successful, I’d just assumed Bastian lived someplace nice but not over the top.

I’d assumed wrong.

The guy lives in a freaking mansion. In fact, it’s more like a complex than just a mansion.

We pull in through a gate in the wall surrounding the property and down a long driveway. All around me are the trappings of extreme wealth and sophistication, and when I imagine coming for a visit, driving my old car up to his house, me sitting inside in my grocery store uniform that still has stains from wing sauce on it, I want to cringe.

As the main part of the driveway curves around in front of the house, a portion of it branches off toward a massive three-car garage with a living space above it. There’s a covered walkway from the garage to the main part of the house, through which I can see a latticework fence blocking off the backyard.

The house is that peach-color stucco seen in so many Southwestern or Mexican-style homes. The roof of each individual section is done in curved red tiles. The windows are all arched. Above the main entranceway, two glass doors open onto a small balcony with a curved wrought-iron railing running across the front and along the sides.

There is a large stone fountain in the grass in the middle of the circular driveway. The water shoots straight up from the top and flows down into several stone baths before finally falling into a pool contained behind a stone wall at the bottom. I’m willing to bet there are actual fish living in the bottom of that fountain. Something tells me that anyone who would own a house this expansive would probably want fish in their fountain.

This is a far cry from the little bitty cracker-box house in that photo.

The little house in the photograph would have been a decent place to raise the perfect smiling family, but this mansion would be the ideal place for anything.

And suddenly, I wonder what in the world I’m doing here, at this glorious house. With this glorious man.

“Everything okay?” Bastian suddenly asks.

“What? Um…yeah. It’s just…your house is incredible.”

“Thanks. A bit big for one person, but I like it.”

He parks in front of the three-story garage, gets out, opens my door, and helps me out of the car. His hand on the small of my back, he guides me toward the pathway leading from the garage to the side of the house.

His touch makes me jittery and anxious to be in his arms, but alarms are sounding in my head, telling me I’ve already developed feelings for Bastian, and if I sleep with him again, I know those feelings are just going to get stronger. And really, even though I said I wanted to keep things casual and that I’ll be fine when he’s ready to walk away, I’m convinced more than ever after seeing his house that he’ll be walking away very soon.

Which is why I suddenly freeze in my tracks.

“Julia?”

I want to run. Run from everything I’m feeling for his incredible man. But at the same time, I know that will be a big mistake. Sure, he’s going to leave me eventually, but do I really want to lose out on the opportunity to spend as much time with him as I can before that happens?

I take a deep breath, trying to gather my courage. I just need a minute. Time to compose myself before we go inside that beautiful house and enter what I’m sure will be an equally beautiful bedroom, all perfectly in keeping with this beautiful life, of which I stick out like a major sore thumb.

Glancing over my shoulder, I point to his garage. “You have other cars in there?”

God, why did I ask that? His sleek Audi is incredible enough. What if he’s got a Porsche or a Rolls-Royce in there?

His eyebrows rise at my question. “Um, yes. A truck. And a couple of bikes. Motorcycles.”

“Wait, you ride?” I can’t believe it. A health nut, filthy rich, and a rebel?

“Hell yeah, I ride. I’ve got a Ducati. But I also have an old Harley I’m trying to get running again.”

Holy shit, I think, my unease forgotten. “I love motorcycles. My dad used to collect old bikes. He was a mechanic, and motorcycles were kind of his specialty.”

“Were?”

“He died of a heart attack when I was sixteen. Now it’s just me and my mom.” Unable to help myself, I glance toward the garage and he grins. Sticking his hands in his pocket, he tilts his head in that direction. “Want to see?”

“Sure.”

“So you know a little bit about motorcycles?”

“I know enough to ride one and take care of it so it keeps running,” I tease him with a laugh.

“Well, then, maybe you can get it running.”

When I see the bright blue Ducati, I swear I almost have an orgasm on the spot. “It’s gorgeous.” I take in all the sleek lines with proper appreciation, and then gasp when Bastian pulls a drop cloth off his other bike.

“Wow,” I say when I see the classic black motorcycle. “This looks like a 1956 Harley-Davidson FLH Hydra-Glide Super Sport.”

Bastian grins. “So you know the make and year. What else can you tell me about this bike of mine?” His voice is both teasing and challenging.

Oh, that’s right; I’m just a girl. I’m not supposed to know these things.

“Well, let’s see. You’ve got the Panhead engine they introduced in the late forties and the hydraulic front-end suspension that they’d introduced just a few years before this baby was made. I see you’ve added a custom seat that’s a little longer, to allow someone else to ride with you.”

Ignoring the fact that I’m wearing a black dress, I crouch down next to the engine and take a look at what he’s already done to try to get it running.

“So, you grew up around these things, huh?” he asks, standing over me.

Standing again, I look around, then without even asking, I grab a couple of tools, then return to crouch next to the bike, making a few adjustments here and there as I speak.

“Yep, my dad worked on them a lot when I was little. There are pictures of me sitting on his motorcycles or taking them out for rides with him when they were fixed and running. The thing with these old bikes is you have to keep on them. You can’t let them sit for too long. You can’t not perform regular maintenance, or else they’ll just die on you. At the same time, they’re a lot easier to work on, just like with older cars.”

“Oh, so you know about cars, too, now,” he says, his voice sounding odd, and when I turn around, I see his gaze plastered not on what I’m doing to his bike, but the way my dress is riding up my thighs. When he catches me looking, he winks.

“I know a thing or two.” I tinker with the bike for another minute, then stand and wipe my hands with a rag he hands me. “Give her a shot now,” I tell him.

He looks skeptical, takes out his keys from his pocket, climbs on, and cranks her up.

The bike comes to life instantly and purrs like she’s brand-new.

“What did you do? That fast?” He looks at me in amazement.

“There’s nothing wrong with this bike,” I tell him. “And if you have to ask what was wrong with her, you’ll never know. Best to hire a good mechanic.” I can’t deny I sort of feel like a badass for getting his bike running.

“Or maybe I can just have you over more often and we can work on the bike together.”

Am I seriously warped that working on this bike with him sounds almost as good as everything else I’ve done with him thus far?

Almost.

All of a sudden, seeing him on that rumbling bike, picturing him speeding down the road with me on the back, arms around him, his powerful hips between my thighs…well, let’s just say I’m more than ready to head inside his fancy house now.

So I reach over, turn the engine off, then kiss him.

Bastian

It’s clear as day that Julia’s turned on by the fact I ride motorcycles. She’s turned on by the fact she got my bike running. As for me? Seeing her crouching uninhibited next to my bike, tinkering with it, I’m tempted to rip off her black dress and test out how well the bike withstands the rough ride I want to give her.

But as much as I’d be up for that another day, right now all I want is her on her back, in a comfortable bed where we can spend hours just savoring one another. So I kiss Julia back, spearing her mouth with my tongue, tangling her hair in my hand, squeezing her breasts and ass, but as I do, I awkwardly maneuver her out of the garage and into the house. When we’re inside, I sweep her into my arms and carry her upstairs to my room, grateful I’d cleaned up all evidence that I’d been ill. Nothing like a thermometer and ginger ale bottles strewn everywhere to kill the mood.

“I want you, Bastian,” she says in a low voice. She shimmies against me.

I stroke my hands up her sides, cupping her breasts. I squeeze, and she moans. Leaning down, I kiss between her cleavage, licking along that line. She tastes like flowers and salt; it’s intoxicating.

My hands rove some more. My fingers climb up her dress, but then she jerks away like I’ve stung her.

“Um,” she says, blushing, “sorry. I’m ticklish.”

I laugh, reaching for her. “I’ll be careful.”

Now that we’re inside, she seems distracted, though, like she did when we’d first pulled up to the house. I tip her chin up. “What’s wrong, Julia?”

She bites her lip. She fidgets. She makes an annoyed sound before blurting, “My underwear. I don’t want you to see it. It’s not…sexy.”

That’s all? I laugh, but seeing her expression, I sober. “Julia,” I say as I kiss the side of her neck, “you’re bloody gorgeous and you just got my bike running, looking smoking hot while doing it. I don’t care if you’re wearing a metal chastity belt. I want you. I’ll always want you.”

I keep kissing her, licking and nibbling. She sighs, her hands clenched in my shirt.

“Can we turn off the lights?” she asks, her voice soft.

Hell no, I think. I want to see all of her. But looking at her face, seeing how uncomfortable she is, I control my baser instincts. “Anything you want,” I say.