The words would usually thrill. He needed to lose himself in sex and the moment. But Wolfe realized nothing was going to help tonight. He could fake it, and force an orgasm, but it would make him feel dirty. And he’d promised years ago he’d never make himself feel that way again.
The choice gave him pause for only a moment. No. He refused to wake up the morning steeped in shame because he lied. He lied enough without heaping more on his soul. Wolfe teetered between faking a sudden stomach bug or dealing with feminine wrath. Once again, honesty won out.
“Brit, I’m so sorry. I can’t do this right now. My head’s not on right.”
She never paused, just strode over and gripped his soft dick between her hands. “Not your little head I want right now, babe,” she drawled. He winced at her roughness. “I’m more interested in your other one.”
Awkward.
He slowly and deliberately removed her hands. “That one isn’t working well tonight. Listen, I’m sorry I led you on.” Ah hell, a little lie wouldn’t hurt. “I’m not feeling too well.”
She frowned. “Need to use the bathroom? I can wait.”
Ugh. Wolfe shook his head and grabbed his phone. He tapped out a text for his Purity driver to pick her up and take her home. “No, I think this is gonna be a long night. I really need to be alone. I’ll have my driver meet you out front.”
She cocked her head and considered. Probably realizing the combination of rejection and bullshit lies. Finally, God smiled upon him and she nodded, grabbing her purse. “Sure. I don’t want our first time to be memorable that way. I’ll catch you next time?”
“Absolutely.” Okay, so he had chickened out, but he couldn’t deal with the whole talk thing right now. He’d tackle the dialogue next time they saw each other. She didn’t kiss him good-bye. Just winked and strode out of the condo with a practiced swing of her hips.
Wolfe let out a groan of relief.
Blessed silence settled in. He brought the glasses to the sink, glancing around his place. Why did the space feel so empty? Usually he liked the simplicity and no-nonsense decor. He thought of his apartment as a good location to decompress, spend time alone, and refuel for work. But it never felt like home.
Gen’s place did.
Was it the bungalow? Charming decor, bright colors, crooked pavement, and stuck windows lent an aura of charm. Or was it Gen? The way she exploded from room to room in a rush of activity, scattering her belongings and scent in a trail? The way she liked the television and music loud? The OCD habit of alphabetizing her books by author’s last name?
He rubbed his forehead. Things were getting too complicated. He might not be bedding Brit tonight, but Wolfe needed to make sure Gen believed he had. They needed the distance and reminder they weren’t lovers. He’d sleep here tonight, say nothing about his date, and let natural conclusions do the speaking for him. Technically, it wouldn’t be a lie.
The image of Gen standing before him in soft cotton, damp skin, and no panties slammed through his mind. His dick rose to full attention, and Wolfe groaned. He needed release, and there was only one way to do it.
He closed his eyes, unbuckled his pants, and stroked himself to a shuddering orgasm with Gen’s name hovering on his lips.
“IT’S GONNA HURT.”
Gen lay down on a padded bench, her rear up in the air and her pants resting on the lower part of her hips. A bit intimate but not much she could do. Gen looked into her friend’s worried face and patted her hand. “I’m used to needles. I got this.”
Kate bit her lip and averted her gaze from the whirring instrument inches away from Gen’s skin. “Do you need alcohol?”
“No drinking in my shop,” the artist interjected. He wore leather pants and a black T-shirt, and had long, braided dark hair. His ink was all black and detailed the stations of the cross on both arms. Fascinating. Verily’s only tattoo parlor sat at the edge of town. The owner was the nephew of Tattoo Tony from a small shop in Marlboro whose claim to fame was once having detailed Cher’s famous ink on her rear. “No refund on tats, so sober customers only.”
Gen laughed at her friend’s withering stare. “Fine. Just make sure you’re not looking at her naked ass,” Kate whipped back.
The artist rolled his eyes. “Lady, you wouldn’t believe some of the places I put tats. There’s nothing I haven’t seen.”
Gen spoke up. “Sorry, just ignore her.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not you, too? You should’ve seen Arilyn with Officer Petty. She turned into a raging bitch.”
“Our Arilyn?” Kate asked in amazement. “Impossible.”
“I swear! She accused him of not doing his job and got all mouthy. I think he was hot for her. There was something almost electric in the air. Oh, and he smokes.”
Kate gasped. “That’ll never work. I’m worried about her yoga teacher. She seems a bit mopey lately. Think he’s cheating again?”
“Probably. He screwed around on her twice, hiding it in a bunch of bullshit about men not being naturally monogamous and embracing their innate tendencies. He’s a player.”
“Should we talk to her again?”
“No. She needs to come to the conclusion on her own. Same way I did with David.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
The artist leaned over her ass and spoke brusquely. “Ready? I’m gonna be a while.”
“Ready.” Excitement slithered through her. Maybe this was what it felt like being a bad girl. Izzy would be proud of her. The thought of her twin sent a pang of regret through her, and Gen wondered if she should try to reach out again. Maybe since her screwup with David, Izzy would be more apt to have a conversation.