His lips twitched over the top of his bottle. "Yeah, I'd say we're pretty good friends at this point, Larrington," he drawled.
"And we're both consenting adults who happen to be amazing in bed together." It was more of a statement rather than a question.
He arched a brow and quirked one side of his mouth up into a lopsided leer. "Oh, I definitely agree," he said darkly.
"I want you to know that I'm not looking for anything more than that. I don't want anything more than that."
"Go on," he prompted, thinking that Alisha Larrington could quite possibly be the coolest chick in existence.
"Look, I don't see this sexual chemistry between us fading anytime soon, so I think we should continue this until we stop having fun. When one of us stops having fun, we walk away, no harm, no foul."
"Just like that?" he asked.
"Just like that," she nodded.
No longer possibly the coolest chick in existence, he decided. She was the coolest. "I like it, Alisha. You gonna stay now?"
She grinned. "One more thing." His response was another quirked brow. "I want to keep this just between us and I especially don't want Maggie, James or Russell to find out. Their interference would take some of the fun away and I don't want that."
He stepped towards her, slowly bridging the gap. "Your dirty little secret, huh, Larrington?" he whispered hoarsely, twirling a lock of dark hair around his finger, looking down into mischievous brown eyes. She nodded again. "That's fucking hot. I'm game." Her answering smile was slow and sexy and made his blood swim south. "Are we agreed now so I can get your clothes off?"
Alisha gave a throaty little laugh as she took a step back and undid the buttons on her coat. "I think we are." She slowly peeled back her coat, letting it slip to the floor as his eyes went wide and his jaw fell open.
Big's heart thundered loudly in his ears as his eyes took in the matching black lace bra and garter, complete with black thigh highs and stilettos he hadn't bothered to notice until now. Her golden skin glowed in the low lighting of his apartment and he was pretty sure his tongue was hanging out of his mouth from how utterly delectable she looked. He was absolutely sure, however, that his dick was already rock hard and straining uncomfortably against his zipper. She arched a questioning brow, a come-hither smile on her lips. He set the bottle down on little table by the door and stalked towards her. "Fuck, Alisha—I called you smart earlier, but I think you just might be an evil genius," he told her, running broad hands over lace covered hips and pulling her intimately against his arousal.
Her arms looped around his shoulders and she nipped along his jaw while his hands continued roaming over her ass. "Thank you, Big," she murmured against his mouth. "I think we've talked enough for a while—don't you?" She looked up under lowered lashes.
"Fuck yes," he muttered and crushed his lips to hers.
Chapter 13
Dick Clark once said, "Music is the soundtrack of your life." And for Alisha Larrington, there weren't any words truer than those.
Ever since she was a little girl, she loved how there was a song or piece of music perfectly suited for every situation or mood, almost as if the lyrics had been penned and the music composed right on the spot specifically for her. Playlists were her forte and from a very early age she'd mastered the art of creating mixed tapes (Yeah, remember those things?) and burning CDs, selecting the songs, choosing the absolute perfect order in which those songs would play. And now, thanks to the invention of the iPod, her playlist making skills had been sharpened and honed even further. (Thank you, Steve Jobs.)
Over the years she'd created mixes and playlists for nearly every occasion imaginable—happy moods, sad moods, first love, lost love, vacations, road trips, summertime, snow time, rainy days, days that end in Y, pool parties, workouts, study sessions, graduations—you name it, and chances are she'd made a play list (or five) for it.
She wasn't a music snob by any means (she was an enthusiast), even though people often assumed she must be with her chosen career and extensive background. But it was quite the contrary. In her mind, Jay Z's Big Pimpin' fit a certain mood just as well as Mozart fit another. If she were to make a playlist right now to span the last couple of weeks in her life, there wouldn't be anything classical (or even classy) on it whatsoever. She was pretty sure it would sound an awful lot like the set list at a strip club. At the very least it would be Marvin Gaye's Let's Get it On and Nine Inch Nails' Closer repeated over and over and over again with maybe a sprinkling of George Michael's I Want Your Sex thrown in for good measure.
These were the thoughts that flitted through her mind one afternoon as he laid her back against the cushions of her couch, his lips teasing her neck and his hand inching under the hem of her cashmere sweater to stroke calloused fingers along her ribcage. A delicious shiver coursed through her, making her hum softly in the back of her throat. She skimmed fingertips over broad shoulders and muscled biceps, the softness of his Henley shirt beneath her touch a stark disparity to the strength of his body. He nipped and licked at the sensitive spot just below her ear, making her arch and press her body closer to his, her denim clad legs slinking effortlessly around his hips.
She rather felt like a horny teenager. Though she'd certainly never had anyone this hot or this skilled kissing her when she'd actually been a teenager. Nor had she done even a fifth of what she and Big had managed to in a
