My fingers curl over his hard biceps. “Consider me wooed.”

He utters a shaky laugh. “I meant dates. Taking things slow.”

Given that my sex is wet and throbbing, the thought of “slow” sounds like torture. “Why?”

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and the rough edge of his thumb caresses my swollen bottom lip. “Call it selfish, but I want the experience of dating, that anticipation of working up to sex while getting to know you better. Because you are too important to turn into something as simple as casual sex. I don’t want to lose you to that.”

My heartbeat is in my throat, my chest a hollow ache. He looks at me as if he sees it all. As if he knows exactly how it feels to be alone when surrounded by people. I guess he knows that better than I do. His voice is like warm honey in the dark. “It’s always been people wanting you to please them. Let me give you something more. Something true.”

“John …” I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do.

He wraps me in his arms, his hand holding my head to his chest where his heart beats strong. “I don’t know where this will go, or if I’ll be any good at it, but I want to be on this road with you.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, you’ll be good at it. You already are.”

We stand there in silence, holding onto each other. My hands find their way under his shirt to his warm skin, and he trembles. Smiling, I press further against him. “Okay, but no sex at all?” I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “My brain can accept that this is a good idea, but my vag is a little hussy. She’s gonna be pouting if she’s ignored.”

John bursts out laughing, his chest brushing mine. “God, I like you.”

The awe in his voice has me nudging his side. “You don’t have to sound so surprised by this.”

“But I am,” he says with candor. He rests his chin lightly on my head. “The last girl I truly liked was Pippa Hicks in sixth year. Sweet girl. She let me look up her skirt.”

I snort. “Typical.”

Laughter laces his voice. “She also gave me the answers for our maths primer.”

My smile presses into the wall of his chest as I hide my flaming cheeks. “Oh, well, that’s a different story entirely.” His skin is smooth and warm beneath my fingertips. “I like you too.”

“Good.” He peers down at me and a grin spreads over his mouth. “Don’t you worry. I’ll pay proper attention to your sweet little kitty.” With a yelp, he backs away, evading my pinches and laughing. “She may not get the full-service meal at first, but I’ll keep her content.”

I pinch him again, and he keeps laughing, wrapping me up so my arms are trapped between us. His laughter dies down. “And we kiss.” His gaze lowers to my mouth, all hot and covetous. “A lot.”

“A lot,” I reply in a daze.

His expression is dazed as well. “Kissing you has become my favorite thing.”

My lips are still swollen and sensitive. I am completely down with this plan, but I don’t think it will go the way he intends. “You ever just make out with a girl before, John? Fool around with no sex?”

A small wrinkle forms between his brows. “No. Why?”

I grin, my clenched hands opening and pressing into the firm wall of his chest. “I’m thinking you’re about to be more tempted than you realize.”

John’s eyes light with amusement. “I’m not going to cave, Button.”

“We’ll see.”

Chapter Eighteen

John

* * *

I wake up with the lyrics to “Suddenly Stella” tripping around in my brain. Like most of my best work, the song isn’t planned, it simply pops up and takes residence in my mind. I write down several verses while I drink my morning tea, then I’m headed out to meet my muse.

She greets me with a smile, her hair glowing like a sunset around her pretty face. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Just a cup of tea.”

She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on then, Englishman in New York.”

“Where are we going?” Today, Stella is showing me a bit of her world. I admit, I’m curious as hell. Sure, we seem to bump into each other at an alarming rate, but I don’t know everything she does. I don’t know how she views life. I’ve only ever looked at the world through my own eyes. Never cared to do more … until Stella.

“Everywhere,” she says.

It quickly becomes apparent that Stella doesn’t simply live in Manhattan, she’s a part of it. I’ve lived on this island on and off my whole life, but I’ve never inhabited it the way Stella does. First off, everyone knows her. We step into a bagel shop, and two guys behind the counter immediately holler “Stella!” like a couple of lovelorn Marlon Brandos.

She greets them, cheeky as always. “Tony. Murray. Looking good, boys.”

Actually, they look like walking adverts for mustache wax or spokesmen for hipster craft beers, the type that tastes of chocolate and acacia berries or some fussy shit.

Tony, a muscle-bound Italian with a walrus mustache, serenades her with a truly awful rendition of “There She Goes” by The La’s, while Stella cringes and laughs. The place is packed, and while we wait our turn, people glance at Stella, clearly wondering who she is. I’m standing right next to her, and not one person looks my way. It’s fucking grand.

We get to the counter and the wiry, bushy-bearded Murray asks if she wants the usual.

Stella glances at me. “You have an order in mind?”

“What’s the usual?”

Her smile is coy. “You’ll just have to see if you pick that one.”

Worst-case scenario, I’ll hate it and find something else to eat later. But considering our eerie similarities in taste, I doubt that. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Two, Marco. And coffee.” Another glance at me, and I nod. “Make that three coffees.”

Murray shakes his head in resignation. “You’re too good, kid.”

“A regular saint,” she deadpans but doesn’t appear offended.

“Three?” I murmur as Murray goes off to get her order. “How thirsty are you?”

“The third isn’t for us,” she says before Tony comes over to talk her ear off. He tells her about his wife, Glory, who’s having their second kid any day now. He shakes my hand when Stella introduces me as her friend John. And then he’s back to asking her if she liked his recipe for minestrone.

“Bet it’s not as good as my apple cake recipe,” Murray says, handing over our order. While Stella grapples with the coffee, I take the bag of food and pay him. She shoots me a repressive look that I meet with a shrug. I was raised to pay for my date. I’m not sure if that’s sexist, since I’d do it if I were into dudes as well.

“They complemented each other,” she says diplomatically. “Soup for dinner. Cake for dessert.”

They’re too busy to chat anymore, and wave us goodbye.

“We can eat this at Union Square Park,” she says outside. “It’s two blocks away.”

“You going to tell me what your usual is?”

She grins wide. “An everything bagel with herb cream cheese and smoked sturgeon lox.”

My stride stutters. “Stells, our breath is going to scare people.”