“It’s too early for this,”

  Lark protests as I push into her, my cock tingling to be back inside her.

  “An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away.” I chuckle low in her ear, reaching my other hand to roll her nipple between my fingers.

  “Shut up and give me one then.”

  She sleepily protested for half a second when I began rubbing circles above her hip, but fuck, I couldn’t help it. She felt so goddamn good this morning, her perfect ass nestled against my throbbing morning wood. No matter that my dick was sore from the two rounds of epic fucking we’d done when I brought her home last night, I want more.

  “Your wish is my command, doll.”

  I drive slow and deep, taking my lazy morning time as I bring us to the brink of sanity.

  Doing this with her right now feels more intimate than it did last night, regardless of the fact that she rode me reverse cowgirl, and I got to watch her ass bounce on my groin. When I brought her home from the bar, we attacked each other the minute she unlocked the door. Multiple positions, some light breath play, and her doing this incredible thing with the skin between my sack and ass.

  But this? Just some morning missionary? It feels comfortable. Content. Regular. Which, in turn, feels very, very intimate because only people who are familiar with each other or seriously dating do something that feels like this. Slow and measured make two people feel everything, they have to think about what this sex is when it isn’t frenzied and chaotic.

  “Collin.” She moans, her nails raking down my back.

  Reaching between us, I strum my thumb over her clit like I’m playing her to climax. My balls ache with the need to release, the head of my dick so heavy and hot that I know I’m about to spill into the condom any second.

  “You better come, doll.” I use my nickname for her, the special name only for her.

  “Oh God.” She gasps, then I feel the shivers wrack her body.

  I follow, cursing out my release as I flex my hips harshly between her thighs. We’re breathless, living in the space where only pleasure exists.

  When I’m finally able to lift my head, Lark is smiling with her eyes closed.

  “Missionary is a new one. Seems vanilla for us.”

  Us. The way she just referred to her and I has my heart doing dangerous things.

  I roll off of her, walking over to the garbage can in her room and peeling off the condom before throwing it in the pink plastic can. Lark’s bedroom is much more girly than I ever took her for. Sure, she wears those frilly lace shirts and pearl earrings, but I never thought her entire bedroom would be pale pink. But here I am, lying in a velvet pink bed with a cloud soft white lace comforter, looking at professional framed prints of Paris and Italy hanging over her dresser.

  Her entire apartment has this elegant comfort vibe, with lots of neutral tones mixed with soft pink. Gold accents and little tchotchkes make the whole place feel perfectly decorated yet lived in.

  Crawling back up the bed, I pull her into my arms.

  “Don’t shit on missionary’s name. It’s a very nice position. Gives you ample time to look in the other person’s eyes, good for the back, no heavy lifting required. Sometimes simple is better. Plus, there is something fucking hot about driving between your legs and watching what it does to you.”

  Lark can’t fight the small smile that tugs at her lips. “Fine. You win.”

  “Excuse me? Say that again?” I tease her.

  She hits my chest. “Fuck off.”

  That wasn’t what she said last night. I drove her home, came upstairs, and we fucked each other’s brains out before I pulled her against me in bed. And Lark made no protest. I half expected her to kick me out after she came, but she snuggled up with me. It was our second time sleeping in the same bed, and it was strange that my typically sew-my-wild-oats philosophy didn’t kick in.

  For the first time, I don’t have alarm bells going off in my head that something serious might be afoot, and that running in the opposite direction might be crucial. Maybe it’s because I know she could hurt me worse than I could hurt her.

  There’s always been something about Lark, from the first time we met, that had me sniffing like a dog chasing a bone. She never gave me the time of day, had cut me down on our few run-ins, barely acknowledged me at the radio station, and deflected the rare pickup line I shot her way.

  “You hated me on sight. Why?” I’ve never straight-up asked her, and I want to know now.

  “Huh?” She burrows into my chest sleepily.

  “In college, you hated me. What did I do?”

  “I didn’t hate you.” I can hear her sarcastic tone even as her mouth presses against my chest.

  “I remember the first time you walked into the station. Jean shorts and this skimpy blue tank top. God, I thought you were fucking gorgeous. But I opened my mouth to talk to someone else and the next second I turned to ask your name, you were scowling at me. Turned on your heel and stormed away.”

  “You remember what I was wearing?” She blinks slowly.

  “You’re pretty memorable wherever you go, doll.” I say it nonchalantly, but I revealed a little more than I wanted to there. “But come on, why’d you hate me?”

  Those bottomless blue eyes finally meet mine, our naked bodies intertwined like lovers who have much more history in a bedroom than we do.

  “I decided a long time ago that I would never let anyone treat me like my high school boyfriend did. We met sophomore year, I waited seven months before giving it up. Thought I was in love, the whole spiel of young, stupid love, you know? What I didn’t know, but soon learned, was that each and every time we had sex, the entire football locker room got a full debrief. In graphic detail, down to what I’d say. Eventually, it got back to me, but not until he’d been doing it for a few months. It was humiliating, hearing my entire sex life picked apart in the halls. There is always gossip like that, it’s high school, but this was different. Intimate details of what I did, and it made me feel ashamed.”

  “I hope you castrated him,” I mumble, my blood boiling.

  “Don’t worry, I nearly broke his nose with the right hook I threw.” I grin proudly.

  I bump my fist to hers. “Atta, girl.”

  She blinks shyly, and I can tell I just won points with her for being supportive.

  “Anyway, I realized, a few days after that punch, that I’d done nothing wrong. I’d been having sex with someone I loved, who I thought loved me. And even if we hadn’t been in love, I was doing something I was comfortable with that made me feel good. As long as sex is like that, there should be zero shame involved. It shouldn’t even matter that we talk about it with others, because we’re giving it from our own point of view. We give people this hold over us, like their judgment of what we choose to do physically matters. It doesn’t, at it’s core. You just have to shift your mindset. That’s what I hope I’m doing for other women and girls like me.”

  And then it dawns on me. It strikes me that one of the reasons Lark has disliked me for so long is because I remind her of him.

  “You thought I was just like him. Do you think what I do is like what he did to you? Talking about sex on my podcast, about the girls I hook up with? Jesus, my podcast is called Pickup Games for fuck’s sake.”

  I start to sit up, my head reeling from it all.

  “At first, yeah, I did. Do you remember what you said to that guy at the radio station the first time we met? You told him that you wanted a show on hookup culture. And I immediately thought ‘stay far away from this asshole.’ For a really long time I thought that; that you were the exact same person as my high school boyfriend. It sucked to be proved wrong so many times with how you treated the radio station staff, with how you spoke about women respectfully even if you weren’t committing. Then Cast About came knocking and I loathed that you got a spot too. It was about competition, and I’m as stubborn as they come. I didn’t want to be wrong about you, so I just dug my heels in.”

  “Aren’t you still digging your heels in?” Something flutters in my chest as the tightness that always exists whenever Lark comes around gives way.

  “You’re in my bed naked, aren’t you?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “So I’m not like him, huh?” I prod, needing to hear it again.

  “Collin, you might be a cocky, somewhat juvenile, handsome bro. But you’re not a prick. Nothing about you is malicious. You talk about your own sexual experience, the same way I do on my podcast. You aren’t grading women’s bodies or disclosing the private conversations you have. You celebrate the raw sexuality of the girls you sleep with, I had zero problem with you talking about our encounter on your podcast. So no, you’re nothing like him.”

  My smile is so wide my cheeks hurt.

  “And now you’re preening like a game cock,” she mumbles, rolling away from me.

  “I’ll show you a game cock.” I tickle her sides. “So humor me; why do you hate Sydney? Was it because of me? Because you were awfully chilly to her in that staff meeting.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Sydney has had a mediocre podcast for years. The only reason she’s so popular is because she tricked that chef into admitting the details of her open marriage on her show and it’ll go down in history. If there is one thing I hate more than blatant shit-talking on a podcast, it’s an undeserving host.”

  “I mean … that was kind of epic.” I trace the freckles up and down her arm.

  Lark shakes her head, her hair tickling my armpit. “I just don’t love that Sydney got that exclusive and has gone on for years to do nothing to capitalize on it. She’s stagnant.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Competitive,” she counters.

  “Don’t I know it. You might still cut me at the knees for that Monday slot.”

  “Oh, believe that I will. I might not hate you anymore, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be ruthless for something I truly want.”

  Therein lies the crux of our problem. I’m a guy who is respectful but doesn’t want commitment, and she’s a girl who likes what I provide in the bedroom but would take me out if it means she advances professionally.

  I walk to the window and push back her closed white linen curtains. “You know anyone can see in these, right?”

  Lark stands at her dresser, brushing that midnight black mane. “Eh, it’s whatever. If someone wants a show, they can have it. My body is just a body.”

  “Your body is a work of fucking art.” Jealousy, like I’ve never felt, seizes my veins.

  “Don’t worry, Casanova. I’m not currently letting anyone else touch it. But a peep show or two? Eh, there is something hot about a little voyeur action.”

  Her statement catches me off guard. “You saying we’re exclusive?”

  Lark snorts. “Collin, we’ve had sex three times in the last ten days. If you thought I had time to go out and find another partner, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought. I’m not saying exclusive, I’m saying I’m busy with work and you’re the only dick I’m jumping on right now. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if you had time to bring someone else home.”

  “We’re really going to have this talk?” I’m not opposed to it, but nothing about Lark or our situation leads me to believe she needs a label or reassurance.

  Still, I want to talk about it. For the first time in my life, in the most inconvenient of situations, I want to talk about this.

  “You’re the one who just went all macho when I mentioned someone else seeing my tits. I think you want to talk about this.” She grins.

  That hits me like a ton of bricks, and I have to sit down to cope with the dizziness. “I … do.”

  “Don’t sound so enthused.” She chuckles, crawling to the end of the bed to sit next to me. “Wait, have you never had this talk? Ever?”

  I shake my head, trying to suck in breaths and concentrate on exhaling through my nose. “Never.”

  I never wanted to. But sitting here, naked for the third time with this woman, it’s terrifying and shocking that I want to give us a label. That I want her to reassure me, I’m the only one right now.

  “Jesus, you’re more of a man child than I thought. Um, okay. Well, usually I tell guys that I don’t need a label, I don’t want a boyfriend, but if we’re fucking regularly then I don’t want a dick inside me that’s also been inside numerous other girls that week.”

  “How poetic.” A laugh cracks out of me.

  “What, did you want to provide more romance to this promise?”

  “A promise.” It seems simpler than what I thought a typical conversation about relationships would be like. “I can do a promise.”

  “I guess I can, too.”

  “I promise I won’t fuck other people if you won’t.” I hold out a hand for her to shake.

  Lark stares at it then slides her palm against mine. “Wow, how about that for a change in direction.”

  As we smile small, satisfied little grins at each other, I expect my stomach to bottom out. I expect sweat to pool at the back of my neck or nauseous bile to creep up my throat. Anytime a girl has mentioned the smallest bit of commitment over the years, I’ve run like my feet are on fire. But here I sit, in Lark’s apartment, holding her hand the morning after sleeping in her bed, and I’m as sure as I’ve ever been.

  Maybe there is something to the theory about knowing when you find the right person.

  But I do need a little space. I want to make sure I don’t regret this, which has been my biggest fear about fucking up when it comes to commitment, so I stand and pace for a minute. Going back to the window, I pull back the curtains once more.

  “It’s snowing.” I grin at the layer of white outside, then turn to smile over my shoulder.

  “Let me guess, you’re one of those people who cherishes the first fall of precious white over this suburban land?”

  “You make it sound so poetic, doll. Makes me think you cherish it, too. But yeah, who doesn’t love the sight of a first snow. Makes you feel like a kid.”

  “Yeah, a kid who was pelted in the head with snowballs or slipped and fell on the way to school.”

  “You know, Renée was right about that alpha roll thing. Anyways, up and at ’em.”

  Lark shifts around under her sheets, and I want to strip them back to see her in her beautiful naked glory. “What? No.”

  “We’re going for a walk. It’s tradition during the first now.” I reach down and pull my jeans from last night on, wishing they were sweatpants.

  “We’re not doing anything of the sort. I’m staying in bed, you’re going home, and you can do traditions with people who actually believe in them.”

  I bounce onto her bed, shirtless with my fly hanging open, and start tickling her.

  “Stop it!” Lark shrieks, writhing as I make her laugh and yelp.

  Once I let up, she huffs out a breath and pushes her mussed-up hair out of her face. “You’re so fucking annoying, you know that?”

  “I do. But you’re fucking beautiful, and I don’t feel like going home. I feel like going for a walk with you and curing you of some of this ridiculous anti-Christmas bullshit.”

  She blinks up at me. “We’re not dating, Collin. Curing someone, celebrating traditions, going for walks … that’s all outside of the realm of what we’re doing.”

  “You just said we’re exclusive, so I’d say it’s not.” I give her a shit-eating grin.

  “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Her full, kissable lips purse in an annoyed fashion.

  “Nah. You’re going to enjoy it.”

  And begrudgingly, she does. Lark lets me take her for a walk in the snow, a fuzzy pink scarf wrapped around her neck. I even hold her hand, which is a first for a guy like me.

  Maybe Christmas does work miracles.

  13

  LARK

  The next two days pass in a flash, between preparing for interviews and spending another night at Collin’s place.

  Our entire “promise” is a complete secret, and although we haven’t explicitly talked about it, I know he’s not telling anyone about us, just like I’m not. Especially anyone at work.

  Not that I’d tell anyone to begin with, but especially not while I’m still grappling with the fact that we promised to be exclusive. I haven’t had this kind of agreement with a guy in over three years, and the last person on earth I ever thought I’d have that conversation with is Collin.

  Our hookups are becoming a regular thing, so it made sense to talk about us not sleeping with other people. But the discussion feels like more than that. We’re two people who danced around each other for a long time, and I held very tight opinions about his character up until recently.

  But it’s strange, no part of me feels uneasy about agreeing to be exclusive with Collin. It’s not like we’re dating. We’re not falling in love or calling ourselves a couple. It’s a mutual respect thing to keep ourselves safe and healthy.

  So why do I have this strange urge to text him every hour of the day or look forward to the meetups that seem to keep happening nightly?

  It figures that the world would throw me a curve ball like this. Being incredibly attracted to the one guy who is my competition. Love has never come easy in my life, it’s something I had to fight tooth and nail for.

  Even now, I can truly say, with the exception of Renée, that I don’t really have it. Sure, I have other close friends, I admire the people I work with, and there are some fun girls at the spin studio. But I don’t have real, genuine love.

  I’m not in love with Collin, I don’t want to be, but it does figure that the world is being so cruel in its choice of an entanglement for me. Nothing in my life when it’s come to relationships or intimacy has been easy, and I want to curse the sky for challenging me with my coworker, who I want to hate.

  Especially since his podcast beat mine on the charts today.

  My fingernails are chewed and destroyed, and the need to get a manicure is high on my list before returning to the office for my in-person interview in two days. I guess that’s what happens when I spend the morning constantly refreshing the charts, checking to see how my episode in this first half of the week faired against Collin’s.