Brothers of Paradise Series

“Can I ask you something?”

“Without winning a round? I don’t know. Seems greedy.” But Rhys is smiling crookedly, so I go ahead.

“How was your first time?”

He barks a laugh. “Not what I was expecting.”

“Too personal?”

“I think we’ve already strayed deep into personal territory tonight. What’s another step, right?” He loosens a long breath. “I’m not sure you’ll enjoy my answer.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for the first thing, it was spectacularly unromantic.” He raises an eyebrow. “It wasn’t what you described at all. It was more… how did you put it? Like getting my ticket to Sexville. Very poetic, by the way.”

I groan. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“I’ll try my very best not to,” Rhys says seriously, “but it might end up in my memoir, when I inevitably write one.”

“You think those words are worth preserving for posterity?”

He grimaces, but his words are sage. “That’s for posterity to decide.”

“How noble.”

“That’s me.”

I rest my head on my hand. “So it wasn’t spectacular?”

“No. It was at a party in my hometown. She was two grades above me, more experienced. We didn’t talk much before, during or after.”

“That sound fantastic,” I deadpan.

He rolls his eyes at me. “It was all right, but I reckon we’ve both had far better since then.”

“That reminds me, I’m curious. When was your last kiss before me?”

Rhys shakes his head. “We’re supposed to be talking about you.”

“Well, I’m switching things around. It’s only fair after all the things I’ve said.”

He seems to consider it, whether he should answer or not, but when he does it’s unquestionably honest. “Two and a half weeks ago.”

“Wow.” I look away, comparing his response to mine. We really are different people, at least in this way. It makes my cheeks heat up again, and this time, it’s true embarrassment. And I’d been hoping that the kiss had been as powerful for him as it had for me.

“Ivy? Hey, look at me.”

I do. His gaze softens, deep and dark and enthralling. “Not only do I have more experience than you, but I’m what, seven years older? Stop comparing yourself to everyone who managed to get a ticket, all right?”

“To Sexville?”

“Yes,” he says, lips curving, “to Sexville.”

I smile too. “Will I get a share of the royalties?”

“What?”

“Of your memoir, if you end up using that phrase?”

Rhys nods. “Of course. I’d never cheat a fellow artist out of their due.”

“Thank you.” I look down at his hand, resting close to mine along the back of the couch. I really, really, really want to find out what it would feel like. Nothing else, nothing more, just… learn his body the way I’m starting to learn him.

Rhys clears his throat. “Perhaps we should go to sleep soon.”

“We have to work tomorrow,” I agree.

Neither of us moves, though.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I get to sleep in the bed. This couch isn’t long enough for you. Won’t your feet hang off the end?”

His smile is crooked. “Nothing I’m not used to. It’s fine, Ivy.”

But it’s not, despite his protestations, and I can’t decide why. Why my heart is pounding quicker again, as if this entire evening hasn’t been nerve-wracking enough. As if my body doesn’t feel like it’s been locked in fight-or-flight mode.

I stand from the couch, pulling at my pajama shorts. “Come on,” I tell him. “It’s big enough for two. Besides… we’re friends now, right?”

Rhys rakes a hand through his hair again. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Even if I am just a model.”

He runs a hand over his face. “You know I just said that to get the other guys to shut up and stop objectifying you.”

“You chose a backhanded tactic.”

He snorts, rising from the couch. Glancing toward the bed. “I could’ve handled it better.”Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Yes. Now come on. No doubt we’ll be out like a light anyway,” I say, heading to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Jet lag and all. Not to mention long flights, and a long day at work. And the wine.”

Shut up, Ivy, I think as I brush my teeth. My heart still hasn’t entirely settled down, and it certainly doesn’t when I slide under the cover. It’s thick and downy and this bed is heaven. How is it that hotel beds always feel better than your bed at home?

Rhys pauses by his side of the bed in nothing but a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. “You’re sure?”

“We’re just sleeping, Rhys.”

He snorts and reaches for the hem of his shirt. “I know that,” he mutters. Pulls the shirt over his head. I look away, but not before I’ve glimpsed the wide expanse of his chest, the dips and grooves of his stomach, the smattering of hair, the tanned skin.

I stare up at the beams in the ceiling wide-eyed.