“Icarus flew too close to the sun and I, what? Buried my face too deep in your pussy?” She laughed. “Bad press surrounding my hypothetical and untimely demise aside, at least as far as final meals go, I’d have had no complaints.”
Rosaline tucked her face into her pillow with a groan. “That was abominable.”
It really was god awful. And yet she couldn’t help herself. Giveher an inch and she was liable to take a mile. “Don’t you know, fallen warriors go to Vulva-halla, Rosaline.”
Without raising her head or looking at Poppy, she pointed at the door. “Get out. Right now. I mean it.”
“Nooo.” She laughed and slipped her arm around Rosaline, encircling her waist, breasts mashed against Rosaline’s back as she clung to her like a sloth. “I like your bed.”
It was warm and soft and that was even without crawling beneath the sheets, which she’d bet her left tit were just as soft, if not softer, than the duvet. But far and above all else, the best thing about Rosaline’s bed was that she was currently in it.
Rosaline cracked open one eye, glaring weakly. “I see how it is. I’m nothing more than a glorified Airbnb to you.”
“More like a true-blue bed-and-breakfast,” she teased, nuzzling the ball of Rosaline’s shoulder. “Except, in case it wasn’t clear, you’re the break—”
Rosaline lurched forward, swallowing her words with a kiss.
“What am I going to do with you?” Rosaline asked, shaking her head, a smile stealing across her face.
Keep her. If she was looking for suggestions, she should absolutely, 100 percent keep Poppy. Keep her in this bed, just—keep her, period.
“I’m going to have to gag you, aren’t I?”
Poppy bit her lip and smiled impishly. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“It’s hardly a threat if I intend to make good on it.” Rosaline sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. Poppy didn’t pout, but it was a near thing. “Are you hungry?”
Starving. Aside from a meager table of hors d’oeuvres in the freezing cold publicists’ lounge Poppy had only briefly poked her head in, there had been no food, not unless you counted theVosges chocolate truffles Lyric had offered Poppy from her gift bag, which she did not accept. Only free-flowing champagne and cocktails that Poppy had obviously not indulged in were served during the show, imbibing encouraged, eating not.
Not that, at the time, she’d had much of an appetite. Now was a different story.
Rosaline padded her way across the room to her dresser and rummaged through the top drawer. She tossed a bundle of fabric at Poppy. “Get dressed.” She slipped a T-shirt over her head, white and oversize. “I’ll whip you up my specialty.”
Chapter Fourteen
“What do you have against peanut butter and jelly?”
Poppy finished chewing and reached for her can of cherry vanilla soda. “Nothing.” She hid her smile behind the can. “I guess I wasn’t expecting this to be your culinary specialty. That’s all.”
“I never claimed to be a chef.” Rosaline crossed her arms. “I am a publicist.”
“A great one,” Poppy agreed, trying not to laugh at how Rosaline was getting up in arms, huffy because Poppy had giggled when she’d set the plate down in front of her, peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into two neat triangles with the crusts removed.
She wasn’t laughingather, she was just... amused. And bizarrely touched? Her own mother had never gone to such lengths, more the type to tuck a five-dollar bill in her book bag than pack her a sack lunch.
“This is Los Angeles,” Rosaline argued. “No one here cooks. Everyone either has a private chef, shops the hot bar at Erewhon, or orders takeout.”
She was pretty sure that’s what people said about New Yorkers, not Angelinos, and even then, it was a sweeping generalization, probably not true for a decent percentage of people. The grand majority even.
“Or they know how to make a mean PB&J,” she teased.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you implying you can do better?”
As far as quick, low effort, postcoital midnight snacks went? Probably not, nothing quite like a PB&J when the mood struck. But for all her shortcomings, Poppy was no slouch in the kitchen. “Cash got me cooking lessons for my birthday last year. I’m not about to give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money or anything, but I do all right. Not that there’s anything wrong with this.” She held up her sandwich. “Perfect ratio of peanut butter to jellyandyou cut it into triangles, which everyone knows makes it taste better. Ten out of ten, no notes. Bonus points for removing the crust.”
Rosaline averted her eyes, a blush creeping up the front of her neck. “It’s white bread,” she muttered. “No one likes white bread crust.”
“Exactly.” Poppy grinned. “Thank you. It’s delicious.”
