by Kendall Ryan
“I should just be happy for her,” she says, trying to lighten the mood with a choked laugh.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I can’t even imagine how difficult this news must have been for her. Knowing Layne, she’s been trying to push it down and not deal with the negativity she must be feeling. “It’s okay to be happy and sad at the same time.”
“Is it?” she asks.
Is she really asking me? Or is this one of those rhetorical lawyer things? I take a chance.
“Yeah, it is. It’s messy and kind of illogical, but it happens. I can’t honestly say that I know what you’re going through, but I know you’re hurting, and that it’s blinding you to the obvious perk of all of this.”
Bite your tongue, Griff . . .
She scoffs. “What perk could there possibly be?”
I flip onto my other side, reaching into the cooler to pull out her favorite top-shelf tequila and margarita mix. She gasps audibly.
Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure if that joke would land the way I wanted it to.
“Well, this would be disgusting alone,” I say, carefully examining the margarita mix.
“Gimme!” She squeals, reaching over my chest to grab the tequila. Her hair brushes against my neck and shoulders, and the scent of her shampoo washes over me.
God, she smells good.
“I can drink to that,” she says, wrapping her pink lips around the mouth of the bottle and taking a swig of straight tequila.
“Fuck yeah, Anderson,” I say, swiping the bottle from her to take a drag of poison myself. I shake off the initial burn.
It’s time to get in the water. I do that jump up to your feet without using your hands trick, turning to Layne to pull her up with me. Her face is bright with laughter as she stares at me with an expression I can only call awe.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone besides my brother do that, and it was twenty years ago.”
“What are you trying to say?” I straddle her with my legs, bending down until we’re eye level. “You think I’m super cool?”
“I think you’re super cute,” she says with that charming half smile that says don’t try anything funny. But her eyes are fixed squarely on my lips.
Interesting.
“Hmm, okay . . .” I pretend to contemplate that for a moment. “Would you think it’s cute if I picked you up and threw you in that water over there?” I point to the ocean for effect.
She visibly shrinks back. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“Noted.”
I back away with my hands lifted in surrender, giving her some space. Then, as if I were asking her to dance, I bow before her. “Lady Layne, would you do me the honor of joining me?”
“You’re an idiot,” she says with a chuckle, but it does the trick. Layne takes my hand and lets me lead her to the water. Her palm stays pressed against mine all the way to the edge, squeezing me tighter as the icy surf laps against her toes.
I make some lame joke about swimming through large bodies of tequila . . . just to get her laughing again. The low rumble of her laugh is addictive, and if I’m being honest, healing. I haven’t felt this at ease in a long time. When she lets go of my hand, I feel the loss echo through my whole body.
Later, when the sun begins to set, I decide it’s time to build the fire. It takes me a few minutes to carry the wood I brought in the car to our spot on the beach. Layne offers to help, but I can handle it. Instead, she puts herself to work setting up the tent. It’s a simple one, the box promised a three-minute setup, so I decide to let her tackle it alone. By my fourth and final trip back from the car, she’s securing the last of the ties. She looks over her shoulder at me, smug.
We make a good team.
As I stack up the extra logs beside the firepit, Layne sits down on a blanket and watches me, munching on the grapes and celery sticks left over from our lunch.
“What?” I ask.
“What do you mean, what?” she mumbles, her mouth full of celery.
“Do you have something to say to me?”
“No, why?” Her brow crinkles.
“Well, there’s a beautiful sunset to your left, but you’re too busy watching me manhandle my wood to notice.” I grin at her discomfort, practically able to feel the heat of her cheeks from here.
In typical Layne fashion, she ignores my sexual innuendo and barrels into her argument. “I have yet to see any fire. I’m not convinced I won’t be shivering in the darkness for the rest of the night.”
There’s the lawyer, always equipped with snark and double negatives.
Two can play at that game, sweetheart.
“I can think of other ways to keep warm.”
When her mouth snaps shut, I think, Did I take it too far? I’d better reel it in.
“Don’t worry. I was a Boy Scout for a short time. I remember how to make a fire. Or, at least, I remembered to bring lighter fluid,” I say, splashing said fluid on the woodpile with fervor.
“Oh my God, Griffin. That’s a lot.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I strike a match against the matchbox.
“Are you s—”
The flames roar to life with an audible whoosh when I drop the match in the center of the pile. Heat rolls off the wood like the waves of the nearby ocean, instantly enveloping us in warmth. I rub my hands together over my creation, admiring it. That’s a damn good fire.
“You seem proud of yourself,” Layne says, scooting closer to the fire. Closer to me.
“Not all of us are fancy career women. The rest of us little people have to make do with smaller accomplishments.” I gesture at the flames, and in my best caveman voice, I growl, “Man make fire. Man feel good.”
Layne snickers, bumping me with her elbow. I take a chance and wrap my arm around her, pulling her against my shoulder. She folds into me, easily resting her head against my chest. We stare at the flames, lost in the beauty of the moment.
A rush of relief washes over me. I feel calm. At peace.
And then my stomach growls.
“Is someone revving up their Jet Ski in the distance, or was that your stomach?” she asks, looking at me with big, sparkling eyes.
“Oh, now she has jokes,” I say with a chuckle.
I reluctantly extract myself from her to set up the fireplace grill. Now, this I haven’t done before. I bought this on a whim as I was picking up food and drinks for the day. Lucky for me, it’s just a matter of adjusting the length of the legs to match the fire . . . which in my case, is aggressively high.
“Is it still fine?” she asks, quoting me from earlier.
“You bet,” I say, my confidence unwavering.
With a spritz of margarita mix, I bring the fire down to a low, blue-white flame, and set the grill over it. One by one, I lay out rosemary-infused burger patties, long strips of red and green peppers, and two halves of corn on the cob. The smell is incredible.
“Okay, now I’m hungry,” Layne says over my shoulder.
Within twenty minutes, we’re both moaning into piping-hot burgers and talking through mouthfuls of watermelon-and-feta salad. The fact that this woman is gorgeous even when she’s double-fisting a margarita and a corn cob proves there’s something wrong with me. But I love how comfortable and safe she feels around me. She’s not sucking her stomach in or worrying about the spot of ketchup on her cheek. She’s just unapologetically herself.
But she’s also a little different. She doesn’t pull back when I use my thumb to wipe the ketchup off her cheek, nor does she seem to mind my staring. Is it the tequila?
Or is it something else?
As we clean up the carnage of our dinner, I repeatedly remind myself not to get my hopes up again. Every time I feel like I’ve gotten close to Layne, she’s pushed me away. After tonight, she’ll probably shut me out for another six months.
I clench my jaw. How much longer can I keep up with the whiplash?
“I think I’m about ready to turn in,” she says
with a yawn.
The beach cover-up she threw on before we settled by the fire slips off one shoulder, and I swallow. I want her. I can’t afford to waste time thinking about the off chance that Layne shuts me out again. She’s let me back in for this moment, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it count.
“I’ll meet you in there,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.
Again, she doesn’t back away. Instead, she just smiles, meets my eyes, and leans into my touch. I don’t have time to process the moment, because as soon as it begins, it ends. The flap of the tent closes behind her with a quiet slide of fabric.
For a second, I watch Layne’s silhouette as she ties her hair up, getting ready for bed. Then I turn back to the fire, dump the remains of a bottle of water on top, and wait for it to fizzle out.
When I step into the tent, Layne is propped up against a stack of pillows, dressed only in an oversized T-shirt from her college’s alma mater. She isn’t inside her sleeping bag. Instead, she’s lying on top of it with a thin sheet over her. Her bare legs tangle in the sheet, exposing more skin than covering it. As her gaze locks with mine, her eyes soften.
I pull off my shirt, my eyes never leaving her. “This okay? I normally sleep in boxers or shorts.”
She nods, still watching me. “Whatever you normally sleep in is fine.” Her voice is lower than usual, almost husky.
With my heart beating out of my chest, I grab a pair of black athletic shorts from the top of my duffel bag and unlace my swim trunks. Layne’s gaze wanders lower, caressing my chest and abs, then settle at where my hands have now paused in their work.
I turn and face the wall of the tent before dropping my swim trunks and stepping into my shorts. Feeling the heat of her gaze on my ass, I have to take a deep breath to calm myself down, because popping wood in these thin shorts isn’t going to go unnoticed.
My sleeping bag is only a few inches from hers, and when I lie down on it, we’re almost close enough to touch. Layne’s chest rises and falls with a sigh. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
Is she nervous?
Once again, I lift my hand and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I had fun with you today,” I say softly.
She tilts her head, watching me. “Thanks for this. It was exactly what I needed to get out of my own head.”
I’m about to make a joke about vitamin D solving all problems when she shifts closer and gives me the look. The look that says she wants me to kiss her. Her eyes flutter closed, and she wets her lower lip with her tongue.
Without any more prompting, I close the space between us, bringing my lips to hers in a gentle, chaste kiss. Her hands roam up my arms, ghosting over my biceps, my shoulders, before settling into my hair. She pulls me closer with a soft whimper. My fingers slide along her jawline, tilting her head slightly. Layne opens her mouth to me and her lips part, allowing me to deepen the kiss.
The second her tongue touches mine, my cock hardens. I taste watermelon and tequila, sweet and salty.
Layne gasps between kisses, but I won’t stop to let her catch her breath. My dick is throbbing against the mesh of my shorts, begging to be touched. I moan into the kiss, my hand leaves her jaw to trail down her neck to her collarbone. My thumb brushes the top of her breast, and her back arches in approval. Kissing her slowly, deeply, I take her soft breast in my hand, reveling in the satisfaction of all my fantasies today. When I roll her nipple between my fingers through the thin material of her T-shirt, she jolts.
“Griff,” she says softly, her voice filled with desire.
I let out a slow exhale, my heart pounding out an uneven rhythm. This is finally going to happen.
Her hands tease over the muscles in my chest, and she urges me closer. I roll on top of her, caging her in beneath me while I settle on my forearms. Our mouths break apart for a moment, and I gaze down at her heavy-lidded eyes.
“You’re beautiful. You know that?”
Her lips tilt into a smile. “And you’re a really good kisser.” Crossing her ankles behind my back, Layne shifts, rocking us closer—until the heavy weight of my erection is pressed right between her legs. “Fuck . . .”
I press closer, angling my hips to rub my hard length over her sweet spot, and her lips part on a groan. “Yeah, sweetheart? That feel good?”
“Uh-huh.” She moans, lost to the sensation.
I love that it’s me making her feel good, and my head swims with that knowledge.
She’s so warm beneath the cotton of her panties, I want to peel them back, touch her, and make her come on my fingers. But it’s hard to pull myself away from her mouth, so I settle for dry-humping the shit out of her as we grind together. Mature, I know.
She’s getting close. Her breathing has changed, grown more ragged, and her pulse thrums frantically in her neck. But I sense she’s waiting for something.
“I want you to come,” I murmur, sucking on the tender skin at the base of her throat.
A tremor rocks through her body, but then she pulls back. “Hold on. Wait,” she says, her voice strained.
“What’s wrong?”
Layne sits up and rakes a hand through her hair. “I can’t do this.”
Fuck. I sit up, trying to meet her eyes, but she stares straight ahead into the darkness.
“Look at me,” I say, and she does, but I can’t read her expression. “Do you not want to?” Three seconds ago, I was pretty damn sure we were on the exact same page.
“I want to. But I won’t,” she says softly, shaking her head.
When was this decision made? And why wasn’t I a part of it?
“You won’t . . .”
“I won’t use you to forget all of my problems. Sex would just be a temporary fix, and I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You mean too much to me.”
My brain struggles to comprehend what she’s saying, which is difficult, given that all the blood in my body has rushed south.
“I would only be using you to relieve some stress,” she says, finishing on an exhale.
“Ask me how many fucks I give.” Zero. The answer is zero.
“Griffin.” She says my name again, but this time, there’s a slight edge to her voice. A warning.
“I’m serious. Use me. Ride off all that stress you’ve been under. Seriously, I volunteer as tribute.”
She shakes her head with a wry smile.
“I want you to use me. Any which way you want.” I want you, Layne.
“You say that now, but . . . I can’t.” And just like that, Layne lies back down, staring up at the ceiling of the tent.
I do the same, putting at least a foot of distance between us. At this point, I’m shaking with pent-up sexual need, but Layne doesn’t owe me anything, and she doesn’t have to explain herself. If she doesn’t want this—then she doesn’t, and maybe it’s finally time for me to stop pining over her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice tight.
Dammit, Griffin. You brought her here to make her feel better, not worse. This wasn’t supposed to be about sex.
On an exhale, I adjust my straining cock, tucking it beneath the waistband of my shorts and Layne doesn’t fail to notice.
“Sorry, Griff,” she murmurs, rolling onto her side to meet my eyes.
I turn to face her. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She swallows, gaze moving down my torso before meeting my eyes once again. “It’s just … I couldn’t live with myself if I ever used you for sex.”
Use me, baby. Anytime you want. That’s the first thought that flashes through my brain. Thankfully something more articulate comes out of my mouth. “No one’s using anyone.” I reach out to touch her cheek, my thumb caressing her soft skin. “Let me show you how desirable you are.”
She chews on her lower lip and moves closer so slowly that I’m sure she’s about to change her mind. She’s as timid as a gazelle walking into a lion’s den. But then she gathers her breath, and with it, her courage.
>
Her knees part and since her t-shirt has ridden up, I can see her panties and the damp spot in the fabric we put there.
Fuck. This is torture.
I touch her knee, and when her lips part on a shaky exhale, I slid my hand up, caressing the smooth skin of her inner thigh.
I lean in to kiss her and brush my fingers over her panties, touching her clit through the cotton barrier.
Her answering moan is the best sound. Soft and lovely.
She wants this as much as I do.
“Touch your pussy for me, Layne.” I can’t risk her slamming on the breaks again. This is going to move at her pace—whatever that is.
She gives me a look of hesitation, but behind it, there’s heat too.
“Touch yourself,” I murmur again.
Layne bites her lower lip, and my body tightens everywhere. And when her hand moves lower, down her body, I watch with rapt attention.
She doesn’t pull the fabric to the side, but she slips her hand inside her panties and rubs in small circles. A needy whimper falls from her full mouth.
“That’s it,” I encourage as her hips move restlessly against her sleeping bag.
My heartrate skitters out of control like a train rumbling down the track, and I hold in a groan at the sight of her.
Watching Layne work herself toward release is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I touch her chin, tilting her mouth toward mine and the second her tongue touches mine, she starts to come—her entire body tightening and shaking as her orgasm crashes through her.
My heart riots against my ribs as hot lust pulses through me, settling low in my groin. The second Layne pulls her damp fingers from her panties, I capture her wrist, drawing them into my mouth, tasting her sweet arousal.
My cock jolts as Layne makes a small noise of surprise.
“You taste so good.” I press one last kiss to her fingers and then release her hand.
“What about you?” she breathes.
“What about me?” I’m going to die of a massive case of blue balls—no big deal.
She bites down on that full bottom lip again, conjuring up all kinds of dirty images in my head involving her mouth and my cock. “You can jerk it if you need to,” she whispers.
