by Tawna Fenske
“Intimate?” I blink as the translation sinks in. “Oh, are you asking if I’m a virgin?” I laugh because the question is much less scary than I expected.
“I guess that’s what I’m asking.” Bradley looks vaguely embarrassed. “It’s fine if you are. I just—I’m trying to be respectful, since you’ve made it clear this can only be a temporary thing for you.”
Relief washes through me. Not just that we’re on the same page, but that his question is simple to answer.
“No, I’m not a virgin. Don’t worry. Wait.” I frown, recalling something I read about American men having hang-ups about wanting to date virgins. “I mean, yes, I’ve had sex before. If that’s a problem for you, I’m sorry, but I won’t apologize for—”
“No, no!” He holds up his hands like I’ve pointed a pistol at him. “Not an issue at all. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t rushing you or anything. Different cultures have different values around sex, and I didn’t want to put you in an awkward situation.”
My gaze flicks to the skewered hot dog plunged to its hilt in the glass of batter. “Because this isn’t awkward?”
He laughs and drags a hand down his face. “I can fix that.”
“Oh?”
I’ve barely squeaked out the word before he’s scooping me off the counter and cradling me in his arms like I weigh nothing at all. “Between Kevin watching us and the fact that Dan could turn up at any moment, I’m not super pumped about fooling around on your kitchen counter with the blinds wide open.”
Craning my neck to see the front window, I’m aghast to realize anyone could have looked in and seen me sitting here in my bra. That’s how lust-dazed I am that it never even occurred to me.
“Where are we going?” I twine my fingers around his neck, well aware we’re headed for the bedroom.
Also well aware of what’s going to happen there. Am I ready for that? Would it be crossing some line I’m not supposed to cross?
I’m still wondering about that as Bradley kisses me and steps through my bedroom door. He lays me back slowly on my queen-sized mattress, easing down on top of me.
The rumpled white coverlet gives away the guilty fact that I forgot to make my bed this morning. It’s clearly not enough of a turnoff to break Bradley’s stride. His hand is back on my breast, and he’s laying a path of kisses down the center of my body, making me squirm beneath him.
Clutching the back of his head, I gasp and arch up against him. He rests a palm on my belly and looks up at me with heat-filled eyes.
“I urgently, desperately, want to fuck you.”
I gasp, but not because I’m shocked. That’s the single hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and I wish I’d known it was coming so I could record those words and play them over and over until the day I die.
“I want that, too.” I lick my lips, so hungry for him I’m on the brink of drooling.
But as I start to pull him on top of me again, Bradley slides one hand to my hip and anchors me in place. “But let’s slow down just a little,” he says. “Okay?”
I blink, wondering what I missed. “I swear I’m not a virgin,” I sputter. “If you’re worried about deflowering me or some misguided notion of respect, I assure you we’re not about to cross some line I haven’t crossed before.”
My mother made sure of that, thank goodness.
“Isabella.” She patted the edge of the buttery chaise in my bedroom the night before I left for boarding school. “Let’s sit and talk about why you absolutely, positively should not save yourself for marriage.” Her smile grew haughty as I eased down beside her. “Take it from me, dear. Have as much sex as possible—discretely, of course—before settling down.”
I laugh, which makes Bradley blink. I should not be thinking about my mother now, or anything to do with my home country.
Because if I think about that…
“It’s not that,” he says, and for one startled moment, I think he’s read my mind. But as he draws a hand over my ribcage, gently tracing each thin bone, my body fizzes with desire that overrides my anxiety. “It’s just—I’ve had a few friends-with-benefits arrangements. They’re fun, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not what I’m after right now.”
“You want to be enemies?” I’m being flip, but mostly because I’m not sure what he means. “Or you’re saying we shouldn’t have sex because you slept with Lily before she and James got together?”
He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You always surprise me, Iz.” He dots a kiss along my jaw, then starts moving down, lips grazing my shoulder, my collarbone, the top of my right breast. “But I’m glad you brought that up. I don’t want there to be any big secrets between us.”
I close my eyes, arching into the pleasure of his mouth on my nipple, even as guilt flutters through me. “I don’t have a problem with it,” I assure him. “Lily mentioned it when we were shopping.”
She broke it to me gently, worried I might not take the news well.
“How was he in bed?” I asked, struggling not to sound too eager as she plucked a purple sweater off the rack.
“Outstanding.” She grinned and held the sweater up against me, adjusting the daring V-neck. “We weren’t in love, so it wasn’t next-level amazing the way it is with James, but men who’ve studied anatomy—well, they tend to know their way around the female body.”
I shiver now as Bradley kisses his way down my torso, demonstrating an enviable knowledge of every nerve ending in my body. “I want to go slowly,” he says, planting a kiss near my navel. “But I also desperately, urgently want to get you off.” Another kiss, this one right above the waistband of my jeans. “So what do you propose we do about that?”
There’s a teasing note in his voice as he moves lower, pressing his mouth against the heat between my legs. Layers of denim and satin separate us, but I arch up like he’s just circled my clit with his tongue.
“Bradley, please.”
I don’t realize I’ve twined my fingers into his hair until he looks up, smiling, his dark locks rumpled and stupid-sexy. “Please what?” He grins wider. “I’m realizing Lady Isabella has a filthy mind. Let’s see if your mouth matches.”
I look him dead in the eye and take a deep breath. “Fuck me with your mouth.” I pause. “Please.”
He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. The bulge in his jeans is ample evidence he’s ready for much more.
But his eyes lock with mine and he gives a devilish smile I feel deep in my core. “Yes, ma’am.”
With that, he unhooks my jeans and slides them slowly down my thighs.
Chapter 8
Bradley
I didn’t expect her to say it.
Hell, I didn’t expect to be doing it, but here I am peeling off Lady Isabella Blankenship’s panties as everything inside me aches to taste what I’m uncovering.
I half expect she’ll demur, pressing her legs together as shyness overtakes her. But Izzy lets her thighs fall open as she looks down at me with fire in her eyes.
“Bradley,” she breathes. “I have condoms in my purse. If you want—”
“I want this,” I assure her, nipping one rounded hipbone. “And this, too.” My tongue dips into the hollow by her pubic bone, just an inch from where she wants my mouth.
And there’s no question about where she wants my mouth. Even if she hadn’t said it, I can tell by how she’s moving. By the flush of her skin and the sweet, slippery fullness between her thighs.
I dip my tongue into her and feel Izzy arch up off the bed. She cries out, fingers clutching the duvet as my tongue makes slow circles around her clitoris. She responds by letting go of the comforter and gripping my hair, making it clear exactly where she wants my mouth.
It's right where I want it to be, so I plunge my tongue between her slick folds, hungry for the taste of her arousal. She’s wriggling and moaning and leaving no doubt she loves what I’m doing.
Almost as much as I love it. I may not get off, not this t
ime, but I don’t care. I meant what I said about taking my time, moving slowly to savor each step.
Dropping one hand between her legs, I tease her entrance with my middle finger. Moaning, Izzy tries to draw me deeper inside. She’s arching her hips, pressing against me for one more inch, then two—
“Bradley,” she begs. “Please. I need—please.”
Her urgency makes up for any missing words. I know what she wants, so I slip a second finger inside and flatten my tongue against that tight nub of nerves. Her muscles clench around me, and I can tell by her breathing she’s not far from the edge.
I want this to last, but I can’t stop myself from stroking into her, circling her clit again and again until she breaks apart beneath me.
“Oh, God!” She screams, a primal, passionate sound I never in a million years expected the first time I met her.
She’s wild and unhinged, and as I lick and suck and stroke into her, I’m dizzy with the knowledge that I’ve seen both sides of this woman I’ve craved for almost a year. Sweet and spicy. Bashful and badass.
As she loosens her grip on my hair, I kiss my way slowly up her body. Mons pubis, ilium, navel, xiphoid process. I breathe in the hollow between her breasts, drunk with the scent of her skin.
“Bradley.” She giggles, suddenly shy as she struggles to sit up. “That was incredible.” One dark curl falls over a flushed cheek, and she’s so achingly beautiful my chest hurts.
“I loved it.” Another kiss at the edge of her collarbone. “So much.”
She smiles and tucks the curl behind her ear. “Let me return the favor.”
She starts to reach for my fly, which is straining with the force of my hard-on. But I catch her hand in mine and draw her fingers to my lips. “Later,” I murmur as I kiss one fingertip, then the next. “We’ve got time.”
“But—”
“I’m satisfied, Iz,” I assure her. “Very satisfied. Besides, we need to get you fed.”
And I need to get myself out of this bed before I lose every shred of self-control. Not sexually, that’s not what I’m worried about. But I’m teetering way too close to falling for Izzy, which is exactly what we agreed wouldn’t happen. Staying here in her bed is a surefire way to send myself careening over the edge.
I ease off the mattress and smile. “Wait here. I’ll grab your sweater.”
Before she can object, I hustle to the kitchen where the red cashmere rests on the edge of the counter. I pick it up and flick a speck of dried corndog batter off the sleeve. While I’m at it, I turn the burner back on beneath the cooking oil. Might as well set a ticking clock so there’s no risk of tumbling back into her bed.
Glancing in the corner, I see Kevin still snoring on his pet bed, which is nothing short of miraculous. I half expected him to clamber up on the counter to raid the corndog fixin’s, so maybe he’s a better house pig than my mother thinks.
As I turn back toward the bedroom, something snags my gaze outside. A dark shadow moving between the trees beside Jon and Blanka’s cabin. I stare at the space, waiting for more movement, for the prickling of my arms to settle down.
But neither happens. Maybe I imagined it.
Or maybe there’s something Izzy’s still not telling me.
“Why’d you write that?”
I glance up from scribbling on the chart to see the scowling patient peering at my clipboard. “The prescription for azithromycin? It’s an antibiotic used for treating bronchitis.”
“Nah, the other thing.” He stands up, gown gaping open as he walks around me to point at the chart. “Right there—you called me an SOB.”
Fighting to keep a straight face, I recap my pen and tuck it in my lab coat. “That’s ‘shortness of breath.’” I stand up and put some distance between me and Mr. Corsica who, for the record, is kind of an SOB. “With rest and medication, we’ll have you feeling like yourself again in just a few days.”
“You sure you’re not bullshitting me, doc?” He scowls, underscoring my uncharitable thought. “‘Cuz maybe it’s Guillain-Barré syndrome. I read about that on the internet.”
Swallowing back the urge to ask where he got his medical degree, I take a step toward the door. “A good theory, but you’re not experiencing any prickling in your fingers or toes. As far as you’ve told me, you’re not having any loss of bladder or bowel function?” He also has no history of Zika virus exposure, which would be a precursor to this extremely rare condition.
My patient frowns. “Yeah, I guess it could be plain old bronchitis.”
“A sound diagnosis.” I reach for the door. “I’ll call in the prescription right away. You can get dressed now.”
“Hmph.” He adjusts his gown, making it evident he ignored my instructions to keep his underwear on beneath it.
I escape out into the hall and stop to scrub my hands before beelining it for my office. I’ve just finished calling in the scrip when there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in.” My pathetic heart does a hopeful surge at the thought it could be Izzy. Unlikely, since she seemed uncomfortable the last time she stopped by, plus we’ve pledged to keep things casual. Visiting someone at work seems more like a relationship thing, but I can’t help holding my breath as the door swings open.
“Hey, Dr. Doofus.” My sister lopes through, smiling as her gaze sweeps my face. “What? You were expecting someone cooler?”
“There’s no one cooler than you.” I deliver the line with the necessary drizzle of sarcasm, earning me a punch to the shoulder. “What brings you by?”
Julia drops into the chair beside my desk and sighs. “Just had lunch with Mom. Did you know she started using Tinder?”
“The hookup app?” Not that I’m judging, since I’ve made use of it in the past. “Does she know how it works?”
My sister makes a face. “She showed me her chat history with some guy she swiped right on. His first message to her said, ‘are you feeling ill?’”
“Ill? What, like some kind of jab about her age?” I consider the career implications of dismembering a guy who insults my mother.
“On the contrary.” Julia pretends to gag. “He followed it up by saying, ‘you look like you could use a shot of penis-illin.’”
“What the fuck?” I pick up my letter opener with a passing thought to an old Army sergeant who showed me six ways to kill with a four-inch blade. Then I remember Izzy’s hitman pal, and my inside joke with myself becomes a lot less funny.
“I’ll go see Mom tomorrow,” I assure my sister. “If I can’t get her to delete the app, I’ll at least give her some pointers for safe online dating.”
“Thanks. I tried, but your brand of protectiveness always works a lot better than mine does.”
“No problem.” A selfish, scheming part of me regards visiting my mom as an opportunity to grab Kevin for another excuse to visit Izzy.
Something must show on my face because Julia studies me like she’s trying to peer into my soul. “Mom says you’ve been borrowing that pig to hit on the girl you’re hot for. Nice strategy. How’s it working for you?”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”
Julia grins. “So you haven’t gotten to kiss her yet?”
“That’s really none of your b—”
“Oooh, so you have kissed her.” She gives a hoot of delight. “Come on, dish. It’s been so long since I made out with anyone that I’m not sure I’d remember how to do it. Do I get to meet this girl?”
“Woman,” I mutter, not sure why I’m taking her bait. “And no, you don’t. She’s going back to her home country, so there’s really no point in getting serious.”
Julia cocks her head and studies me. “There’s always a green card marriage.”
“For her or for me?”
“I meant for her, but now that you mention it, you do love travel.” She flips her blonde ponytail over one shoulder. “Wasn’t that the thing you dug about the Army?”
A flash of nostalgia zings through me, remin
ding me of what I gave up to come back here. Not that I regret it, but I do sometimes wonder how life would be different if I’d stayed the course with my military plans. There was a point where I imagined my life, my career path, going a very different direction.
“I don’t see myself going to Dovlano anytime soon,” I tell Julia. “Iz and I are just hanging out. It’s not serious.”
“Yeah, but do you want it to be?”
I recall the last time I lied to my sister. Maybe when our father—angry that Julia left her ballet shoes in the hall again—yelled at her that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. She was four, maybe five, not much older than Jordan is now.
Julia came to my room crying, and I petted her hair and promised that if she believed in Santa or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, they were as real as those damn dance shoes.
I clear my throat now as I meet my adult sister’s eyes. “Maybe.”
She breaks into applause like I’ve gotten a question right on Jeopardy. “Good answer. So is she your date to Jon Bracelyn’s wedding?”
That’s right, it’s coming up. A romantic winter wedding, just before the holidays. “I wasn’t planning to take a date. Besides, Izzy’s in the wedding party.”
“So? She still needs someone to dance with at the reception.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The thought of twirling Iz around the resort’s ballroom sends my stomach reeling, but the excitement’s mixed with something else. An unease that’s been there since she told me about Dante.
I hesitate, not wanting to dredge up unhappy memories for my sister. “How crucial do you think it is for couples to tell each other everything?”
“That depends.” Julia looks thoughtful. “If ‘everything’ encompasses stuff like how much she spends on shoes or the name of her favorite sex toy, I think you can let that stuff slide.”
“Obviously.” And now I can’t stop wondering if Iz has a sex toy, or possibly more than one. I clear my throat. “So what sort of stuff would you say is crucial to share?”
