by Anne Marsh
“Or we could just salsa dance. Naked salsa dance.” I swirl her in a big, loopy circle around the balcony. It’s safe to say there’s no disco-ball trophy in our future. Even the lizard who’s popped up on top of the balcony wall looks unimpressed with our moves.
Hazel squints out into the darkness at the shadowy shape of the nearby villas. “Is Maple watching?”
Since Maple danced professionally for the San Francisco Ballet, I assume Hazel’s feeling competitive. Fortunately, both Dev and Max suck at dancing.
I point to the lizard. “You’re a private dancer. You never wanted to be a ballerina as a little girl?”
Hazel makes a scoffing sound. “As if. I started a lemonade stand and then franchised it to the neighborhood kids.”
Yeah. That would be Hazel.
“I ran a crew of lawn mowers.”
“And never mowed a lawn yourself.”
My sisters have already pointed this flaw out to me. “I ran the company. I brought in the business. I was the brains.”
Hazel’s grin lights up her face, crinkling up the corners of her eyes. I didn’t bring up my middle-school business empire on purpose, but I like swapping stories with her. It’s true we’ve known each other for years, but there’s still a lot I don’t know about her.
“Dip,” I warn her, bending her backward over my arm.
We bumble around the balcony, arms wrapped around each other. It’s silly, but it’s fun and there’s no one to see us. It’s nice to not be serious and that’s the whole point of us, isn’t it? To have fun? While she hums to the music, I wrap my hands around her waist.
“Leap.”
“What?”
“Leap.”
I lift her up even as she shrieks. “Jesus, Reed.”
“Live a little. Let your inner princess ballerina person out.” I do it again.
“That makes absolutely no sense.” Her hands close around mine, but she doesn’t push me away.
It’s more like playing leapfrog, but we’re both laughing together as I bounce her across the length of the terrace. When we pass the bedroom door for the second time, I set her down.
I’m giving in to temptation but I’m meeting her halfway. I lower my head to hers and kiss her there in the open doorway, with the ocean behind us and the bedroom in front. She meets me, her hands sliding up over my shoulders as I cup her face. I need her so badly.
I need her and I’m going to take what I want from her. Her tongue licks over my lower lip, tasting. Fuck. She bites down and I automatically suck in a breath. She takes advantage, her tongue slipping into my mouth when I want to make us both wait because this is the best thing that will happen all day and I don’t want to rush it. I don’t want it to be over.
I pull away, but that’s not what I want, either. Brown eyes watch me come closer...
Closer.
Closer.
My hands palm her ass, then I lift her up so she can wrap her legs around my waist. She kisses me as if she owns me, deeper, harder. I can hear the small, hungry sounds we’re both making despite the mariachi band. Hazel swirls her tongue against mine, sweeping back inside my mouth as if we’re doing this her way. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who even kisses bossy. I’m not letting her take charge. She doesn’t get to rush this. I slow our kiss, moving my lips more slowly over hers, drinking her in. She angles her head, trying to kiss me deeper. Not yet.
We kiss-dance, moving in a lazy circle.
“My dance,” I whisper roughly against her pretty mouth. Hazel hesitates and then she lets me take over.
Holy fuck, does she ever give me the wheel.
I won’t disappoint her.
I keep right on kissing her as I walk her toward our bed. Her arms wrap around my neck, her heels dig into my ass, her hips rolling and grinding against my dick. The sounds she makes now are even better than the squeal she made earlier.
I set her down on the bed, but she pops right back up. Her hands drag my T-shirt upward.
“Strip,” she demands. Okay, so the whole letting-me-take-over thing didn’t last long. Hazel always goes for what she wants.
“Ladies first.”
“Together.”
Fair enough. I take a step back and strip off my shirt. For some reason, I don’t want to make a game of it. I just want to be naked with Hazel, but she’s in the mood to tease me—I slow down so I can give her the audience she deserves. She’s wearing a tank top made out of some white material that poofs out around her chest, hiding her from view, and a pair of loose white linen pants. She’s wearing leopard-print sandals and long gold earrings that brush her shoulders. Her toes are painted white with gold polka dots that match her jewelry. She looks elegant and put-together, so, of course, I want to mess her up, to make her look like sex.
The tank top goes first. She slides one strap down her sun-bronzed arm—she’s been to the salon for one of those Mystic Tan spray jobs—and then she flicks the second off. When she shimmies, the whole thing slides over her hips and onto the floor.
I reach out a hand and trace the curve of her breast where it swells above the cups of the bra. The edge of her nipples peek out of their tiny, lacy nests. The bra is a miracle of white and lace, the fragile, gauzy fabric dotted with tiny, silvery polka dots. Apparently Lola is not the only one who went lingerie shopping. A smirk curves Hazel’s lush, pink mouth. I’m staring.
“You like it?” She cups her boobs and arches her back just in case I missed anything. I’m accustomed to paying attention and I lean forward and show my appreciation with my tongue.
I taste her, licking and exploring, sucking the nipple that pops free into my mouth. It’s important to be fair, so I make sure to pay equal attention to the other nipple. Hazel shoves her fingers into my hair, tugging so I know when I do something she particularly likes and to do it again.
She moans my name and pulls away so that she can stand up and slide her pants down her legs. Her hands reach for the buttons on my jeans. “You’re slow.”
Unlike Hazel, I didn’t see the need to dress up for the plane. It’s not as if the pilot cares. I shove both jeans and boxers down my legs and kick them away. “Hazel?”
“Yeah?” She sounds dazed.
“Did I tell you tonight that you’re beautiful?” I don’t always remember to tell her, and I’m not sure Hazel’s heard it enough.
“Duly noted.” Her hands pull me closer.
“You’re beautiful here.” I press a kiss against her mouth and work my way down her neck and over her throat, following the soft line down to her shoulder. “And here, too.”
I keep going, down her arm, her fingertips, the palm of her hand and then back up again.
“Here for certain.” I press a kiss against her collarbone and move down to the slope of her breast. “Here.”
I try to show her with my mouth what I should be telling her with words, but kissing her is so much easier.
CHAPTER TEN
DOWNTOWN CABO SHIMMERS in the Mexican heat. Sticking my head in a pizza oven would be cooler. The driver dropped Max, Maple, Hazel and me at a flea market near the marina when Hazel announced she wanted to pick up some souvenirs. The colorful stalls are packed close together. Vendors call out to us, inviting Hazel to “come and look, senorita.” She beams and chatters back in Spanish.
When did she learn Spanish?
And why does she want to buy this...crap?
I look around, trying to see the market through her eyes. There are art galleries in Cabo San Lucas, along with some seriously talented local artists and craftsmen. This stuff, however, looks less than authentic. I don’t think a T-shirt announcing that “Somebody in Cabo loves me” is part of mainstream Mexican culture. In addition to stacks of cheap T-shirts, there are colorfully embroidered white dresses, serapes and these little bobble-headed animals—turkeys, dinosaurs, c
rocodiles and what looks like a mutant platypus. I set the tiny nodding heads into motion with a flick of my finger. Hopefully Hazel gets her shopping fix fast and we can head back to the hotel. We haven’t christened every room in the villa yet and I have definite plans for the shower.
Max pokes at a pair of red-and-green maracas. He looks bored. “Why do they need us here?”
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“Do you think Maple would like this?” It’s good that he’s abandoned the maracas—the man has no rhythm, which makes his relationship with a professional ballet dancer miraculous—but the T-shirt he’s holding is a little...obscene. I had no idea that you could walk around in public with that kind of suggestion on your chest.
“Put it back if you want to have sex tonight.”
Max grins. He’s fucking with me.
“So are you and Hazel a thing now?” Max drops the shirt back on top of the stack.
“Why would we be a thing?”
“Because you’re getting it on?” Max’s voice is light but the look in his eyes says I’d better not be messing with Hazel. She may have been my friend first, but she’s one of us now and Max will totally throw down for her.
“Why would you think that?”
Max snorts. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”
“We’re just friends,” I say. “But with benefits.”
Max nods slowly. “Right. But you and I are friends and we’re not screwing.”
“Because you’re not my type. And it’s none of your business.”
Another hard look from Max. “I like her. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
“I like her, too, dumbass. And it was her idea.”
Max scrubs a hand over his head. “Fine. Then I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I won’t,” I scoff. “This is just fun. We’re not in a relationship. Neither of us wants that.”
“If you say so.” Max shrugs. “But you’re friends, right?”
“Of course.” I turn to follow the girls up the aisle.
“So you’re already in a relationship,” he points out.
“It’s not like that.”
“So what is it like?” He frowns. “Because Maple and I are friends, but we’re also in a relationship and we have sex. I’m not following.”
“You go out together. You tell people that you’re together. You plan on sticking together.”
A smile curves Max’s mouth. “Fuck, yeah. I’m not stupid.”
“Hazel and I are just using each other for sex until we find someone else. It’s not a real relationship.” That doesn’t sound good, now that I say it out loud. “I’m not her boyfriend. She doesn’t want me like that.”
“It’s your business. I’m just trying to understand whether or not Maple and I have to keep pretending we don’t know the two of you are having kinky sex every time you think the rest of us aren’t looking. And what’s the plan when one of you decides to date someone else?”
“It’s not dating. And it’ll be fine.” My brain conjures up a mental image of Hazel on a real date, the kind that involves a great restaurant, wine and roses. Hazel kissing Nameless Guy good-night on the doorstep and then inviting him in. Naked Hazel in bed with some nameless, faceless, spineless dick. “We’ll work it out.”
Do I want Hazel to end things between us? Not a chance. But that was the deal we had, right? We’d have sex temporarily until one of us found a better long-term bet. Even though she complains about her family giving her shit, Hazel wants that and I’m not capable of giving it to her. Plus, she’s never indicated that she sees me as forever material, anyhow. She’d probably run screaming if I suggested it. Which I’m not going to do.
Maple and Hazel are haggling now with a guy in a pottery stall. They’re surrounded by stacks of blue-and-white-print vases, sugar bowls and pitchers on the wooden shelves. A faintly musty smell fills the air, as if everything has gotten wet more than once despite us being surrounded by desert. Sunlight pours in the entrance and the heat bakes down on me. There’s an entire toilet done in colorful tiles—tank, base, seat and lid. It’s a miracle of either engineering or superglue.
Max eyes me. “So how does it work?”
“How does what work?” I ask impatiently.
“Looking for someone else when you’re having sex with your friend.” Max frowns. “Is this one of those open relationships? Do you have three-ways?”
“No.”
Hazel wraps up the purchase with a sharkish smile. The vendor looks halfway to being in love with her, even though he’s practically paying her to haul away a sink made out of brightly colored tile. Apparently Hazel’s decided to remodel her mountain cabin. I make a mental note to ask the concierge about shipping because there’s no way that fits in the overhead compartment on the flight home.
“No?” Max isn’t going to let it drop. “So you’re both dating other people?”
“No,” I repeat.
I mean, we don’t really have any kind of a future together. I’m not making the same mistakes I made with Molly, and I don’t know what Hazel wants, but I assume she hasn’t changed her mind. So is it fair for me to keep sleeping with her and distracting her from the quest for a perfect man? Is awesome sex really enough? No matter how much she bitches about it, part of her wants that tiny house in the Coleman compound. She wants to fit in there all the way and sleeping with me in secret isn’t really getting her any closer to that goal.
Maple dances back to Max, wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning into him for a kiss. He fists her ponytail, angling her head so he can kiss her deeper and harder. They don’t care who’s watching. She manages to make him look graceful as he lifts her up so he can devour her mouth. I look over at Hazel.
Hazel grins at me. “You don’t want anything?”
I want you.
I want to kiss you like nothing matters more.
She waves a T-shirt at me—it’s the same one Max showed me.
“Not from the market.” I tuck her arm in mine. Max and Maple are practically climbing each other now, so odds are good we’re headed back to the resort soon.
Which is good. Alone with Hazel is exactly where I want to be.
* * *
As soon as we get back to the resort, however, Hazel kicks me out of our casita, citing “girl maintenance.” That means I’m not getting inside her anytime soon. I honestly don’t care about her bikini line, but it clearly matters to her so I make a bar run because a pitcher of margaritas seems like a good investment.
When she flip-flops her way across our pool deck toward me, I try to spot what’s different so I can compliment her, but there’s no obvious difference. She just looks fabulous. Her hair is slicked up on top of her head in a braid-twist thing that I itch to take apart and she’s wearing a pair of Marilyn Monroe–worthy sunglasses. She looks exotic and more than a little sexy. Plus, I’m a big fan of the caftan. It has little beads that clink as she walks and a neckline that plunges to her waist. It’s been brought to my attention that I don’t say what’s going on in my head. Apparently girls like to hear the spoken-word equivalent of the porn strip playing in there. It makes no sense to me, but I definitely like Hazel’s blue dress thing. Plus, it’s see-through. If she’d just lose the bikini she’s rocking underneath it and hop in the pool for some wet T-shirt action, I could die a happy man.
She beams at me, dropping a ginormous tote bag onto a lounger. “This place is amazing!”
She pulls a tube of coconut-scented sunscreen from her bag, wiggles out of the caftan and starts rubbing lotion into her skin.
“I can’t get my back.”
But I absolutely can. I would very much like to rub lotion into her skin, but it’s going to lead to other things very quickly and I’m not sure if she’s ready for more vacation sex, or if she actually wants to do other v
acation things.
“If I ask nicely, can I help with that?”
She holds the tube out to me. “I love a helpful guy.”
I heave myself out of the pool, causing a small tidal wave. Hazel shrieks, and we wrestle for a minute—after even just a few minutes in the Cabo sun, she’s warm. Her body bucks beneath mine and I pin her, using my forearm to capture her arms over her head. I throw a leg over hers. Based on the state of my dick and the not-sun-related heat spreading through my body, it’s a good thing our villa has a private pool. We’d get kicked out of the main pool for public indecency.
We continue to half wrestle, half kiss, until Hazel hops off me and jumps in the water. I follow her to the pool’s edge. I’d like to be inside her, but apparently she’s in the mood to look at the ocean—from the shallow end, naturally.
“It’s really amazing,” she says.
“Uh-huh.” I kiss her ear. “I love this.”
I trace a path down her stomach and over the front of her bikini bottom. She inhales softly as I run a finger over the lacy panel.
“You’ll have to be quiet.”
“A challenge.”
I tug on the tie holding the side of her bikini together and the string comes free. Hazel’s hands grip the edge of the pool. I’m sure that if anyone on the beach looks up, she’ll just appear to be admiring the view. Only the two of us will know that my fingers are stroking between her legs.
I find her clit and circle it carefully, stroking the sides. Hazel loves it gentle, until she’s desperate to come, and then she wants it harder, rougher, faster. So right now I tease her with the pad of my finger, circling, drawing little patterns over her.
After all these weeks, I know what she likes. She moans my name loud enough to be heard in San Francisco. She’s close to coming, her body pushing down on mine, demanding more.
