Blurred Lines

by Lauren Layne

  I scratch my cheek. “Why do I get the feeling I’m walking into a conversation in which I’ll inevitably look like an asshole?”

  “So you don’t like them,” she concludes.

  “Jeez, I don’t know, Parks. I don’t dislike them; otherwise, I wouldn’t bring them home or go back to their place or whatever. But it’s not like I—”

  I scratch my cheek again, not really sure what she wants me to say. I’m a bit of a womanizer. I get that. But I never give anyone the wrong impression. I never imply that I’m interested in anything other than the one night.

  I’ve never really felt bad about my relationship habits (although relationship feels like a strong word), but the way Parker is positioning these questions makes me feel like she’s setting me up for something.

  “Are you having second thoughts about this whole casual sex thing?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  Thank God.

  Still, I’m surprised. Not so much that she’s changed her mind—she’s really not a one-night-stand kind of girl—but that she’s changing her mind before she’s even tried it.

  Because as far as I know, despite our nearly nightly outings to various bars, she hasn’t hooked up with anyone since she and Lance split a couple weeks ago.

  “I’ve been going about it all wrong,” she says.

  “Well, yeah,” I say, folding my arms and leaning back against the counter. “But only because you seem to have a knack for finding the biggest douchebag in every bar we go into.”

  “Exactly!” Her eyes light up, her voice excited. “I can’t even carry on a conversation with these bozos for more than a minute without wanting to blow my brains out.”

  “Ah, and you want to know how I manage to carry on conversations with girls that I’m not really interested in,” I say, finally catching on. Or so I think.

  “Um, no,” she says. “I don’t really give a crap.”

  God help me, I might strangle her. “Do I even need to be here for this conversation?” I ask. “Seems to me like you can talk yourself into a circle all by yourself.”

  She stands. “When I said I’m giving up on the casual sex thing, I meant I’m going to give up on doing the casual sex thing your way. Haven’t you ever wanted to enjoy the person you sleep with? To finish up doing, you know, and then not want to shove them out of bed?”

  “Um, sure, but…”

  “Don’t you wonder if it would be better with someone who didn’t drive you nuts? Someone you cared about?”

  Warning bells sound in my head. I’d take a step back if I weren’t already backed against the counter. “Please tell me you aren’t going to set me up with one of your friends. I thought you were against that kind of cross pollination.”

  “Oh, I am,” she says with an easy smile. “And don’t worry, what I’m proposing won’t end in you having to give anyone Valentine’s Day flowers or remember one-month anniversaries”

  “That’s great, but I still don’t understand what this proposal is?”

  And since when have she and I had such a hard time understanding each other?

  Parker holds her hands out to the sides, then lets them drop. “I think we should hook up.”

  I would just like to state—for the record—that I should win a goddamn medal for not laughing, fainting, or straight up walking out of the room.

  “How much wine did you have?” I ask, even though I know she didn’t have more than two glasses, and stopped early in the evening since she was driving us home.

  “I know,” she says, clasping her hands in front of her and biting her lip. “I know it sounds crazy, and I know I’m springing this on you—”

  “You think?” I say, feeling the rare urge to lose my temper. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that, Parker? You’ll forgive me if I’m feeling a little blindsided here.”

  She looks at the floor and, despite my anger, I feel a little twinge of guilt, because it can’t have been easy for her to say what she just said. It was a bold move. I’ll give her that.

  But we’ve spent years trying to explain to everyone in the world about how we’re not friends with benefits, that we’re not friends with latent, unexplored romantic feelings, and here she is, willing to throw it all way for—

  “Why?” I ask, realizing that that was the question I should have asked from the beginning. My voice is a little softer now. Knowing that there’s got to be a reason behind her sudden burst of insanity.

  Her eyes meet mine again. “All the reasons I said. I want…I want to have fun with sex, you know? But I can’t do that as long as I’m preoccupied with how bored I am by the other person, or how annoying he is, or how do I know he wasn’t lying about being free of STDs, or how do I know he’s not a psycho…”

  I smile a little at that, because it’s so her. “You’re overthinking it.”

  “Exactly! My brain won’t let me do this with a stranger, because there are too many unknowns. I wouldn’t be able to relax and get lost in the moment. Maybe if I had years of practice like you, or even Lori…”

  “Don’t bite my head off for suggesting this,” I say, holding up my hands. “But do you think maybe you’re just not meant for the casual sex thing? Why not wait until the right guy comes around and get your rocks off that way?”

  To my surprise, she doesn’t lay into me for having a double standard, or even for using the phrase get your rocks off, which she’s always hated.

  “I can’t risk it,” she says quietly.

  I frown. “Can’t risk what?”

  Her voice is small. “My heart.”

  My stomach clenches at that. She looks so damn fragile.

  “Getting dumped hurt,” she continues. “I don’t know that Lance was the love of my life. I’m guessing not, since I’m not exactly up in my room pining for him. But I did care about him—loved him—and he didn’t love me back, and I don’t want to do that again, Ben.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling so wildly unprepared for this kind of conversation it’s not even funny.

  I answer carefully. “I get that. I do. But the answer is not…you and me,” I finish awkwardly.

  What would that even look like? Be like?

  “But you have flings all the time,” she argues. “Why not with me?”

  I give her a look. “You know why. It would mess everything up.”

  “Not if we didn’t let it,” she says, taking a half step forward. “We trust each other. Make each other laugh. And we’re both attractive—”

  “Yes, but not attracted to each other,” I’m quick to clarify.

  She tilts her head and looks me over. “I bet we could get over that.”

  I remember my strange reaction to a drunken Parker taking her shirt off a couple weeks ago and realize she’s right. I could get over the It’s just Parker thing real fast if I saw her in that sexy little red bra again. Or a black bra. Or no bra. Or…

  “No,” I say tersely. “Not happening.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be weird,” she says. “We’ve managed to avoid all the other clichés of guys and girls being friends, so what makes you think we can’t also avoid the cliché of sex ruining the friendship?”

  “Not happening,” I say, finishing my water glass in two gulps and moving toward the fridge. Except not for more water. Beer. I’ve definitely earned one.

  I feel her studying me as I dig around for the bottle opener. Feel her gaze as I take a long, much-needed pull on the IPA.

  “You’re probably right,” she says finally.

  Oh thank God.

  “Glad to see you’ve seen the light,” I say dryly.

  She moves to the fridge to get herself a beer. “Right.” Then she groans. “Ugh. That was…embarrassing. Sorry to put you through that. I just…I was discouraged and started thinking crazy.”

  “You think?”

  She picks up the bottle top I left on the counter and drops that and her own into the trash. “I just kept trying to envision us kissing, and—”
/>
  Parker breaks off midsentence and gives a dramatic shudder. “Gross.”

  I pause with the bottle halfway to my mouth. Gross? Awkward, sure. Insane, yes. But gross?

  “It wouldn’t be that bad,” I grumble before I can stop myself.

  She looks at my mouth and then makes a face before turning away, giggling. “It would be! You know it would.”

  Okay, I’m not proud of this, but…her laughter stings. Not in the I’m going to need to go to therapy kind of way, but my ego is definitely hurting, just a little.

  I point my beer in her direction. “I’ll have you know that I’m a damn good kisser.”

  “Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I bet you are, but I just can’t picture it.”

  I stand up straighter as a thought jumps into my head. “Hold the fuck up. Is this some girly reverse psychology bullshit? You’re trying to get your way by goading me into proving that I’m a good kisser?”

  “Awww,” she says in a teasing voice. “You’re upset! Did I insult your manhood?”

  Yes.

  “No,” I mutter.

  “I’m sure you’re very good at what you do,” she says, heading toward the living room and patting my arm as she passes. “I just…”

  She breaks off giggling again, and something inside me snaps at her laughter.

  I grab her arm and pull her back around. “It wouldn’t be gross.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Okay.”

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me, and my competitive juices boil over. I set my beer behind me on the counter. “Care to make a bet?”

  “Like what, a kissing bet?” She looks at me like I’m crazy. And gross.

  My eyes flick to her lips just for a second, and, strangely enough, it’s temporarily really easy to forget that she’s Parker because her mouth is…appealing.

  “Scared?” I ask.

  Parker rolls her eyes. “Oh, now who’s playing games?”

  But she’s not scampering away, and I lean forward. “One kiss. If you still think it’s gross, I’ll do your laundry for a week.”

  “Like I’d let you touch my laundry.”

  “Fine, then first dibs on the shower for a week,” I counter. “And I won’t even complain if there’s no hot water left.”

  Her eyes light with interest. Parker does like herself a long hot shower. “How about a month?”

  “Done.” I say. “But if you like the kiss…even a little…I get control of the remote for a month. No Bachelor unless I approve it. No watching that boring home-makeover show, and no damn cooking shows.”

  She bites her lip, and I know she’s nervous, because this girl could happily spend hours watching people on TV make cupcakes.

  The stakes are high.

  But she must be pretty damn confident that kissing me will be a disaster, because she finally shrugs. “All right. I guess if you’re really sure you won’t mind the ice-cold showers for a month.”

  I cross my arms. “You’re that sure I’m a bad kisser.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re fine,” she says, with a little wave of her hand. “It’s just that I can’t…I don’t think I’ll like it. You’re too much like a brother.”

  Brother?

  Brother?

  What. The. Fuck.

  Yes, Parker and I are platonic, and, yes, I love her as if she were— No. No. I can’t even put the word Parker and sister in the same sentence.

  Right now my cock’s all too aware that she’s not my sister, and that she’s insulted my kissing skills.

  Time to set the record straight. I haven’t spent years cultivating my seduction techniques for nothing.

  I pluck the beer bottle out of her hands and put it aside, moving to stand in front of her.

  For the first time since the start of this insane conversation, the laughter fades from her eyes and she looks nervous. But she recovers immediately, giving me a mocking grin.

  “Just tell me at what point I’m supposed to start swooning,” she says sweetly.

  “Oh, you’ll know,” I say.

  I take a step toward her and she steps back. I frown. “This isn’t going to work if you back away.”

  “Sorry,” she says, holding up her hands, then dropping them. “It’s just that this is weird.”

  It is weird. Horribly so. And yet I’m determined to make it happen. Because I’ll admit it: I really want control of that remote. The thought of no ditzy reality TV, the possibility of unlimited sports, all the time…

  I move toward her again and I reach out my hands, suddenly feeling a little unsure of where to put them. Waist? Face? Hips?

  Don’t overthink it.

  I settle for resting them gently on her upper arms, since this is only going to be a quick, prove-my-point kind of kiss. And, yes, I can prove my point with a brief kiss. I’m that good.

  Her hands stay where they are, although she licks her lips nervously, and my eyes follow the motion of her small pink tongue.

  “You have to be honest,” I say, my voice lower than it was before. “If it’s good you have to say it’s good.”

  She nods, and I trust her. The girl’s honest to a fault, at least with me.

  My head moves forward a fraction of an inch, and then I pause as reality hits me. I’m about to kiss Parker. I’m about to kiss my best friend in the entire world, the most important person I’ve ever—

  I push the thought aside. For right now she’s not Parker. Not my Parker. She’s just a gorgeous girl looking for a kiss.

  I move closer, my eyes locked on her mouth and then…

  She giggles.

  “Parker!”

  She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry! I’m sorry, truly. Okay, do your thing.”

  I grit my teeth, confidence shaken, and now I’m even more determined to prove her wrong. Make her regret the laughter. Make her—

  My lips settle against hers just barely, and I hear her sharp intake of breath.

  Feel it to my very soul. I take advantage of her surprise and move closer.

  Her eyes are still open, as are mine, and the close-up eye contact is too weird, so I close mine as I try to deepen the kiss. My lips move against hers in careful friction.

  My brain is spinning out of control, both with the unfamiliar yet familiar taste of her, as well as with what feels like a montage of every kissing trick I’ve ever learned.

  Not too much slobber, not too much pressure. Don’t drool, don’t breathe too hard, don’t chafe, don’t rush…

  So busy is my brain, so desperate is my attempt to be not gross, that it takes me far too long to realize that I’m the only one doing the kissing.

  Parker isn’t responding. Isn’t kissing me back. Certainly isn’t moaning in helpless pleasure.

  Slowly, I pull back, my eyes opening, only to realize that hers have never closed.

  To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t mock. But when she takes a step back, her expression is just the tiniest bit smug, and I can’t blame her.

  “Sucks about the month of cold showers you have ahead of you,” she says in a sugary voice. “I, for one, won’t be needing a cold shower, because that kiss was hardly—”

  I advance on her, using my bigger frame to back her into the wall behind her, giving her about five seconds to realize what’s about to happen before my hands clamp on her wrists. I lift her hands above her head, pinning her arms to the wall.

  I have the briefest moment of satisfaction at the pure shock and lust on her face, before my body presses against her soft curves, before my mouth claims hers.

  And this time, I kiss her for real.

  Chapter 9

  Parker

  I’ve made a mistake. A horribly foolish tactical error:

  I’ve underestimated Ben.

  I should have known better. I know him better than anyone. Know him better than I know myself. I know how competitive he is, and should have known that those competitive urges would apply to his sexual prowess.

  And holy
crap, the guy has a hell of a lot of that.

  The first kiss had been tepid at best. He’d been trying too hard, yes, but it wasn’t all on him. Because I’d been trying pretty damn hard myself not to feel a damn thing. To not register that his lips felt just right and that he smelled really damn good. But there’d been too much brain at work, on both of our parts.

  But this kiss—the second one—I don’t even know where my brain is located.

  There are only hands and lips and the feel of an aroused Ben against me. I should be running for the hills, and when this is over, I likely will.

  But for now…

  I kiss him back.

  I’ve never been kissed like this. Never been pinned against the wall, my hands held out of commission by strong fingers and even stronger arms. Never had my mouth devoured like it was the best kind of dessert as a firm male body reminded me exactly how female I am.

  I try to remember that this is Ben.

  I do.

  And then his tongue finds my upper lip, flicking twice until I gasp, and his tongue slides inside my mouth, tangling with mine, and I forget that I’m Parker, and he’s Ben, and remember only that he is man and I am woman and that this is what we were meant to do.

  I wiggle my fingers, twisting my wrists until he finally releases me, and my hands immediately go to his head, my fingers winding around his neck to keep his mouth close. His hands go to my waist, pinning me even more firmly to the wall as his hips tilt forward in a perfect reminder of what happens next.

  And ohmigod, do I want what happens next.

  I meant it when I backed off my crazy idea—because his rational explanation that we’d ruin a good thing made sense.

  But I’m not caring even a little bit about sense right now.

  Not when his mouth has moved to my neck, pressing hot, wet kisses beneath my ear, not when his hands have slid around to my back, moving over me in possessive strokes.

  I want…him.

  No, that’s not right. I don’t want Ben. I just want sex. Ben is merely the tool.

  Right?

  Right?

  My brain doesn’t confirm this for me, and it sends me into a panic.

  My hands find his shoulders and push back, slightly at first, then more urgently.