Twisted Twosome

by Meghan Quinn

  Looking flustered, she steps back and says, “You know what?”

  “What?” I step forward again, closing the space between us, because frankly, I can’t help but like getting her all riled up, even though I know I should back down.

  “You’re . . . you’re,” she stutters, searching for her words.

  “I’m what?”

  Raising her chin, she lifts her hand and just when I think she’s about to stick it under my shirt again, she brings her fingers together to form a point and jabs me right in the sternum, sending me back a step. I rub the spot where she jabbed me, shocked from her weird attack. “Hey, what was that for?”

  “That’s for being annoying. Get a life, Racer. I would never even think about being intimate with you.”

  I don’t believe her, not one bit. Since my ego is slightly wounded, I want to prove her wrong, so as she goes to jab me again, I stop her and wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her right into my chest. Her hands fall against my pecs, her legs struggle to balance on her heels. Surprise is clear in her eyes.

  I tilt her chin up so her lips are in direct line with mine. Instead of struggling against me, her body melts, molding against mine, creating the kind of friction every man desires. Still unaware of my next move, she holds her breath in anticipation.

  Doesn’t want to kiss me, my ass.

  From the way she wets her lips to the position of her hands clinging tightly to my chest, there is no doubt in my mind she wants to kiss me.

  And fuck, I want to kiss her.

  Just a little taste.

  Just a little indulgence, something to get me through these next couple days. That’s all.

  That’s all it will ever be.

  Pinching her chin with my thumb, I bring her close and lower my head. Before I press my lips against hers, I pause, waiting for her to push me away, waiting for her to change my mind, but when she makes no move to stop me, I move forward and press our lips together.

  Soft, warm, fucking intoxicating. Her mouth is exactly as I imagined it . . . addicting.

  At first, she’s tentative, almost unsure, but then her hands grip my shirt and pull me closer, molding our bodies together. A smile dares to peek out, but I hold it back. I’d be an idiot to ruin this moment. And an I-told-you-so kind of smile would one hundred percent ruin this moment. Right now, I want nothing to get in the way of Georgie’s mouth on mine.

  Her vanilla scent floats around me, spearing me in half as I pull her closer and run my tongue along her lips, parting them ever so slightly. For a brief second I think she might hold out on me, denying me entrance, but then she surprises me when her tongue meets mine, dancing, tangling, caressing.

  Fuck, yes.

  My hand that’s around her waist slips up her back as I deepen our connection, not wanting this to end. Ever since I first laid my eyes on Georgie, I’ve wondered what her mouth tasted like, what she would feel like in my arms . . .

  She tastes better than I imagined.

  She feels better than I imagined.

  She’s a fucking goddess in my arms.

  I want more.

  I need more.

  I can feel my hormones starting to lose control, my heart beating rapidly, knocking down the reservations I had about this woman, at least for this moment. It’s just her and me, nothing resting between us.

  Soft and velvety, her skin is so fucking smooth under the palm of my hands as I continue to lift them up her back and then to her ribcage. She moans in my mouth, disconnecting our lips for a second. Sadly, that’s all it takes to break the moment.

  “Oh my . . .” she gasps as she pushes me away and puts her fingers to her lips. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  Surprised and shocked all in one, mouth still agape, hopefully tongue not hanging out, I look her up and down and say, “Uh, kissing you.”

  I’m feeling the loss of her in my arms, the feel of her pressed against me, the way she desperately clung to me. Did she feel it too? Did she feel the connection?

  “Why were you kissing me?” She’s still pressing her fingers to her lips, trying to make sense of what just transpired between us.

  “Uh, I wasn’t the only one doing the lip-locking. Not to be a total jackass, but weren’t you kissing me back?”

  Eh . . . wrong thing to say, I know it the minute she hears what I say by the way her surprise switches to fury.

  “You are a jackass,” she snaps, and then stalks toward her car without saying another word. Hot and cold this woman. I like it.

  Thankfully I can see her car from here, so I watch as she angrily gets inside, slams her door, and starts the engine with such precisely psychotic movements it makes me chuckle.

  Didn’t want to kiss me. She’s such a sassy little liar. At least I know I can call her on her bullshit. The only problem now . . . what will tomorrow bring?

  Truthfully, there isn’t just one problem though. Because fuck, I want to kiss her again. A lot.

  Shit.

  Even though it felt so good to have one little taste, it was more detrimental than I expected it to be. As she drives off, I want to chase after her, beg for one more kiss.

  Frustrated, I rake my hand through my hair. I need to focus. I have to let tonight go, drop it, and push past the way she felt entirely too perfect in my arms. I hate that it’s true, but preserving my father’s memory has to come before any wants or desires I might have. I need to narrow down my work, and fuck . . . I need to ask her for my money.

  That won’t be awkward at all, especially after that mind-blowing kiss.

  Chapter Thirteen

  GEORGIANA

  The door opens and I look up from my list of things we need to get done today. Racer strolls in with a wide grin on his face, the kind of grin that’s sexy, yet beyond annoying, because I can easily read his face. It’s saying, “I told you so.”

  I didn’t want to kiss him last night. I really didn’t.

  What about my wandering hands, you ask? Okay, they were a little incriminating, but in my defense, I have poor circulation so I was trying to keep them warm. That’s all.

  Cold fingers needed warming up. That’s my reasoning as to why they were sliding around under Racer’s shirt, caressing his abs and reveling in just how built the man is.

  Not because I wanted to feel his skin.

  Not because I found him attractive last night.

  And not at all because I like him and his carefree spirit.

  And not because he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever known.

  Nope.

  I don’t like him one bit.

  He’s kind of an asshole actually. No. Not kind of. He is an asshole. He is a relentless prankster, enjoys poking fun at me, and believes his opinion is the only opinion anyone should ever take.

  Don’t get me wrong. I know what your little pitter-patter heart is thinking . . .

  He took you out last night, showed you how to have a good time that didn’t involve anything more than five dollars per person. He leaves beautiful words around the shop. He wants to make sure you stay safe by walking you to your car.

  I get it!

  I don’t need to be reminded. Believe me, I know.

  I think about it all the time. Way more than I care to admit.

  All right, I’ll be frank. Between us ladies, I can’t get him off my mind. I really think about him all the time and not because he’s completing the renovations on my shop. I think about him in all the wrong ways. Like what kind of shirt is he going to wear? Is he going to take it off at any point in time? Does his tan continue past his waistline? What about his hat, is he going to wear it today? Backward like always?

  God, a hat shouldn’t turn me on. I shouldn’t be frothing at the mouth waiting to see if a man is going to wear his hat backward on a daily basis. And yet, here I am, inwardly clapping my hands frantically while my leg bounces in place, beyond excited that Racer just entered my shop wearing that worn-out hat, backward. Of course.

  Sigh . . . I could s
tare at him all day.

  “Morning, Georgie. Lips chapped from last night?”

  And then he opens his mouth.

  I have never in my life met a more infuriating man. And yet, he’s charming-ish? What is that about? It’s really not fair. It’s not fair that I can want him so badly, yet want to throat throttle him the next minute.

  He’s exasperating.

  Staring down at my papers in front of me, I avoid eye contact and say, “I’m actually nursing some abrasions on them. Try using ChapStick; might help with those razor-blade lips of yours.”

  His lips are actually incredibly soft and perfect and wonderful and . . . sigh.

  “Sassy this morning. You must have remembered to take your laxative.”

  What in the ever-loving hell?

  My head snaps up, and when I see his shit-eating grin, I want to punch him in the throat. It’s going to be one hell of a long Saturday, that’s for sure.

  He gives me a thumbs up and adds, “Good for you.” Clapping his hands together, louder than necessary, he looks around and starts listing off the things we need to do as if we didn’t just make out last night. Scratch that, not only make out but feel each other up in a PG way. How can he act so cool when I’m burning up inside? “Tiles are in. I’ll start on the bathroom next week. I really want to get these shelves constructed today, it will make—”

  “The bathroom needs to be tiled today.” I shake my head, trying to avoid fanning myself in front of him. Focus on work, G.

  He raises his brow at me and puts his hands in his pockets, his arms flexing drastically with the movement. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, it is.” I point behind me with my pen. “So get to work.” Yeah, get the hell out of here before I shuck my bra and throw it at you with an attached invitation that says, “Go to town, big boy.”

  God, my nipples are hard.

  Studying me—please don’t look at my nipples—, he says, “All you need is some leather and a whip and you would be one hell of a dominatrix. Although, I’m not really into being topped.” He stares at my breasts—shit—and then smiles. “Eh, one night wouldn’t kill me.”

  I set my pen down and fold my arms over my chest. His eyes automatically go to my cleavage where he blatantly stares. He’s so aggravating. I wish I could teach him a lesson. He licks his lips, his eyes still trained on my chest . . .

  Bingo.

  My breasts. Racer’s weakness. In my head I rub my hands together, because two can play at this little game he’s created. Frenemies it is.

  “Bathroom first. The toilet needs to be installed. I’m done going over to the deli across the street, buying a pickle and then peeing. We need a bathroom.”

  “Just do what I do, pee out back in a bush.”

  “Ew.” I cringe. “You do not pee in a bush outback.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “I don’t, but hell, seeing your disgusted face was worth it. Bathroom it is, Princess, but don’t get mad at me when you’re ready to start stocking your shelves and they’re not ready.”

  “I’m mad at you right now because I have nowhere to pee, so it’s not like my feelings for you are going to change.”

  “Aw, not even after last night’s lover’s connection? I thought your little hand exploration up my shirt would have gathered me some points.” My nostrils flair and I grind my teeth. Yup, he’s going to get messed with today, no doubt about that.

  “We didn’t have a lover’s connection.” I stand and put away all my papers besides my to-do list. I will keep that out as a reminder to Racer that we have a lot to do today. Well, he has a lot to do. I have some teasing to accomplish. Payback is a bitch, Racer, and she’s coming for you.

  I walk back to the where the bathroom is and he follows closely behind. “Pretty sure we did. Your hand was down my pants.”

  His exaggerations are obnoxious, and I’ve realized the more I deny them, the more he jokes around. What happens when I toss them right back at him? We will just have to see.

  “My hand was down your pants?” I cross my hands over my chest again, giving him a great view of my cleavage; too bad I’m wearing my camisole. No worries. That will be tossed shortly.

  “Right down there.” He makes a gesture with his hand to imply cuppage.

  “Oh yeah,” I snap, “you’re right. My hand was down on your pants. I guess it wasn’t really memorable.”

  “And why not?” He steps forward, total confidence in his face, as if he’s ready to call me out.

  “Because, I wasn’t finding anything down there and I got nervous I was going to have to start digging. Having to dig for dick isn’t the best way to try to impress a lady.”

  His face falls flat. “Bullshit.”

  “Truth. But hey”’—I step up and tap his cheek—“at least you have the muscles.” As I walk away, I call out, “Let me know if you need help with the tiling.”

  Grumbling behind me, Racer starts preparing to work. I chuckle to myself and step to the side, out of sight. When I hear him lifting the tile boxes, I quickly take off the camisole that’s under my V-cut, white T-shirt and put it in my purse. Like the whore I want to act like, I stick my hand in the cups of my bra and readjust myself so the ladies look plump and fresh. Looking down, I’m pleased with the view, so I go in for the kill, well, the partial kill.

  When I enter the bathroom, with his beautiful word still on the wall, I find him on the floor situating himself. I grip the sides of the doorway and lean forward.

  “You know, maybe we should do the shelves first.”

  Racer looks up at me and before he can even make eye contact, he’s greeted by the gape in my shirt, giving him a serious view down my shirt. He sits back on his feet and clears his throat. “Uh, why’s that?”

  This very well might be too easy.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. It might be easier to see what to order if I have the shelves done.” I bend down and start to retie my construction boots right in front of Racer.

  His eyes are fixed on my breasts. He’s not even subtle about it.

  Men.

  So easy.

  “Then again, once the bathroom is finished, we just have the shelves and painting to be done before I can start stocking. You can finish up my consultation room after that while I make things pretty. Hmm . . . what do you think?”

  “I think you need to make up your mind so I can get started.”

  “Okay, let’s stick with the bathroom.”

  “Fine. Now get out of here, this space is too small for two people.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry. Shout if you need anything.”

  Smiling, I leave and grab my iPad where I start perusing different vintage dress sales to see if there is anything I can buy to put in my store. I want to provide room for vintage and new, both local and worldwide.

  My phone rings as I’m flipping through pages.

  Madison.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Did you get the invite?”

  “What invite?”

  Madison huffs on the phone. “For Bitsy’s Ball in the Hamptons. It’s in two weeks. Kind of tacky that she waited two weeks before the event to send invites. Although, she has it the same weekend every summer so maybe she’s assuming she’s conditioned us all to keep that weekend free.”

  “Shoot, I bet my mom got one.” I bite on my nail. I’ve never been into the parties my parents attend, especially ones in the Hamptons, since they’re all about showing off how much money you have and how you can drip it off your body in the summer heat. Bitsy’s Ball, though, is a must for me.

  Every year she has a fashion show. It’s one of the many activities she sponsors throughout the weekend and this year, it’s wedding themed. There are going to be at least a dozen local designers attending, designers I would die to have represented in my shop.

  “Just ask her.”

  I swallow hard. “They kicked me out yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?” Madison’s tone grows more serious.
She might be fun and flirty most of the time, a bit of a ditz on occasion, but she’s a solid friend, a person I can trust, loyal to the core.

  “My dad wasn’t happy about me going behind his back and starting my shop, so he said if I was going to disrespect him, I was out.”

  “God, he’s such a drama queen. Do you need a place to stay?”

  “I’m with Abe and Waverly right now. It works for the time being until I can get on my feet and find a place of my own.”

  “It sucks that you don’t get your trust fund for another two years.”

  “Tell me about it. At least I have my brother supporting me, and once Limerence gets up and running, I can start supporting myself, which is what I really want.”

  “My girl G, such a little entrepreneur.”

  “That’s me.” I sigh into the phone. “Maybe Waverly and Abe got an invite. I’m sure they don’t want to go. I can take their spot.”

  “That’s a good idea. Because you know who’s going to be there, right?”

  “Natalie Roman,” I answer, knowing exactly who is on the line-up. “Believe me, I’m well aware. I just want two seconds of her time to see if she will sell to my shop.”

  “And we can get you those two seconds. We just need to get you into the event first.”

  “Let me call Waverly and see what she says.”

  “Okay,” Madison responds. “Text me when you’re done.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and quickly pull up Waverly’s name in my phone. The phone barely rings before she picks up.

  “This better be good. I’m shaving for my afternoon quickie with your brother and have about ten minutes before he’s lubed up and ready to go.”

  Groaning, I say, “How many times have I told you not to talk about sex with my brother to me? It’s so disturbing.”

  “I just said quickie. It’s not like I talked about the fantasy we’re playing out. But if you must know, I’m the flight attendant and he’s—”

  “Stop! Please, don’t say another word. Let me just ask my question so you can finish shaving.”

  “You’re on speaker phone. I’m multi-tasking. What can I do for you?”

  Why do I envision a piece of licorice hanging out of her mouth as she’s shaving in her giant, jet-powered bathtub? Maybe because that’s how I found her one time.