A Lie for a Lie

by Hunting, Helena

  Her eyes search mine, bottom lip trembling. “I-I see flecks of blue and gold near your iris when I’m this close to you.”

  “That’s one. What else?”

  “You have a dimple high on your left cheek. It’s always there, but it’s more obvious when you smile or laugh.” She skims my eyebrow with her fingertip. “You have a scar above your eyebrow that makes it look arched all the time.”

  I laugh, and she smiles. “You have a tiny freckle right here.” She taps my bottom lip, then drags her finger down the side of my throat. “And this vein right here shows me exactly how calm you are right now.”

  “What’s next? Touch? Or do I get to play this game too?”

  “That depends.”

  “On?”

  “Are you anxious?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  She frowns as if she’s concerned, which is ironic considering what she’s been through and how it’s affecting her right now. “About what?”

  “I have a gorgeous woman that I really like who’s anxious because she’s been through something bad that I can’t fix, even though I want to be able to. I don’t want to mess this up by saying or doing the wrong thing.”

  She shifts, and for a moment I think she’s going to move off my lap, but instead she straddles my thighs. “Everything you say is perfect, so you have nothing to worry about.”

  A flash of lightning has her sucking in a breath.

  “Hey, hey, stay with me, right here. Focus on me. Tell me what you feel.” I cup her face in my palms to keep her eyes locked with mine.

  “I feel . . . my heart racing, the warmth of your palms against my skin, the heat of your body under me even through our clothes, and an ache . . .” She bites her lip and her cheeks flush.

  “What kind of ache?”

  “For you to touch more of me,” she whispers, almost shyly.

  I skim her throat lightly. “Like this?”

  “Yes, please.”

  I drag my fingers over her collarbone and down her arms until I reach her hands. I bring one to my lips so I can kiss her knuckle. “Is taste next?”

  She nods, eyes staying on mine. “It is.”

  “What do you want to taste, Lainey?” I run my hands up the outside of her thighs, wishing I were touching bare skin. I know what I want to taste, but I’m not exactly sure what direction we’re heading, and I’d like her to lead.

  “Your skin.” She leans in, nose brushing along my jaw as her lips find my throat, right over the pulse point. Her soft, warm tongue strokes along my skin before she kisses her way up to my ear. “I taste salt and the bitterness of aftershave.” Her lips travel over my cheek until they finally brush over mine. She sucks my bottom lip. “I taste mint and chocolate and marshmallows.”

  She angles her head, lips parting as she comes in for another kiss, this time with tongue. I keep my hands on her thighs, even though I desperately want to touch more of her. Her tongue strokes mine, and she whimpers quietly.

  She slides her fingers into my hair and latches on. Lainey shimmies forward until her chest is flush with mine, and I’m sure she realizes that her calming exercise has been having the opposite effect on me. I groan into her mouth.

  “I hear desire.” She drops her hands and grabs the hem of her sweater. “And the soft rustle of fabric.” She lifts it over her head, along with the thermal shirt under it, skin pebbling—possibly because it’s cold, maybe because she’s still anxious . . . or turned on.

  She’s gloriously topless, and my imagination has proven absolutely abysmal in concocting anything close to the reality of what this would look like, feel like, be like.

  I couldn’t have predicted a set of circumstances that would bring us into each other’s lives like this, let alone to this point. It feels . . . different. Like there’s significance in every single touch and caress, and I feel the sharp bite of guilt over not being completely honest with her about who I am. But I won’t ruin it now, not when she’s shared something so obviously painful for her. Not when she’s here, looking for me to take it away for a while in whatever way I can.

  “You’re gorgeous.” I smooth my hands down the sides of her neck and kiss her.

  “We never got to smell,” she murmurs against my lips.

  “I smell mint and cucumber shampoo.” I brush my nose along the column of her throat. “And the sweetness of your vanilla lotion. What about you?”

  “I smell need and lust and wanting.”

  “We should do something about that, shouldn’t we?” I settle my hands on her waist.

  “Yes, please.”

  I kiss her again, and this time restraint becomes unnecessary. Like every other time we’ve kissed, it’s as if someone has flicked a lighter in an ocean of gasoline. She wraps herself around me, and I have to coax her to loosen her hold. “I want to taste every inch of you, Lainey, starting right here.” I touch a finger to her lips and drag it down between her breasts. “And I’ll make a stop here, before I continue”—I draw a line straight down, circling her navel, and stop at the waistband of her leggings—“under here. Do you think that would be a good sensory calming exercise?”

  “I guess we’ll have to try it out to see if it works.” She gives me a tentative, saucy grin.

  And I make good on my sensory exploration promise. We undress each other slowly, savoring the experience. I kiss every bare, sweet inch of her, spending the most time between her thighs, licking and kissing until she’s writhing under me and calling out my name as an orgasm rolls through her.

  I’m fully prepared for that to be where it ends, but Lainey tugs me back up and wraps her legs around my waist. She’s already slick from my mouth and her orgasm. “Lainey,” I groan when I settle against her, warm and wet.

  “I want to know what it feels like to have you inside me.”

  I lift my head and meet her hazy, lust-soaked gaze. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—”

  She looks suddenly unsure. “You don’t want to know what I feel like from the inside?”

  “That’s not—” I have to clear my throat. “Yes. Of course I do, I just don’t want you to feel pressured—”

  “I don’t feel pressured. I feel like I’m under pressure. Like one of those mints dropped into a bottle of soda and shaken with the top on. That’s what it’s like when you kiss me, so I want to know what it’s like when you’re in me.”

  “Is this . . . have you . . .” I don’t know how to ask without making it awkward.

  She tips her head to the side, brows furrowing for a moment until they pop back up. “Oh! You think—” She bites her lip. “I’m not that inexperienced, RJ.”

  There’s no good way to respond, so I drop my head and kiss the side of her neck. “I just wanted to be sure, and I want this to feel good for you—for both of us. Let me grab a condom.” I’m grateful that there’s one in my wallet, because the box I bought the day after I met Lainey—hopeful that at some point we’d get here—is upstairs in my nightstand.

  I kneel between her thighs, and Lainey sits up, taking the foil square from me. She strokes me a few times, then bends to kiss the head, wetting it with her lips before she tears the wrapper open and rolls the condom on. It’s sexy and sweet and so damn hot. Especially when she straddles me, positions me at her entrance, and sinks into my lap.

  This is nothing like our frantic make-out sessions. It’s slow and gentle, a leisurely climb to the peak. When I feel myself getting close, I still her with my hands on her hips and kiss her as a distraction. Over and over, I balance at the edge and back off until Lainey can’t stop the orgasm from stealing her breath.

  I flip her over so I can keep the rhythm, chasing down my own orgasm. I try to bury my face against her neck, but she cups my face in her hands. “I want to see you,” she murmurs, eyes soft and searching.

  I meet her gaze, and my ego pretty much expands to fill the entire universe. Lainey’s eyes hold fascinated awe, like there’s nothing more enthralling than me in this moment. I c
ome hard, eyes locked on her gorgeous face, wishing there were no end to this feeling.

  I drop my forehead to hers, breathing hard. She kisses the corner of my mouth. “I would do that again and again and again just so I could see that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “Pure rapture.”

  “That belongs to you and you alone.”

  Orgasm drugged, we kiss until exhaustion creeps in. I remove the used condom, tie it off, and toss it near the fireplace. I pull the blankets over us, and Lainey curls into me.

  I think about how I could get used to this—not just the sex, but her. And I wish I’d started this with the truth instead of a lie, because it’s too late to take it back . . . but I promise myself I’ll find a way to tell her before we leave Alaska. And I hope like hell it won’t ruin what we have here.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FALL IN

  Lainey

  Having grown up on a farm, in a rural area, homeschooled, and with social anxiety doesn’t mean I never had a boyfriend. I did. Not a lot, but a few, and most of them were long term. Well, longish term.

  Also, having four older brothers meant dating could be difficult—and often secretive. In addition to the secrecy came the challenge of finding opportunities for privacy. Even now, at twenty-five, I’ve never lived away from home for long. Because of the farm, none of my siblings have strayed very far from the hub of the family wheel. Everyone lives within a few miles of each other.

  Sure, the house we all grew up in was big, with lots of places to sneak off to—barns are decent places to make out in, if you can get over the smell. And animals don’t generally rat you out—unless you happen to kick over a bucket and it lands in a cow stall, scaring the crap out of them.

  Even with the challenges I faced in the dating world, I went out with a guy who had his own place for a while. That proved helpful in expanding my sexual repertoire and putting theory into practice; however, based on my most current experience, that guy wasn’t all that great in bed. Certainly not as giving, skilled, or well endowed as RJ.

  Suffice it to say, I don’t put up a fight the next morning when RJ suggests we get the rest of my things and bring them back to his place. But first we have more sex. And then a shower, which leads to more sex. I can see how that particular location might be a little dangerous with someone who isn’t as strong or agile as RJ.

  Being intimate with someone who is in such amazing physical condition is pretty fantastic. Not only can he pick me up and carry me around like I weigh as much as a bag of potatoes, he can also hold me up—with the help of the shower wall—and give me an orgasm. It’s extraordinary.

  He’s rather extraordinary, really.

  After last night there’s a shift between us. It feels like we’re connected in ways beyond intimacy.

  We make a quick breakfast, get the rest of my personal effects from my crappy cabin, and return to his place. And yes, we have more sex. Actually, that’s pretty much all we do for the rest of the day. That and eat. I wander around in one of his button-down plaid shirts, and he wanders around in his boxer briefs—my request, obviously.

  I’ve never had a fling before, and I’m aware that’s what this is. He lives in New York, and I live in Washington. He has to run an alpaca farm, and I have to finish my master’s and get a job, eventually—or start my PhD, whichever makes more sense.

  So I try not to worry about what will happen when I go back home. Instead, for the first time in my life, I just let myself enjoy the time I have with RJ and hope that my heart can handle it. I also enjoy sex with him. A lot. So that helps too.

  Days bleed into each other as RJ and I settle into a routine. We make meals together and go boating almost every day, and I even manage to work on my thesis paper. His internet reception is far superior to what mine was, so I’m actually able to get quite a bit done . . . all things considered. As the days on the calendar count down to his impending departure, everything that doesn’t involve spending time with him takes a back seat.

  A few days before he’s supposed to go home, RJ changes his plans. My ticket is open ended, and he doesn’t have any obligations until the middle of July, so he suggests that he stay longer. My heart skips a few dangerous beats at the thought of more time with him. I’m so attached to him already, and this is only going to make it that much harder when we have to leave. But I’ll take a bruised heart in exchange for more time, and he delays his departure so we both leave closer to mid-July.

  Two weeks before we’re supposed to fly back to Seattle, we run out of condoms. It’s not really a surprise, considering how quickly we’ve been going through them. We’re in the kitchen, making coffee and toasting bagels, me in my favorite uniform—one of RJ’s flannel plaid shirts—and him in his boxer briefs.

  He reaches over me, erection poking me in the hip as he grabs two mugs from the cupboard above my head. He sets them in front of me, moves my hair aside, and presses a wet kiss to my neck. He follows that with the gentle scrape of teeth.

  “RJ.” It’s more moan than warning.

  “How am I supposed to resist you, especially when I know there’s nothing under that shirt.” His fingers dip beneath the hem and skim along bare skin. I bat his hand away, spin to face him, and put a palm on his chest. Not that it’s much of a deterrent, since I hum in appreciation instead of pushing him away—and brush my thumb over his nipple. In the short weeks RJ and I have had to explore each other’s bodies, I’ve discovered that his nipples are a hot zone. So are his neck and the V of muscle at his hips, leading to the hottest hot zone of all.

  He grabs me by the waist, picks me up, and deposits me on the counter. His palms curl over my knees.

  “It’s been, what, two hours?” I drag my nails down the side of his neck and relish his low groan.

  “Two hours too long. I’m going through withdrawal.” He puts pressure on the insides of my knees, a silent request to let him in.

  I spread my legs, my appetite for him as voracious as his is for me. “We need to go to town.”

  “We will, but breakfast and orgasms first, and not necessarily in that order.” RJ slides his warm, rough palms up my thighs, biting his lip as he pushes the flannel up, exposing me. I’m already wet. It’s pretty much perpetual with RJ. “Fuck, Lainey.”

  “Not until after we go to town.” The statement comes out a little breathless—but also with conviction. I internally pat myself on the back for being responsible.

  RJ rests his forehead against mine. “I could just slip it in there for a couple of strokes, like two or three. That’d be okay, right?”

  I snort a laugh. It’s definitely not a becoming sound at all. And it turns into a moan when RJ pulls his boxer briefs down and rubs the head of his erection along the inside of my thigh.

  “I told you we should’ve gone to town yesterday,” I murmur, half-entranced by the way he keeps rubbing the head along the crease in my thigh, up one side and then down the other, over and over again.

  “You feel so good.” He circles my most sensitive skin, and I moan. “Just two strokes bare, Lainey, please.”

  The toaster pops behind me. “The bagels are ready.”

  “Fuck the bagels.”

  “That might hurt.” I suck in a breath as he drags the head of his erection down, parting my lips, passing my entrance. “One stroke. In and out. That’s it,” I say before I fully consider the ramifications.

  RJ’s eyes flip up to mine, and his chest rises and falls. His gaze drops, and so does mine. “You’re sure?” He’s right there, hand shaking, erection kicking in his fist.

  “Once. One time.”

  The head slips in, both of us look down, and I clench around him. It’s such a terrible, wonderful idea. He pushes in another inch on a low groan. “God, Lainey, look at you.” He frames my sex with his hands, thumbs sweeping over me, and pushes all the way in.

  I moan, long and low and desperate. Because it feels so good, and I know it’s so wrong and bad and dangerous
. But I wrap my legs around his waist anyway, keeping him in me as I roll my hips. His mouth drops open, and his lids flutter, his fingertips digging into my thighs as his forehead comes to rest against mine. “You feel so good like this—so fucking good, Lainey.”

  “You too.” I unhook my legs from his waist and put a hand on his chest. “But it’s not safe.”

  His lust-heavy gaze meets mine, torn and desperate. He looks down, and I follow his eyes, watching as he eases out on a plaintive groan. As soon as the ridge appears, I push him back and slip off the counter, dropping to my knees. Engulfing the head, I taste my own need. RJ’s hands slide into my hair as I take him in as far as I can.

  We end up on the floor, me straddling his face while I take him in my mouth, competing to see who can make the other come first. I would’ve won if he hadn’t added his fingers.

  Afterward we toast new bagels and drink lukewarm coffee for breakfast. “That can’t happen again,” I say between bites of bagel.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I promise I’ve always been safe in the past and that we’ll be safe from here on out. I got carried away. Right after this we’ll go to town and stock up, okay?” He leans in and kisses my cheek, lips moving to my ear. “You feel like velvet, and you taste like heaven. I would stay inside you forever if I could.”

  I push away from the table. “I’m getting dressed so we can go.”

  “Good idea.”

  Fifteen minutes later, RJ and I are fully dressed and ready for an outing so we can restock condoms—and maybe food, although that is definitely second on the to-do list.

  It’s fairly warm today, crisp like that time between spring and summer in Washington.

  He spins the truck keys on his finger. “You know what we should do?”

  “If it involves your penis and my vagina, it needs to wait until we get back from our shopping trip.”

  He grins wolfishly. “You have a one-track mind, don’t you?”

  “Only when I’m around you, apparently,” I mutter.

  “Lainey! Catch!” RJ shouts.