by Remy Rose
He isn’t saying anything more—probably waiting for me to—but he’s still holding my hand as we pull into my driveway. He puts the gear shift in park and starts to take off his seat belt.
“No. Don’t walk me in.” I’m practically begging as I slide my hand out of his grip. “Please, just don’t walk me in, okay?”
Damon looks at me in surprise, his lips curving into a small, rueful smile. “Okay, Delaney,” he says gently. “Listen, I didn’t mean to stress you out. I just thought that maybe I could get you to relax and enjoy yourself, and we could have a little fun with this. But it would have to be mutual fun, or it’s a no-go. Maybe you can just think about it. No worries, though, and no pressure, okay? Have a good night.”
I can feel his eyes on my back as I walk quickly to my steps and unlock my door. I’m trembling, and I’m glad Damon can’t see. I’m not scared of him, specifically...more like scared of the feelings he’s bringing out in me. How he’s affected me since the first time I saw him.
I pull the drapes across the picture window, feeling a little pang watching the taillights of the Range Rover get smaller and smaller as Damon pulls away. I want to change out of my dress, get comfortable so I can relax and try to process all of this. I’ll have to text Maddie tomorrow—tell her I had a date with Malibu Ken. I didn’t want to tell her before because I was already keyed up enough, but now I have to, since Damon and I are going to be a couple. She’ll freak, and I’ll have to deal with feeling like total crap because it’s a lie.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave…Walter Scott definitely knew what he was talking about.
Curling up in my bed with a wine cooler and my favorite fleece throw, I flick on the TV and find season six of Friends on Netflix. I’m feeling calmer, but there is a distinctive ache pulsing inside me. The question is, what am I going to do about it? I’m locked in to the deal now—there’s no turning back, especially since I’m going to be the proud owner of the corner of Main and School Street.
I just never imagined that this faking act would also include faking it with him...pretending he’s not getting to me, pretending I don’t imagine his kiss, his touch, and more. The goal is for me to be believable as his girlfriend, but I was never supposed to see myself in those terms. Ironic.
There’s a lot of things I’d like to say to you, believe me.
I want to know what he would say.
Like really, really want to know.
I drink the rest of my wine cooler and glance over at the iPhone on my nightstand. There is a way I could find out what he would say.
Do I really want to go there?
I’m picking up my phone, finding him in my contacts and starting a text message, so I guess that would mean yes, I do. Who knew my thumbs would be so reckless and bold?
Hi. Sorry it’s late. And sorry I got out of your car so fast. I was a little freaked out. And if I’m being totally honest, I’m also a little curious.
I wait, my heart climbing up into my throat. And then I see three dots below my text. He’s writing back.
Stop saying you’re sorry—I told you, no worries. What are you curious about?
My reckless and bold thumbs hesitate. But only for a second.
I was wondering what things you’d like to say to me. *passes out*
LOL. Are you asking me to talk dirty to you, Sprite?
I’m asking you to *text* dirty to me, Demon. But just say one thing, OK? That’s probably all I can handle.
OK.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely hold the phone.
When I picked you up at your apartment tonight and saw you in that dress, I didn’t want to go to the winery. I wanted to back you up against the wall, put my tongue in your mouth, lift up your dress and stroke your pussy till you begged me to fuck you. And then I would have. Hard.
OMG.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
My entire body is buzzing, glowing—electrified from his words. Between my legs, I’m wet and aching and engorged, my arousal so intense, I feel like I could come.
Are you okay?
Am I? I don’t know. This has rattled the shit out of me, but it’s the most exhilarated and turned-on I’ve been in maybe...ever.
Yes. But OMFG.
I can practically hear him chuckling, can see his slow grin spreading across his face, and just imagining him at his house—sitting on his couch, or even lying in bed, maybe shirtless—maybe with a hard-on (God, I hope so)—fills me with a delicious sense of excitement and intimacy that I thought was lost forever.
One more thing, Sprite...not dirty, I promise.
OK…?
You make me smile.
A jolt to my heart, followed by a warm, spreading feeling in my chest. I think of texting back same, but it feels like it’s too much. So I reply with a thank you and good night.
Good night. Sweet dreams.
Sweet dreams? That’s assuming I’ll be able to freaking sleep.
Lying back in bed against my pillows, I close my eyes and clutch my phone to my chest, imagining what it would be like to have Damon Cavanaugh right here, right now, on top of me. I realize I’ve drifted into dangerous territory. Dangerous, because sometimes where the mind goes, the body will follow.
I turn out the light, set my phone on the nightstand and lay in the darkness. I’m one hundred percent sure I’ll have to give myself the big O so I can sleep, and I’m going to envision the wall scene he sexted me about.
The naked truth, so to speak, is that my new faux boyfriend has made me want more than just to envision. I want to feel sexual again. I want to experience. How much, I’m not sure, but the desire is strong enough to make me sit up in bed, pick up my phone and text him one last time tonight.
So I’m thinking about the mutual fun thing.
Damon’s reply comes so quickly, it’s almost like he’s been waiting for my message.
You just made me smile.
This time, it doesn’t feel like it’s too much to say.
Same.
Chapter 11 / Damon
I skipped out of the office a little early and am driving to meet Madeline Callaway at a house she wants to show me in Hancock. I’m looking forward to seeing it and also her, since I’m wondering if she knows about Delaney and me “dating.” I’ve been fucking restless as hell all week, mainly due to the trifecta of women I’m dealing with—one I chose to act with me, one who’s being chosen for me, and one who’s choosing to act like a bitch. Nothing new for the last one; this is my mother we’re talking about, after all. But she’s stepped up her game since the night at the winery, making it very clear that she’s furious as fuck about Delaney while loading up my schedule with all things Portia. Tonight, I’m picking her up at the airport. This weekend, showing her around Bar Harbor. And for the duration of her stay here, take her under my wing to learn the business, like she’s an intern and I’m her mentor. We all know how that’s turned out in the past with me and interns. But no way in hell that’s happening this time.
If someone could figure out how to keep sex from complicating the shit out of things, I’d appreciate it. The more I’m around Delaney, the more I want her. Bad. That sext Saturday night was a definite game-changer. She surprised me by asking; I shocked her with my answer, and now we’re both seeing each other as a little more real, you could say, than we have before. Not only is she the hottest girl I’ve ever seen, she’s funny as hell with just the right amount of sass. I like how she can keep me on my toes, although I’ve spent plenty of time imagining being off my feet, with her. Given how she gets to me, that’s going to involve plenty of risks, which is what I wanted to avoid in the first place. I’ve always been able to keep sex and emotion in two separate jars. Delaney, though, with her killer combination of sexy and feisty, has knocked over those jars so that everything’s spilled and blended together, leaving me thinking I should really try to clean it up...but instead, I’m just watching it soak in.
There’s obviously a reason she’s so jump
y and cautious when it comes to being touched. And I realize it’ll further complicate things if I try to get to the bottom of it—it’s none of my business, for Christ’s sake—but it’s more about wanting to know so I can figure out how to help her.
That’s what stops me in my tracks. Why the fuck do I want to help her?
It goes beyond wanting to make her feel good, which has always been my goal with women. It’s wanting her to overcome whatever it is that’s holding her back from letting go, so she can enjoy being touched like people are meant to enjoy it.
Madeline as her best friend is clearly protective of her, indicative of what she had me promise—to treat her right. And I will, definitely.
But selfishly? Jesus, do I want her. It’s just got to be on her terms.
I turn onto Singing Woods Lane. You can’t see a lot of the houses from the road—they’re way down on the water. This property has four acres and 500 feet of frontage—it’d be nice to have more privacy than The Condom’s setup. Price tag is pretty hefty at three mill, but YOLO and all that. And I plan on being in this next house for a long time.
The driveway’s long and winding. Madeline’s on the front porch and gives me a wave as I pull in. I already like the cottage style with the weathered-shingles look.
She’s got her hair up in a loose bun (not yanked back in Gloria style, thank God), looking sharp in a pale blue trench coat with a black briefcase in her hands. She’s classy and professional but down-to-earth—the type of person you instantly like. I’m picturing her and Delaney having a girls’ night and giggling like a couple of teenagers, and it makes me smile inside as I step up onto the porch.
“So, Damon— it’s a little cold and cloudy today, but you have to picture this place with all the trees leafed out and the sun pouring in the windows.”
“Like how those real estate ads always say ‘sun-drenched living room?’”
“Exactly.”
“I can do that—I’m good at using my imagination.” And Jesus, am I ever—especially when it comes to X-rated fantasies involving a certain blonde. That’s taken up a good deal of my down time lately.
Madeline hands me the paperwork on the house and then takes me on a tour of the first floor. I like the open concept: vaulted ceilings in the living room, and even on this gray day, the white walls make it seem bright and airy. There’s a lot of glass and a kickass view of the water. And a huge stone hearth with a thick area rug in front of it. Christ, I feel like a creeper for picturing me being on top of Delaney on that rug while I’m standing here with her BFF, but that’s exactly where my thoughts go. Actually, pornographic real estate ad copy might be a good sales tactic: Living room with stunning stone hearth and radiant floor heating, perfect for banging your lover in front of a crackling fire.
I follow Madeline into the kitchen. White cabinets, light hardwood floor and gray-speckled granite countertops with a unique-looking, mosaic-style backsplash. Madeline runs her hand along the top of the gleaming granite on the island. “Great set-up for entertaining in here.”
Amenities include huge island with granite top, ideal for bending your lover over and fucking her before dinner.
We check out the upstairs. The master bedroom has lots of glass, a locker-room size shower (bench-style seating, optimal for going down on your lover) and a walk-out upper level deck with a view of the ocean. Even in early April, it’s stunning.
I like this place.
“What are you thinking?” Madeline’s smiling, like she already knows.
Definitely not going to share my thoughts about what I’d like to do to her friend in this house. “I can picture myself here.”
“Two more perks for you to consider...it’s the last house on a dead-end road, and the land abuts a nature conservancy.”
“Nice.”
“Take a little time to think about it, and let me know if you want to write up an offer. Just don’t take too long if you think you want it, because I doubt it’ll be on the market long.”
“I don’t need any time. Let’s make an offer on it.”
“Well there, then. That was fast.”
“I’m the type of guy who knows what I want.”
Madeline gives me a quick smile—a knowing smile—and I can guess what she’s thinking. I beat her to the punch. “Delaney and I have started seeing each other.”
“Yes...she told me.”
“I really like her—her spunk and her sweetness.”
Madeline seems pleasantly surprised by what I said. “I’m glad you see both of those. She’s very special.” Her eyes are searching mine in a silent plea.
“I haven’t forgotten what you said, Madeline. About treating her right.”
“Good. Thank you. And just so you’ll know, I’m going to have to tell her sometime about me getting her to New Moon. I can’t have any lies between us.”
There’s a little poke in my gut there, because Madeline is completely unaware that her BFF is not telling her the truth about our arrangement. Ah, shit—I really don’t like the idea of potentially causing a rift between friends.
“That’s fine if you tell her. It’s all good.”
“Thanks.” She’s looking a little more relaxed now as we go back downstairs. We discuss my offer in the kitchen, she tells me about the current interest in The Condom, and I’m feeling really good about this. I’ll hang on to this when my guts start churning in a few hours with the arrival of Portia Bellamy. I’ll be at the airport in T-minus two hours thirty minutes.
“This house is one of my favorites, honestly. I think you’re smart to jump on it.” Madeline snaps shut her briefcase and starts to button her trench coat.
“When you know something feels right, why wait?”
“I agree. I’ll be in touch once I hear from the buyer, and I’ll let you know when an offer comes in on your condo.” We step out onto the porch, and she locks the door behind us, then looks up at me. “I just realized I may be seeing you socially, since you and Delaney are dating.”
“Very true. I look forward to it.” Hopefully, Sprite and I can pull that off. It’s one thing to fool my mother, but it’s another when it’s your best friend who knows you well. We’ll see. I definitely don’t have to fake my attraction, and with the way Delaney’s been responding to me, maybe she won’t struggle with hers, either.
* * * *
I check the electronic display board for the arrival time of American Airlines flight #4693. She’s about fifteen minutes away. Bangor International Airport is small and quiet with only six gates, and I take a seat across from a sixty-ish woman who’s knitting. I’m regretting the cup of coffee I just had; I’m already amped up enough, thinking not only about meeting Portia, but having to drive her for an hour and a half to her Bar Harbor apartment. I’ve got the key for her, and I’m only planning on helping her bring in her bags, make sure she’s settled, and leave. I’ll be friendly to Portia, help her learn about the company, but otherwise I’m staying as far the fuck away from her as possible. And it starts tonight.
I check my phone. I haven’t heard from my make-believe girlfriend since we texted on Saturday night. I didn’t want to pressure her and thought I’d leave the ball in her court, but she’s apparently reluctant to play.
I’m thinking it’s time for a little one-on-one scrimmage. And getting playful will help me de-stress. I swipe my finger across the phone screen and tap on the text icon. Makes me smile again, looking at her last message.
Waiting for my future wife’s plane to arrive.
I wait a minute for her reply.
And texting your fake girlfriend to pass the time. Your marriage sounds very promising.
It is. Have you been doing some thinking?
Constantly.
Would any of this thinking involve touching yourself?
There’s a pause. I’m grinning, imagining her blushing and drawing her lips together the way I’ve seen her do when she’s pissed but not really.
Yes...I was just laying in bed
watching a movie and wishing you were here with me. I was picturing you taking me from behind.
Fuck. Jesus, I totally didn’t expect that, and my cock’s responding. I look up to see the knitting woman staring at me like she knows what’s going on in my pants. I’m just about to text back asking for more details when I get another message from Delaney.
I’m practicing my faking. How’d I do?
Totally. Burned.
Okay, got to give her props on that, and I can’t keep from breaking into a laugh, knowing Sprite’s probably cracking up, too. The knitter’s smiling along with me like she’s part of it, her eyes darting up and down from my face to her knitting needles.
I’m concocting a reply when I notice people standing up and walking over to Gate 4, which is where Portia is supposed to arrive. I look over at the display board and can see that her plane has landed. Shit.
I don’t know if I’m more bummed about having to meet the Bellamy Marine princess or having to stop texting with Delaney. Toss-up.
A+ for making me hard and making me laugh. In that order. Got to go, forced fiancée has arrived. Talk soon.
I’m about to slip my phone in my pocket when I get the urge to send one last text.
I want to see you.
Same. For real.
Standing up, I watch the reunions at Gate 4, feeling like I’m in the opening scene from Love Actually. Except I’m not meeting anyone I even like. A steady stream of passengers, and then I see her. Tall, thin, wearing a white blouse and short black skirt that shows off her legs. She’s even prettier than her picture, her hair swinging at her shoulders like black silk. I force myself to lift my hand and wave. Her face lights up with a big smile like she’s glad to see me, while I’ve got a bunch of F-words lining up in alliteration inside my head.
Full of foreboding fending off a female for four months.
FUCK.
Chapter 12 / Delaney
It’s Fat Friday at Precision Machine, and what that means is that one Friday per month, Delaney goes shopping for food the night before, and Stu, Lou and the crew eat it. Honestly, the only things that are getting me through this are 1) Fat Friday only comes once per month, and 2) it’s girls’ night tonight.
