Going Up_A Novella

by Tawna Fenske

  Instead, she looks up at me and grins, her hands planted solid on my chest. “You have a great body,” she murmurs. “I’d like to see more of it.”

  I grin back and finger the strap of her top, nudging it down over one freckled shoulder. “I’ll take off anything you want,” I tell her.

  “Start with my shirt, please.”

  I laugh, surprised by her boldness. “Gladly.”

  Grabbing the hem of her little red tank top, I tug up. She lifts her arms, and in two seconds, her shirt joins mine in a heap on the floor.

  Lexi smiles and holds out her arms in a sort of ta-da gesture that’s equal parts self-conscious and sexy. I want her so badly my teeth ache.

  “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  I sound like a guy who’s never seen a woman in her bra before. I’m staring like that, too, but I’ve never seen a woman quite like her. Lexi’s skin is smooth and creamy, with pale freckles sprinkled like cocoa powder across the tops of her breasts. Her black, lacy bra cups them like two perfect scoops of gelato.

  I almost say this out loud before realizing it sounds deranged. Like someone with a weird food fetish. That’s how crazy she’s making me.

  “I’ve been dying to touch you all day,” I manage instead.

  Lexi grins, then gasps as my hands envelop her completely. “I love your hands,” she groans. “How big they are.”

  I squeeze gently, not wanting to hurt her, but needing to feel the give of her flesh, the firmness of her thighs, as she sighs and leans into me.

  “God, Lexi, you feel amazing.”

  She gives a soft little laugh and kisses me again. We stay like that for minutes—or hours?—touching, exploring, stroking, caressing.

  It’s Lexi whose hands head south first. Lexi who gives the first tug at a belt buckle, her fingertips grazing me though rough denim. I’m going to lose my mind if she doesn’t stop.

  But she has no intention of stopping. And I can’t bring myself to consider it either. By now I’ve unhooked her bra and explored those exquisite breasts with my fingers, my lips, my cheeks.

  I know what comes next. I can tell where this is headed by the way Lexi’s stroking me through my fly.

  But still, I have to ask. Consent matters, but even more when you’re the kind of guy who earns nervous glances from strangers.

  “I have condoms in my bedroom,” I murmur. “If this is what you want—”

  “I do.” Her smile splits my chest in two. “I want this. I want you.”

  Jesus.

  I stand up and reach for her hand, tugging her to her feet more roughly than I meant to. But Lexi doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she surges ahead, pulling me down the hall toward my bedroom, even though I haven’t pointed out where it is. She seems to know instinctively, just like she knows how badly I want to see her pivot in the space beside my bed. To face me with a smile in her eyes and her fingers on the button of her jeans. She shimmies out of them slowly, then steps toward me in black lace panties with a tiny silk bow under her belly button.

  She’s like a gift waiting to be unwrapped, and my mouth begins to water. I start to reach for her, but her hands find my belt buckle again, and she strips me out of my jeans and boxers before I can move.

  There’s the awkward business of shoes and socks, but before I have a chance to feel weird, we’ve tumbled naked onto my bed, groping and stroking and grinning like two high school kids whose parents are out of town.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she giggles. “I never do this.”

  “Neither do I,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if we’re talking about instantaneous hookups or casual sex.

  But this doesn’t feel casual to me. Oh, it’s natural enough—the way I slide the condom from the nightstand, the way we slip it on together with shaky hands and nervous laughter.

  Then I’m inside her, moving slowly at first, not wanting to hurt her.

  But she clutches my back, urging me on. “God, Noah.” Her breath hitches. “You feel so good.”

  “So do you.”

  It’s all I can do not to explode inside her like a preteen boy with his first girlfriend. I pace myself, thinking about packrats and mushrooms and anything I can come up with to distract myself from how good Lexi feels beneath me.

  “Oh, God!”

  She breaks apart beneath me, her spine arching as the rest of her liquefies in softness and she cries out again. I feel her give, and it’s my cue to do the same, dissolving into her with flashes of pleasure that burst and fizzle and go on forever.

  Then we both fall still.

  Neither of us speaks for a long time. She’s pleasure-limp as I roll her against me, and she settles into the crook of my arm with a sigh. When at last she angles up to look at me, her smile is endearingly shy.

  “That was amazing.”

  I grin back and plant a kiss on her forehead. “It was.”

  “I meant what I said.” Her voice is soft, and even though I’m not sure what she’s talking about, I hope the words keep flowing so I can enjoy the lovely lilt of them in this space between us. “About the fact that I never do this? I don’t. I mean—”

  “You’re a virgin?” I’m joking, but alarm flashes in Lexi’s eyes.

  “No! I didn’t mean that. I just meant I don’t normally sleep with guys I hardly know.”

  I plant another kiss at the edge of her hairline, feeling the throb of her pulse at her temple. “You don’t have to explain yourself, Lexi. This was really fun.”

  She smiles and looks relieved. “Totally.”

  Then she settles back in my arms, satisfied now that we’ve gotten that out of the way. I should probably get rid of the condom, but I don’t want to let go of her. I want to keep cradling her in my arms all night.

  “You can stay, if you want to,” I murmur against her hair. “I’d like to have you spend the night.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve broken some rule of hookup etiquette. Was that too forward? Too presumptuous?

  But if it is, Lexi doesn’t say so. “Okay.” It’s a sleepy murmur, and it occurs to me she’s exhausted. I don’t know what her work week looks like normally, but she said she was up all night hunting for Bartholomew. Maybe that’s why.

  “Bartholomew!” She lurches up on one arm. “I need to feed him. I should—”

  “Relax, Lexi. I’ve got this.”

  Her eyes hold mine, lids heavy with tiredness. “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t mind.” I cup her shoulder and pull her back against my chest. She fits perfectly in that space, like her body was made to curve against mine. “You relax. Sleep if you want to, or just lie here. Either way, I promise I’ll take care of Bartholomew.”

  She sighs and snuggles against me, her heartbeat thrumming against my ribs.

  In less than two minutes, she’s twitching with sleep. I smile down at her, then brush a soft kiss along her cheekbone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lexi

  I wake up feeling warm. Warmer than usual. Since my normal sleep state hovers around the temperature of a raw Butterball turkey, it’s my first cue something’s different.

  My second cue is the naked man beside me. His shin is touching mine, and his body is the size of a small automobile, and it takes me a second to remember everything that happened last night.

  When I do, I catch myself smiling.

  I open my eyes completely, feeling decadent and a little naughty. Last night was like nothing I’ve experienced before. That thing I said—the part about never doing this? It wasn’t a line. Not that I have anything against a fling, but it’s never been my style. For a woman prone to the sort of paranoia that plagues me sometimes, that’s not surprising.<
br />
  But last night with Noah was worth tweaking a rule or two in my personal operations manual. As I prop myself up on one elbow to study his face, I notice how peaceful he is in sleep. Long lashes spread like a fern bridge between his eye socket and cheekbone. The muscles in his shoulders and arms seem flexed and solid, even in sleep. I love that he’s the sort of guy who looks strong and capable when he’s not even trying. Noah is just Noah.

  That is a damn fine-looking man, Harlow murmurs.

  Even Watson gives a grudging agreement. Turns out he’s not a serial killer.

  Deciding I should stop staring like a creep, I ease myself out of bed, careful not to wake him. On top of a dark maple dresser, I spot my jeans, bra, and top all carefully folded in a pile, and I’m touched that he thought to do it. I wonder how late he stayed up after I fell asleep. Hopefully I didn’t snore.

  I dress silently, then pad to the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my teeth with a smudge of toothpaste and a Q-tip swiped from the jar on his counter. Then I amble to the kitchen and poke around until I find coffee in the freezer and a coffee maker that is blessedly identical to the one I own. No learning curve there.

  With the coffee brewing, I return to the freezer and grab a few frozen blueberries from the bag I spotted there earlier. I cradle them in my palm to thaw them as I survey the kitchen. It’s tidy and white, with a row of neatly arranged cast-iron skillets lining one wall and a bright window that overlooks a leafy aspen in the backyard. Birds chirp from the branches, and my heart warms as I spot a curved stone birdbath beneath the window.

  Wondering if Noah made it, I imagine his hands working the stone. Two chickadees wallow and twitch in the shallow bowl, and my head fills with images of Noah’s large palms cupping the soapstone. Before I know it, my skin tingles with the memory of his touch.

  Shaking myself out of the reverie, I look down to see I’ve melted the blueberries to mush. I turn toward the hall and pad barefoot to the room where the terrarium rests on the floor. There’s no sign of movement, and I almost hate to rouse Bartholomew from his snug little nest.

  “Rise and shine, buddy,” I say, though I make no move toward the cage. “Maybe you want breakfast in bed?”

  There’s no stirring from inside the inverted butter tub Noah’s using as a packrat hut, which is okay with me. It gives me a chance to let my gaze wander the room, taking in details I didn’t notice yesterday. I linger on a bookshelf stacked with spine-cracked mystery novels. Some of the authors I recognize—Bill Cameron, Kendra Elliot, Lee Child—and I smile, realizing Noah and I have the same taste in reading. I imagine us curled up on opposite ends of the couch, our feet bumping against each other under a shared blanket as we turn pages in the flickering glow of the fireplace.

  My gaze shifts left to the tidy maple desk lined with the usual office stuff—pen holder, stapler, a surprisingly tidy in-box. There’s a computer with a screensaver spinning starry constellations, and I pause at the thought of shaking the mouse awake.

  You should snoop, Watson says.

  Absolutely not, says Harlow. We like this guy. We like him a lot.

  Ignoring them both, I turn away from the computer and continue my study of the room. There’s a granite vase of dried flowers on the corner of the desk, and beside that is a photo of a bride and a groom. The bride is resplendent in a bohemian lace gown that bares her arms, each of which showcases an elaborate tattoo of scenes from Where the Wild Things Are. Her dark hair is swept on top of her head, with wispy ringlets framing her lovely face.

  I’m so intent on studying the bride that it takes me a second to fix on the groom. When I do, all the air leaves my lungs. It’s like someone sucked them dry with a vacuum.

  It’s him—it’s Noah.

  Noah, beaming in a tuxedo with his arm around his bride, smiling down at her with his dimples on full display.

  “Lexi.”

  I spin at the sound of his voice and see Noah standing behind me in red boxers with a stricken look on his face. I open my mouth to speak, but I have no idea what to say.

  He looks behind me, his gaze landing on what I’ve just seen. What I’ll never unsee. When he looks at me again, his eyes are filled with guilt.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice husky. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

  My throat pinches tight and dry as hope shrivels like a raisin in my chest. So he’s not going to deny it. There is no denying it, really.

  “I don’t—” I stop, not sure where that sentence was going. “How could you—”

  Jesus. How does someone even respond to this?

  Noah shakes his head. “I know. I know. You trusted me, and obviously I screwed up. I’m so sorry, Lexi.”

  I shake my head, willing myself not to cry, even as I feel tears pricking the backs of my eyelids. “What the hell were you thinking?” is all I manage.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t discover this until I had a chance to—”

  “To what?” I interrupt as my hands ball into fists. The blueberries squish between my fingers, but I don’t even care. “Cover your tracks?” I shake my head, knowing this conversation is pointless. I need to get out of here. The air feels too hot, and I’m having trouble breathing.

  I told you so, Watson whispers.

  Harlow is silent, mute with disappointment.

  Tears prickle the back of my eyelids, and despite my best efforts, one spills down my cheek. “I thought you were different, Noah.”

  I push past him, not caring that I don’t know where my shoes are, not caring that I have squished blueberry running down my fingers and pebbles digging into my heels as I escape out the front door and down the asphalt driveway. Instinct sends me sprinting down the sidewalk. I don’t stop until I’ve ducked into an alley three blocks away, breathless and barefoot and hiccupping with sobs.

  As I dial Corrie’s number, I’m grateful I had the wherewithal to shove my phone in the pocket of my jeans. Maybe somehow I knew this would happen.

  I’m crying so hard that I don’t know how she understands a word I’m saying, but she does. The mark of a good friend.

  “Stay right there,” she commands. “I’m at the gym a mile away. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  True to her word, Corrie swoops in like a superhero with tires squealing on her red Miata. Her red hair is flaming, and there’s fire in her eyes.

  “Fucking asshole,” she says by way of greeting.

  “I should have known,” I mutter, swiping at my eyes as I drop into the passenger seat.

  “There’s a pair of flip-flops in my gym bag behind you,” she says as she takes the corner fast, then shoves her sunglasses up her nose. “Latte or whiskey?”

  “Latte,” I say, knowing alcohol at ten in the morning is the last thing I need. “Maybe later for the whiskey.”

  We don’t speak again until we’re seated in the coffee shop. Corrie shoos a pair of teenagers off a private sofa in a corner, then settles me on it while she goes to place our order.

  Over a sesame bagel and a vanilla latte, I manage to choke out the whole stupid story. Corrie hands me tissues and interjects profanity at appropriate intervals.

  “‘I didn’t want you to find out like this,’” she repeats, shaking her head with disgust. “Who says shit like that?”

  I shake my head, not sure how to answer. “Serial cheaters, I guess. Guys who think that if they give you three orgasms in a night, it’ll be easier to break the news that they’re only looking for a fling on the side.”

  Corrie gives a low growl and rests a hand on my knee. “I don’t blame you for running. I would have run, too. Even without shoes.”

  “And without Bartholomew,” I admit, feeling worse. I’m officially the lousiest packrat sitter in
the history of packrat sitters.

  Corrie squeezes my knee. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go back and get both. You don’t ever have to see him again if you don’t want to.”

  I nod helplessly. “Thank you.”

  Corrie takes a sip of her latte and studies me over the rim of her mug. “You want me to pee on his sofa while I’m there?” she asks. “Or maybe find his wife’s underwear drawer and light all her panties on fire?”

  I shake my head and wrap my hands around my own mug. I don’t take a drink, but I like the way it warms my chilled fingers. “That’s the thing—his wife didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who wronged her.”

  “Without knowing it,” Corrie insists. “You obviously wouldn’t have slept with her husband if you’d realized he was married.”

  I flinch at the word husband and look down at my latte. “I feel guilty. Like maybe I should find a way to let her know.”

  I look up to see Corrie frowning. I can tell she’s not sure this is a good idea, but wants to be supportive. “He didn’t say her name or anything?”

  I shake my head and wonder if she took his last name. The thought makes my chest ache. Something about her reminded me of those old Bettie Page pinup-girl calendars, and I flinch again as I think the name Bettie Donovan.

  Then I remember Noah handing me his phone in the park yesterday. There was a message on the screen, something that seemed innocent at the time.

  You are such a dork, followed by a bunch of heart emoticons.

  It makes sense now.

  “Jill,” I said. “He got a text message yesterday from a Jill. Maybe that’s her.”

  “Pretty common name.” Corrie takes a sip of coffee. “I know at least a dozen Jills.”

  “I got a good look at her in the photo,” I tell Corrie. “She’s pretty in that hipster way. Dark hair, blue eyes, great dimples. She has sleeve tattoos on both arms. One with Max and the Wild Things from—”