by Megyn Ward
I hear her sister laugh, the sound of it punctuated by the snap of the doors being locked.
She’s as smart as I remember.
Just not as sweet.
When I looked up and saw her standing there, it was like no time had passed between us at all. There she was, so goddamned beautiful I was sure her father would notice it. How seeing her again made me feel.
What it did to me.
The dress is just this side of an indecent exposure citation. Strapless. Tight and low across her tits. So short I’d bet my ride she’d flash me her ass if she bent over. Sky-high stripper heels bring the top of her head to the bridge of my nose.
But that’s where it stops. Where her sister’s bottle blonde hair is curled and tousled in an I just got finished having sex kind of way, Claire’s light brown hair is swept away from her face in a simple, loose braid. Barely-there make-up. No jewelry.
The juxtapose between the package and what it’s wrapped in is as confusing as it is arousing. I’m not sure if I want to cover her up with my jacket or drag her inside and fuck her. And then she looked at me like I was a vacuum cleaner salesman who’d overstayed his welcome and I have the sudden urge to turn her over my knee.
More confusion.
More arousal.
Jesus Christ, it’s been a hell of a day.
The only thing that kept me steady was the fact that her father was standing right there. I like him. I’ve always liked him. It’s usually the mother who gets left holding the bag while the father jumps ship. Claire’s mom was long gone before I ever met her but I don’t have to have meet her to know what I think of her. Any parent who bails out on their kid is a piece of shit, in my opinion.
Giving myself some time to cool off, I check the night’s itinerary. Dinner at some swanky downtown Chicago bistro. I’ve taken clients there before, I know the Maître de. A string of clubs, most of which I have relationships with their heads of security—one, in particular, I served with in the Marines. Nothing crazy. Nothing dangerous.
As far as Bachelorettes go, this club crawl would’ve been totally uneventful, if not for the fact that the woman I’ve been in love with since I was eighteen years old is currently sitting in the back of my limo.
And hating my guts.
Twelve
Claire
2012
I’ve never been kissed before Jaxon. Unless you count Billy Jenkins sticking his tongue in my mouth in the seventh grade on a playground dare.
Which I don’t.
Not anymore.
Not with the way Jaxon is kissing me now. This is not some awkward and mildly embarrassing schoolyard fumble. This is something else.
Before tonight, I’ve had zero experience aside from the Billy incident, Bri’s war stories and my own curious, late-night explorations under the covers. This blows all of those things out of the water. This is something else entirely.
Something hot. Desperate.
The urgent press of his mouth against mine. The way his tongue skims the seam of my lips. The way one of his huge hands wraps around my ponytail, tugging on it, angling my mouth under his so he can deepen the kiss. I let him inside, opening my mouth, a small desperate sound rippling up my throat when I do.
He growls at me—or rather against me, his mouth fused to mine so tight I can feel the vibrations of it in my chest, right before he advances. Gripping my hip, he pushes me against the wall, wedging his thick, hard thigh between my legs, pushing them wide.
Squeezed into the narrow space at the foot of the stairs, his enormous frame towering over me, I should feel crowded. Overpowered. He’s easily twice my size. Big bones. Hard muscles. He’s huge. All of him. I can feel the thick, rigid length of him pressed against my belly. I want what he was giving me before. I want to feel the hard press of him moving against me.
Inside me.
The hand on my hip moves, pushing under the hem of my shirt, searching for bare skin. “Claire...” he whispers my name against my mouth, his fingertips skimming the waistband of my pants giving me time to protest before he pushes past it, lower. Cupping my pussy in his hand, the heel of it pressing against the top of my mound, grinding my clit while his long, blunt-tipped fingers trace its seam through my panties. He leans into me, bringing his mouth to my ear. “You’re soaked.”
On the other side of the door, the light in the butler’s pantry clicks on. It seeps through the cracks, illuminating his features. He’s watching me, his dark eyes heavy and hooded, fused to mine, still stroking me through the thin fabric between my thighs.
I can hear people just behind the door. The fridge beside it open. Bottles clinking. People giggling. Whispering.
It looks expensive.
Should we drink it?
Fuck yeah, we’re drinking it.
He’s right. I am soaked. Have been since I left his house. Just thinking about it makes my pussy start to throb. I let out an answering whimper, my bottom lip caught between my teeth.
“Shhh…” Then his fingers push my panties to the side, their tips gliding effortlessly, pushing past my damp slit. Searching for more.
I grit my teeth as I cling to him, my hands gripping his shoulders. I make a weird noise in the back of my throat, a strange mewling sound I’ve never made before. I’m suddenly hot. So hot I feel my skin go taut, squeezing tight around my bones even as my insides start to tremble, liquefying from the heat.
“God, you feel so good...” he breathes in my ear, skimming his thumb over my clit, soft, feathery strokes, again and again, while a single, long finger strokes my entrance, before slipping inside, pushing deeper and deeper.
And then he stops.
Goes stiff.
The hand between my legs falls still, his finger still inside me, pressed against the barrier of my virginity.
I can feel him watching me, staring down at me. His jaw tight. Chest heaving like he’s having a hard time catching his breath. “You’re a virgin.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, shame burning my cheeks.
In the butler’s pantry, I hear the pop of a champagne cork, followed by a muffled, drunken cheer.
Thirteen
Jaxon
I knew. No matter what I’ve heard, no matter how many guys I’ve listened to spout off about how they’ve banged the St. James twins, I knew the truth.
Claire’s a virgin.
And here I am, fingerfucking her in a dark stairwell, while drunk partiers guzzle her dad’s champagne like it’s Boon’s Farm, not more than three feet away.
Believe it or not, that’s not even the most messed up part about all this.
The messed up part is that I don’t want to stop.
I want to keep going.
I want to make her come, screaming my name so fucking loud, the whole house will hear her.
There’s only one thing stopping me.
I can feel how ashamed she is. Not of this—what I’m doing to her. She’s ashamed that no one’s ever done it before. She doesn’t even have to say anything, I just know. She’s embarrassed because she thinks because now that I know that no one else has ever fucked her, I won’t want to either.
I’d laugh my ass off if the thought of her with someone else didn’t make me want to kill something.
She’s looking up at me. Waiting for me to reject her. Maybe even laugh at her.
On the other side of the door, someone starts fucking with the keypad, punching random numbers and rattling the doorknob.
Hey, what’s in here?
I dunno. The Bat Cave?
Maybe Dr. St. James has a sex dungeon.
Open it. I wanna see the Bat Cave.
Fuck the Bat Cave. I wanna see the sex dungeon.
Jesus Christ.
I pull my finger out and fix her panties. I want to put it in my mouth. I want to taste her so fucking bad, I have to curl my hand into a fist to keep myself in check. If having me finger her while half of our high school is running wild through her house hasn’t comple
tely freaked her out then watching me lick her juices off my fingers will sure as fuck do the trick.
Leaning in, I press my lips to the soft spot behind her ear, her pulse banging like a drum against my mouth. “We should go to your room,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.
She stares up at me, her gaze wide, chest heaving. For a second, I think she’s going to tell me no. To leave. I’m half hoping she does because virgin or not, we both know what’s going to happen if she takes me to her room.
She doesn’t tell me to leave.
She takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs.
Fourteen
Claire
Jaxon Bennett is in my bedroom. He’s in my bedroom and I can’t even look at him for more than a few seconds without feeling a warm flush of heat wash over me because all I can think about is the fact that I can still feel his hand between my legs. His finger stroking inside me. His thumb...
At this rate I’m going to come myself into a quivering puddle, just sitting here, looking at him in three-second increments.
“Are you sure you want me here?”
I catch my lower lip between my teeth and risk another glance. He’s wearing loose jeans and a collared shirt I’ve never seen him wear before. He showered. Shaved. Smells downright delicious—watermelons again and something else I can’t put my finger on. Something that must be unique to him because whatever it is, I can’t take a breath around him without feeling faint.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here in a pair of my father’s cast-off PJs, my hair thrown into a lumpy ponytail, smelling like stale beer and nervous sweat.
Life is decidedly unfair.
He’s staring at me. Because he asked me a question. A real question. One he expects an answer to.
Are you sure you want me here?
“Yes.” The word comes out on a wobbly squeak. I clear my throat as quietly I can and try again. “Yes.”
Better but still pathetically embarrassing.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watch him wander around my room, lifting books to read their spines. Leaning in to look at the pictures tacked on my cork board. Dragging his finger down the row of Blu-rays on my shelf.
Having him here makes me see how juvenile it all is. Pale blue walls. White eyelet comforter. Stuffed animals. Shelves stuffed with books and movies. The N’Sync poster I hung when I was ten and never took down because Justin Timberlake.
I feel like a kid. He makes me feel like a kid.
“How old are you?” I blurt it out. It’s a stupid question. We went to high school together. I logically know he can’t be that much older than me, but there’s always been something about him that has seemed almost weary. Road-worn and battle-tested. Like he’s lived through fifty lifetimes and remembers them all.
“I turned twenty a few months ago,” he says, looking at me over his shoulder. “You turned eighteen May 5th.”
I look at him, shaking my head. “How did you—”
“Your friends used to tape balloons to your locker at school every year.” He gives me the smile. The one that ties me in knots and makes me wonder what he’s thinking. “Don’t worry, I’m observant. Not a stalker.”
“I never...” I shake my head, my tongue tripping over my teeth in an effort to get the words out. “I never thought...” If anything I’m the stalker. How many times have I done his family’s laundry in the name of helping out, just so I have an excuse to touch his clothes?
Too many to be considered normal.
“And they aren’t my friends—not really.” I feel my brow crumple, embarrassed for some reason. “They’re Bri’s. I’m just—”
“Along for the ride?”
“Yeah, something like that.” I laugh. Making fun of myself is something I can do. Something I’m good at. “I’m not popular. I’m more like, popular by proxy... if not for my sister, I’d be invisible.”
“I see you just fine.” He turns away from my movie shelf and faces me head on. “And I couldn’t pick your sister out of a line-up.”
Oh, boy.
It doesn’t matter that he’s already kissed me. It doesn’t matter where his hands were ten minutes ago. I’m alone in my room with Jaxon Bennett, and he’s looking at me like he wants... something. Something that only I can give him. This is the culmination of every late night, lock-the-door-and-touch-yourself fantasy I’ve ever had. So naturally, I have to screw it up.
“Are you... I mean, are we going to—”
Holy shit, Claire. Stop talking.
Because I never seem to listen to myself, I keep rambling.
“Is something going to happen here? Between you and me? Are you here to—”
He gives me the smile again. “Am I here to pop your cherry?”
Oh, my god. Don’t pass out.
I nod.
“No.” He turns away from me again, this time toward my bedroom door. For a crazy, hot second, I think he’s decided that hacking his way through my bumbling ridiculousness isn’t worth the effort. I think he’s going to leave. I contemplate throwing myself in front of the door. How long can I keep him here against his will before it’s considered kidnapping in the state of Illinois?
He doesn’t leave.
“I’m just here, Claire.” He reaches for the knob and very slowly, very deliberately, turns the lock. “We’ll do whatever you feel ready for. Whatever you want.”
“I want—”
You.
This.
Whatever this is.
Whatever you want.
The rest of it gets stuck in my stupid throat, and it’s either stop talking or choke to death. Bri lost her virginity years ago. Why is this so hard for me?
Because you aren’t Bri.
Not even close.
Fifteen
Claire
2018
All of Bri’s bridesmaids live in Chicago, which is a few hours away, so it’s just me and Bri for the first leg of the trip. We play car games we made up when were kids and talk about the wedding. I’m only half listening, a skill I developed, being her sister. Whatever she wants to do, wherever she wants to go, I’ll agree. It’s just easier that way.
The trip flies by. Before I know it, we’re pulling in front an apartment building. As soon as we pull up, Bri’s phone chirps. Giving the screen an annoyed swipe she sighs and rolls her eyes before hitting the call button on the intercom.
“You rang?” Jaxon’s deep voice fills the back of the limo, and I have to tip my head down to hide the fact that I’m laughing.
If Bri recognizes his response as Lurch’s tagline from The Addam’s Family, she doesn’t act like it. “Driver, I have to go upstairs for a few minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Almost immediately, Jaxon’s door pops open, and I hear him climb out.
“Sara’s having a wardrobe crisis,” she says, shaking her head as the door opens.
“Want me to handle it?” I’m maid of honor, these things are my job.
“No.” Bri waves her hand at me. “You stay here—” A broad, masculine hand appears in the open door. “I’ll be right back.”
Before I can argue, Bri’s gone, leaving me alone.
The door doesn’t close behind her.
Jaxon climbs into the back of the limo, claiming Bri’s seat. Now he closes the door.
The limo is a late model stretch. There’s enough room in here for the Chicago Bears offensive line, but I suddenly feel claustrophobic. Like I can’t breathe. I aim my gaze out the window and ignore him.
“Lurch.”
Against my will, the one-word question that isn’t really a question, draws my attention. Sunglasses off, I can see his face. He looks different. His face is leaner. Harder, making me wonder where he went. What happened to him while he was gone. What he saw while he was there.
But he’s still beautiful. The way he looks at me is still the same. Direct. Intense. Like he’s trying to convey everything he is, everything he feels, through th
e weight of his gaze.
“I apologize if I hurt your feelings,” I say, flicking my gaze over his face. “I forgot your name.”
The air changes between us. Thickens. Heats. Makes it hard to breathe. “No, you didn’t.” His tone is low. Quiet.
“Sorry.” I look away, aim my gaze out the window again. “I have no idea who you are,” I lie, before dismissing him completely.
“Claire.”
He says my name softly, like a warning, the sound of it causes my heart to stutter and stall in my chest. Sends a flush of heat rushing through my entire body before it pools in my belly. I start counting cars as they roll past to combat the onslaught of memories.
The way his mouth followed the line of my throat, pressing and nipping its way from my collarbone to my lips.
One
His fingers, pushing past the waistband of my pajamas to brush the elastic edge of my panties before slipping inside.
Two
The heat of his fingers between my legs, the soft, deliberate trace of them along the seam of my pussy.
Three
His tongue, tracing the curve of my breast while his—
I hear the door locks engage, seconds before I feel the car rock around me as he moves closer. No longer in Bri’s seat, he’s sitting on the plush leather bench, right next to me. “Look at me, Claire.”
His tone, sharp and angry forces me to turn in my seat. He’s too close. Close enough to touch. His face inches from mine. His dark brown eyes intense, sharp enough to cut. “You know me,” he says, reaching for me, cupping his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me closer. Despite his rough tone, his hands are gentle. Almost reverent. Just the way I remember them. “You remember me.” His thumb traces down the line of my throat. Mouth dry, I lick my lips, inadvertently drawing his gaze to them.
I remember that I gave you my virginity and woke up the next morning to find you’d dropped off the face of the earth.
I almost say it. Instead, I channel my inner-Bri. “Are you this familiar with all your clients, Lurch?”
