by Ryan, Lexi
“I can’t be . . .” She squirms under my hand, no doubt fighting the instinct to guide my hand where she needs it. “It’s not fair to you. I might not even live here much longer.”
The idea of her leaving is a kick in the chest, but I push that pain aside. “As your best friend, I’m sure I won’t want you to leave whether I touch you tonight or not.”
Her eyes are closed and her tongue darts out to graze her bottom lip. I can barely breathe I want her so badly.
“Can your best friend touch you?” I ask, hearing the desperation in my voice. “Can I make you come?”
She opens her eyes and searches my face. “Please?”
That’s all I need. I cup her between her legs. She’s so wet, and I’ve barely started. She parts her legs for me, giving me easier access to her slick folds. I circle her entrance. Once. Twice. She whimpers, and I plunge a finger inside her. She’s so hot and wet and tight. Her eyes shut again, and those soft pink lips part. I want to kiss her, but the way our bodies are positioned, I can’t, so I watch, my gaze switching between the way she’s moving against my hand and the pleasure on her face.
I stroke her cheek with my free hand. I wasn’t lying that night at the bar when I told her I wanted her to choose me, but I lied when I implied I wouldn’t play dirty to get her there. We’ve spent too many years apart, and if the insane chemistry we’ve always had is what’s going to make her give this a chance, then I’ll use it to my full advantage.
I add a second finger to the first and find her clit with my thumb. Her body clenches tightly, and blood pulses to my cock.
“As your friend,” I say, eyes fixed on her hips now and how she’s fucking my hand, “I think you should know you have the perfect pussy.”
She grasps the hand that was stroking her cheek and turns her head to pull my index finger into her mouth. She licks then closes her mouth around it and sucks. Pleasure barrels down my spine, and I imagine her on my cock, the suction, how hot she’d look with her lips stretched over me.
Without meaning to, I’ve increased the pace of my hand, fucking her deeper and harder with my fingers. Her teeth scrape my knuckle and she gasps, her whole body tensing before she finally lets go and her orgasm pulses around my fingers.
I turn my touch gentle. Slow. I’m guiding her down, reluctant to pull away until I have to.
When she opens her eyes, they’re foggy with lust and there’s a small, satisfied smile on her lips. “You’re one hell of a friend.”
I smirk. “Told you so.”
She removes my hand from her pants, and I groan. I could touch her all night, but if playtime must be over . . .
I lift my fingers to my mouth and suck off the taste of her. She watches me with wide eyes and releases a little whimper that speaks volumes. I’m not the only one who wants more tonight.
Sitting up, she turns to face me on the couch and slides a hand down my chest to my stomach. “Your turn?”
I push off the couch and adjust myself in my jeans. I’m so fucking hard right now. “I should go.”
“Are you sure? I can . . .” She shakes her head, and I can see her scrambling to decide what she’s okay with. How far we can go within her rules. “I can return the favor.”
I brace a hand on either side of her on the back of the couch, then lean forward until my lips are almost touching hers. “Next time you touch me, Shay, it won’t be because you’re returning a favor. It will be because you want to. Full stop. No hesitation.”
“I . . .”
I pull away. Last time I got her off, we switched gears so fast that I couldn’t even enjoy how beautiful she looked all flushed and satisfied. Today, I want to take a picture and frame it above my bed. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
She blinks at me. “Sunday?”
“Jackson family Easter dinner. At the cabin.” I smile and look her over, thinking of tequila and drinking games, first kisses and crossing lines. I can see in her eyes that she’s thinking about those things too. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
Shay
The Jacksons have brunch every Sunday morning at ten. If someone’s schedule doesn’t allow for it on any given week, so be it, but the time is always the same. The only exceptions are when Christmas falls on a Sunday, and every Easter, when we skip brunch and meet at the family cabin for a big dinner.
This Easter will be our biggest yet. Everyone will be here, including Easton and Abi. Even if I’m nervous about spending time around Easton with our tentative “just friends” arrangement, I’m glad he and Abi have somewhere to spend the holiday.
Jake is in the kitchen, working on the ham and a potato-and-sour-cream casserole. Nic is making half a dozen pies because that’s her way of showing us all how much she loves us. I’m hoping my stomach can handle some of this stuff. Not only is it delicious, but I suspect I’ve lost a few pounds, and I don’t want to sink back into the cycle of feeling victorious every time the scale shows a lower number.
“Do we drink red or white with ham?” Teagan asks, holding up both bottles. She’s in a pink spring dress today and looking as bright as the sunny day outside.
I position the last fork in place at the table and shrug. “I don’t think it matters.”
Still holding the wine, she presses the back of one hand to my forehead. “What is wrong with you? You’re supposed to say both.”
I laugh. Because she’s right. Typically, that would be my answer, but I’m not drinking tonight. Partly because Easton’s going to be here, and I’m afraid even the tiniest loosening of my inhibitions might land me in his bed, but mostly because my stomach is still screwed up and I don’t want wine ruining any chance I have of eating a halfway decent meal. I’m sick of not having an appetite and living on dry toast. Even coffee upsets my stomach these days. Sad times indeed. “I’m ready for my stress levels to go down so I can eat and drink like a normal person again.”
Teagan plops both bottles down on the table and props her hands on her hips. “Have you gone to the doctor yet?”
I look over her shoulder to my brother Jake in the kitchen and down the hall toward the girls in the living room to make sure no one heard her. “Would you lower your voice, please?”
She arches a brow.
“Not yet. I’ve been kind of busy, but I’ll call on Monday.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I know, I know.” Maybe I’m stalling deliberately. Every time I fall asleep at my computer or sleep twelve hours when I’m normally good with seven, I think about how tired Mom was before she found out she had cancer. I think of Dad losing his battle. Maybe part of me knows that I need to take this seriously and I’m too scared of what I might find out.
I hear the front door open and the sounds of Easton and Abi’s voices as Carter lets them in.
Teagan flashes me a grin. “Carter said that Easton said you two watched a movie together Friday night,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper.
My cheeks burn at the memory of Easton on my couch. His hand. His wickedly dirty mouth. “What else did he tell him?”
She smirks. “Nothing that should make you blush like that. What happened? He told Carter you wanted to just be friends for now, but he’s putting all his cards on the table with your brothers. He wants more, and he wants them to know his intentions so he doesn’t have to deal with any ‘protective brother’ bullshit when he finally gets his shot with you.”
I know how Easton feels. He hasn’t exactly hidden his intentions. Yet hearing Teagan tell it like that gives me massive butterflies.
“Abigail!” Lilly’s scream is followed by the sound of little feet running on hardwood.
“No running in the house!” Nic calls.
“Lilly! I went shopping with my mom in Chicago this weekend. She took me to the American Girl Store and bought me a new doll. Do you like her?”
“She’s beautiful! I have one upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you. Did you like Chicago? I’ve been there before and it was just so big. T
here are so many people.”
“It’s nothing like L.A.,” Abi says. “There are even more people there.”
“No way.”
The sound of the girls’ chatter quiets as they head upstairs, and Teagan and I exchange smiles.
“They’re adorable together, aren’t they?” Easton says.
I spin and see him at the threshold to the dining room, his hands tucked into his pockets. He takes me in slowly, and those blue-green eyes darken. “Happy Easter, Easton,” I say. He looks . . . edible. Tailored black pants, a sky-blue oxford with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms are a work of art, and my mouth goes dry as I ogle them and remember the muscles there bunching as he worked between my legs.
“Happy Easter.” His husky timbre is the stuff of wet dreams. Or maybe that’s the memory of what we did on my couch. Both. “Thanks for having us.”
“I’m not the one who invited you.”
His lips twitch. “This is true.”
“Easton,” Carter calls. “Do you still suck at pool? Come downstairs so I can kick your ass.”
“Language!” Lilly shouts from upstairs, and Easton laughs, delighted by her bossy reprimand.
“Do you need any help?” he asks me, looking the table over. It’s set beautifully, if I say so myself.
“Go play with Carter,” I say. “He’s missed his buddy all these years.”
Easton drags his bottom lip through his teeth and gives me one final head-to-toe once-over that leaves my skin tingling. “As you wish.” He winks then heads to the basement.
Teagan grabs a plate off the table and fans herself. “Holy sexual tension, Shayleigh. You two are gonna fog up the windows in here if you keep looking at each other like that.”
I pull out a chair and sit because I’m suddenly lightheaded.
Teagan chuckles. “You okay?”
“I’m . . .” I put my fingers to my lips. I’m so many things.
“Lemme guess, starts with an H and rhymes with corny.”
I grab a napkin from the place setting in front of me and toss it at her. It floats ineffectually to the floor at her feet.
Laughing, she picks it up, refolds it, and returns it to the plate in front of me, but her face is serious when she says, “It’s okay to give him another chance. He lives here. He has custody of his daughter. Everything’s different now.”
Yeah, it really is. This time I might be the one who ends up in L.A. while he’s here.
Dinner was the usual chaotic and boisterous affair of a dozen conversations happening at any given time and enough food to feed a small army.
I take kitchen duty after the meal ends, partly because I’m one of the few people here who isn’t responsible for a child of some sort, and partly because I could use the time to get my thoughts in order. The day turned out nice, and everyone’s outside enjoying the mild temp and sunshine by the water. I find myself lingering—towel-drying and putting away dishes rather than leaving them in the rack, wiping down the counters a second time, even going as far as to organize the little we keep in the pantry.
I don’t understand why until I look out the window and see the girls chasing Noah barefoot in the sand and all my brothers standing around a fire talking. This might be my last Easter living in Jackson Harbor.
The thought strikes me and cuts through the little energy I have like a sharp knife. I pull out a kitchen chair and sink into it.
“Why so sad, Short Stack?”
I turn away from the window to find Easton sitting down opposite me. “I’m not sad.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I shake my head. Not sad. I’m a little disappointed that the truth didn’t hit me sooner, and maybe even a little embarrassed, but not sad. “I’m just thinking.”
“Tell me.”
I nod toward the window, toward my family. “This is how I want to fill my life.” I swallow, overwhelmed with the rightness of the choice. “Not with scholarly articles and stacks of papers. Not with tenure and postdoc work. I’ve enjoyed getting my doctorate, but when I choose what comes next, I want it to include this.”
He follows my gaze out the window. “I can’t blame you.”
“You don’t think it makes me a quitter? Or a coward?”
“I guess that depends.” He takes a deep breath, and I wonder if it’s fair to either of us to ask him this question. I already know he’d like me to stay. “Are you giving up a dream? Are you turning down a job you want because you’re scared of starting new somewhere?”
“Being a college professor wasn’t ever a dream. It was just . . . a job.” I laugh. “And pursing a PhD was the best way to drag out my school years when I wasn’t ready to enter the real world.”
He’s watching me. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“It’s a little visualization exercise. Just do it.”
“Okay.” I obey and wait. What is he doing?
“I know it’s hard, but try to forget what’s stressing you out right now. Imagine everything works out easily, and five years have passed. The stress is gone. The decisions have been made and you’re happy.”
I smile. It’s a relief to imagine being beyond this moment in my life. It’s not a hardship to imagine when I’ve moved past these worries, past my defense and my career choices, past George and the decision of how I’m going to tell his wife the truth.
“It’s five years from now,” Easton says, and his deep voice helps me relax. “You have the day off and you wake up on your own. You roll out of bed and walk out of your bedroom. Where are you? Who’s there? How do you feel? What are you doing with your day?”
“I . . .” The image is so clear, and my heart aches with how badly I want it. This future.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he says softly. “Look around. Step outside if you want. Grab your planner and open your calendar—what do you have coming up this month? This is the life you built, and you love it. Study the details. What makes you smile? Like any life, there’s good and bad, but what are the parts that make the tough moments worth it? What excites you? Here, in this moment, five years from now, you can find all the answers you need.”
It’s easier than I would have imagined. Everything is so clear—the sunny room I wake up in, the smell of coffee in the kitchen, the warm feel of someone wrapping me in a hug from behind before I turn to smile. I open my eyes and find him watching me. “That was incredible.”
“Did it help?”
I nod. “I’d already decided, but yeah. The visualization helped nail it down. Thank you.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Where were you?”
“In Jackson Harbor, and I have a family.” I study him and wonder if I’m a fool for having the same dreams for my future now that I had when I was a twenty-year-old college student studying in Paris. The idea of moving to L.A. doesn’t thrill me, but the idea of staying home, of letting my choices be guided by my family? Does it really matter if that makes me a small-town girl? Or old-fashioned? Maybe those things aren’t bad. Maybe they’re just me.
“That sounds like a good start,” Easton says.
“I think for me it is. There are people who thrive by revolving their life around their career, but there’s no career I want enough for that.”
“What about writing?”
I smile. Leave it to Easton to refuse to forget my whispered dreams. “I’m not sure even a career as a novelist would be enough to substitute for living near the people I love the most. But that’s moot, isn’t it? I can do that anywhere . . . if I’m ever lucky enough to do it at all. And until then, I just need a job that pays the bills and allows me to live my life. There are so many opportunities with my family’s business that I’d enjoy. A job that gives me a sense of satisfaction and lets me spend my free time with my favorite people in the world.” I shrug. “For better or worse, that’s enough for me.”
He takes my hand and strokes his thumb across my knuckles. He’s quiet for a l
ong time, and when he does talk, he draws in a deep breath first. “Take a walk with me?”
“I’d like that. Do you need to tell Abi?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I told Carter I was coming in here to ask you on a walk, so he’s going to keep an eye on her.”
I’m wearing flats with my dress, so I trade them for a pair of canvas tennis shoes on the way out the door. The fresh air feels good, the sun amazing after the long winter, and I find myself smiling as we stroll the property. There’s so much left to do and decide, but I already feel better having made my decision. I’ll have to call Emmitson University next week and cancel my interview. I don’t need to waste their time or mine.
We wander past the house and away from the beach toward the pole barn where we keep the snowmobiles and store the boat and lake equipment during the winter. Easton knows this property as well as I do, having spent a good chunk of his teenage summers and weekends hanging out here.
“Thank you for taking me through that,” I say after we’ve walked for a while. “It was helpful.”
“I can’t take the credit. When I was trying to decide whether or not to retire, my therapist did that exercise with me. I found it . . . insightful.”
“And your vision brought you back here?”
“Yeah.” He looks down at me. “I guess we have that in common. I think it was the right decision, too. It’s such a relief to see Abi happy, but I owe that to your family. You all welcomed us and made us feel . . .”
I smile. “Welcome?”
He smacks my ass lightly. “Pest. I was going to say not alone.”
“Well, I think that’s what friends do.” I take his hand and intertwine our fingers. “I like being your friend, Easton.” And maybe, if I stay, we could work on being something more.
Something flashes in his eyes, but he looks away before I can place the emotion. “About that . . .”
We keep walking, but I squeeze his hand. “What?”
He lifts our hands and studies them. Mine is so small in his, but to me, it’s the perfect fit. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
I glance at the pole barn over my shoulder and smile. “Come on.” I tug him toward the barn, and he follows.
