by Cat Carmine
I pull her closer to me, knowing she can very well feel the effect she has on me. She grinds in closer, and I decide to hell with the club’s rules. I let my hands roam down her back, over the soft fabric of her dress, until I reach the round curve of her ass. I cup it in my hands and lift her, just a little, bringing her in tighter against me. The skirt of her dress rides up and I can feel her soft skin under my hands now. It’s warm, the way everything about Rori is. I want to feel that warmth everywhere. I need it.
I part her thighs, dipping in to find her cleft from behind. Her dampness instantly coats my fingers, sending another jolt of blood straight to my cock. I can already imagine the sweet taste of her on my tongue, coating my shaft as I fuck her, dripping down and soaking my balls.
I groan as Rori presses harder against me.
“Wes,” she breathes.
I find her entrance and circle it, smoothing her wetness over my fingers. She squirms and I ease the tip of my finger inside her. Her muscles immediately clamp down on me, as if they’re trying to draw me deeper inside.
“Wes,” she breathes again, her lips hot against my neck as she lays her head on me.
“All right, folks, let’s wrap it up.”
The voice cuts into our moment as effectively as a bucket of cold water. Rori pulls away with a gasp. We both whip around to see an aging groundskeeper, perched on a ride-on lawnmower, shooting us a glare.
I’m taken aback for a second and so is Rori. She smooths down her dress while I give the groundskeeper a quick salute. Understood. He gives us the once-over again but then whirs away on his Husqvarna.
Rori and I both stand there for a minute, panting, considering each other and what just happened.
Before I can say anything, Rori turns away.
Her back is to me now, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t run off this time. I close the small distance between us, pressing my chest to her back. I can smell her hair now, like honey and jasmine.
“Wes,” she says again. My name on her lips makes me feel like I’m coming apart from the inside.
“I know.”
“It’s just...”
“I know.”
We stand like that for I don’t know how long. I don’t touch her, other than to let my chest graze her back. I can feel her shoulders heave as she breathes. She wraps her arms around herself, even though it isn’t cold out. The sun has completely set now, and the only light is from the lampposts on the course and from the stars above. The pond is lapping gently and it mingles with the sound of our breath and the breeze through the willows. It’s perfectly romantic, except for the fact that this isn’t supposed to be happening. Rori and I aren’t supposed to be doing this. And yet right now, it’s the only thing I want in the world.
I move my hand to her neck, smoothing away a stray auburn tendril that’s fallen from her twist. Rori shivers again, then spins suddenly to face me again.
“This is going to sound weird but …” She takes a deep breath. “Would you like to come to a wedding with me?”
Seventeen
I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. This is as bad as offering to come out to the country club with Wes and be his plus one. Worse, actually. Because going to the wedding isn’t just a couple of hours of commitment. It means a drive down to Ambleside, Connecticut. An overnight stay. Dinner and dancing and making small talk with all my family. It’s a huge ask. Especially for two people who have a deal to not make these kind of asks.
Which is why I’m shocked as hell when Wes answers with a resounding, “Yes.”
Not ‘sure.’ Not a reluctant ‘okay.’ But a full, enthusiastic ‘yes.’
I swallow. My body is still trembling from what happened between us a couple of minutes ago, and suddenly I’m more than a little unsure about my impromptu decision. But even in the dark, Wes’s face is lit up. It’s quite sweet, actually.
“It’s in Connecticut,” I caution him.
“I love Connecticut,” he says confidently. Then his face hardens a little. “Wait — it’s not in Highfield, is it?”
I shake my head. “No. Ambleside.”
“I don’t know that area.”
“It’s not too far from Wesleyan. It’s my friend Celia who’s getting married. She was my best friend in college. I guess you could say she’s my Tyler.”
Wes’s face relaxes. “That sounds great. I’d love to meet your college friend. And I’ve never been to that area of the state before. We can make a trip of it.”
I nod, letting myself get a bit excited. “I have to go down early, a couple of days probably, to do Maid of Honor stuff. But maybe we could meet there, and then drive back together the next day? I already have a hotel room booked.”
At the words ‘hotel room’, I hesitate. So does Wes. The words hang between us, and I can guess what he’s wondering — should he get his own room? After all, we’re not supposed to be dating. Not that this is a date. It’s just one friend accompanying another on a social obligation.
Right?
“It’s supposed to have two queens,” I assure him. “I didn’t ask for that, it’s just what was available in the block of rooms they had reserved. You could try to book another room, but with the wedding, I think it might already be full.”
He nods. “I could always make a call to the hotel, just to see. I mean, if you think ...”
“Sure, yeah. Great.” I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. I’m going to go with relieved. That seems like the smart option. Especially after what just happened.
“Should we head back in?” Wes says. “It’s getting quite dark. Are you cold?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but then I shiver. Even though the nights stay warm in the city, out here, without all the pavement soaking up the heat from the day, the air has turned cool and crisp. Wes chuckles and shakes his head.
“Still stubborn, I see.” He slides his jacket off and wraps it around my shoulders.
“What, me? Stubborn?” I tease. Then I pull the jacket tighter. It’s warm and smells unmistakably like Wes. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” He holds out his arm again, and I link mine through his and let him lead me back up to the club. By the time we get there, my legs have almost, almost completely stopped shaking.
It isn’t until the next day that I realize I now have to tell Celia — not to mention Emma — that Wes will be coming to the wedding. I apparently didn’t think this through completely.
I can’t decide which is going to be worse. Emma will be displeased, because she doesn’t think I should be spending any time with Wes, and certainly not getting close enough to bring him to my best friend’s wedding. Celia, on the other hand, will be smug — she’ll take this to mean that she was right, and that Wes has feelings for me. And me for him.
But neither of them are right. At least not entirely. I don’t know. Maybe Celia is a little bit right. The way Wes had kissed me last night, the way his hands felt ... My lips — and nether regions — haven’t felt the same since. Every time I remember that moment, with the pond lapping behind us and Wes’s hands exploring my body, I get a rash of goosebumps up and down my arms. Everything about Wes has a way of getting under my skin, and staying there.
The problem is that Emma is a little bit right too. I shouldn’t be spending this much time with Wes. That’s the whole reason we created that stupid contract — because this isn’t good for either of us.
Except every time I’m around him, I turn into a crazy person. When he kissed me last night, when his hands trailed up under my dress, I should have pushed him away. A little voice in my head was screaming at me to do just that. But my body — God, my body wanted to lean into him so badly. Wanted to let him throw me down in the grass and fuck me on that perfect green lawn.
And that was the real reason I’d asked him to the wedding — not because I wanted to get closer to him, but because in that moment, I didn’t know how to keep from throwing myself at him. It was strictly self-preserv
ation.
Like I said, I don’t think I thought this through very well.
Emma is still out at a meeting with her editor when I get home from work so I take advantage of my time alone to clean the apartment a bit. At least that should help put her in a good mood. I know I shouldn’t worry so much about what my sister thinks of who I bring to a wedding, but it’s different with Emma. I mean, the woman’s nickname is Emma The Perfect. She seems to live her own life by these impeccable standards, and every time I do something that falls short of that, I feel like a failure. Especially since I’m the older sister and should be the one who has it all together.
I know if she was in my shoes, she never would have invited Wes to this wedding. She wouldn’t have even accepted the job in the first place — she’d have stuck to her principles and told him where to shove it. I can’t help but wonder why I didn’t do that.
Before she gets in, I manage to load the dishwasher, scrub the bathroom, and mix up a huge Greek chicken salad for us to share for dinner. I’m just putting the feta back in the fridge when I hear her key in the door of our apartment.
“Hello, sister dearest,” I call out from the galley kitchen.
She doesn’t answer right away, just stalks over to where she can see me.
“What?” She gives me a suspicious glare.
“What do you mean, what?” I reach into the cupboard and pull out two big bowls.
“You never call me sister dearest.”
“I don’t?” I say innocently. “I should.”
She looks around the kitchen, and misses nothing. “You cleaned,” she says. “And made dinner?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“I already ate.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll just throw the rest of this in the fridge then.” So much for that plan.
I scoop out enough salad for myself, then open the fridge and start moving stuff around so that I have room to stick the rest of the bowl in there. The whole time I can feel Emma’s eyes on me.
“Want a glass of wine?” I ask. I wipe my hands nervously down the front of my pants. God, Rori, get a grip. She’s your sister, not Attila the Hun. And even if she doesn’t approve, it doesn’t matter. It’s my life, not hers.
“Sure.”
I consider that a grudging peace offering. Emma doesn’t usually drink during the week, so if she’s agreeing to have a glass of wine with me, I’ll take that as a positive sign.
I pour us two glasses and we go into the living room, me carrying my big bowl of salad along with my wine. I sink into one of our armchairs — a hand-me-down from our parents that they drove into the city for us one weekend — and pop my feet up on the little leather ottoman.
For the first few minutes, I concentrate only on my salad. Emma sips her wine in silence while I eat, her feet tucked underneath her on the shabby, but insanely comfortable, sofa we also inherited from our parents. The silence gets too long to ignore.
“Remember how when we first got Celia’s wedding invites, I decided to check ‘plus one’?” I don’t look at Emma while I dig through the lettuce leaves with my fork, hunting for an olive.
She laughs, surprised. “Yes. I admire your optimism, but I have to say, I’m glad that Blake agreed to be my date.”
My two sisters had decided to attend the wedding together, which, in retrospect, might have been a smart thing to do.
“Blake’s a pretty good date,” I agree.
Emma grins. “I made her promise to bring me a corsage from the shop.”
“Cute.” I finally find an olive and pop it into my mouth. It sticks in my throat when I try to swallow. “Well, I realized I needed to find a date, stat, so ... Wes is going to go with me.”
The silence that falls over the room is as thick and heavy and uncomfortable as the scratchy wool blankets our grandmother always had.
“Really.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah. Just, you know, as friends.”
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t look at me, either, which might actually be worse.
“So, anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Since you’ll see him there.”
When Emma looks up, I’m surprised to see her expression isn’t one of judgement. It’s of concern.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
I shrug and poke around in my salad again. God, these lettuce leaves are interesting. I could just stare at them all day. So much easier than looking at my sister and the pained way she’s considering me right now.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say.
“Wes hasn’t exactly come through for you in the past,” she points out. “What if he does it again?”
She doesn’t have to say what she means by it because I know exactly what she’s referring to. What if he stands me up again?
“He won’t,” I say, trying to sound confident.
Emma is still staring at me. She sips her wine without taking her eyes off me.
“What exactly is going on between you?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Nothing and I don’t know aren’t the same answer. So which is it?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. We’re friends now.”
“Just friends?”
Just friends? I don’t know. According to the napkin I made him sign, yes. But based on the way I felt when he kissed me again last night? There was nothing friendly about that. That was unbridled lust, the kind that sweeps you out into the murky waters of bad decisions.
I set the bowl of salad down on the coffee table. Suddenly I don’t feel hungry anymore.
Emma is twisting her hands in her lap, which she only does when she’s worried about something, and I realize her concern for me is genuine.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
“I know.” I look down at my own lap because I don’t want to meet her eye. “And I won’t.”
I take my half-eaten salad and shove it back in the fridge, then lean over and kiss the top of Emma’s head. I try to tell her with the gesture that I appreciate her concern but that I’m fine. I don’t know if it quite translates.
“I have to go call Celia. Don’t worry about the dishes; I’ll do them when I’m done.”
Emma nods, but I can feel her eyes follow me as I disappear into my bedroom. As soon as the door is closed, I let out a shaky sigh.
Maybe Emma is right. Maybe I’m making a huge mistake. My hands tremble as I grab my phone and hit Celia’s contact number. What if she thinks I’m making a mistake too? Even though she was the one who told me to invite him, she probably never thought I’d actually go through with it.
The phone rings a couple of times before she picks up.
“Hey, sweetie.” Her voice comes out rushed and breathless.
“What’s up? Am I catching you at a bad time?” Because I wouldn’t mind putting off this conversation a little longer ...
“No, I’m fine. I just got back from a run.”
“You’re running now?” In my shock, I forget all about Wes for a second. If there’s one thing Celia and I share, it’s a lack of enthusiasm for running. If you ever see me running, you better turn and run too, because something’s probably chasing me.
“I know.” Celia laughs. “But you’d be surprised how easy it is to gain weight when you run a bar and are trying to plan a wedding. Jace kept patting his stomach and complaining about his beer gut, so we decided to try to get back in shape before the wedding.”
“Jace has a beer gut?” I snicker, trying to picture it. Jace isn’t my type, but there’s no denying the man is built like a Greek god.
She laughs again. “God, no. He still looks like a washboard. Honestly, I think it’s more of a way for us to burn off some adrenalin. I can’t say I love it yet, but I won’t lie — it does feel kinda good to get all sweaty.”
“I bet it does,” I tease. It feels good to talk about normal, non-Wes-related stuff.
“Ha. You’re one to talk. Have
you gotten sweaty with Wes yet?”
And there it is. My cheeks flame red, and I’m glad she can’t see me.
“No. But that’s actually kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oooh ... consider my interest piqued.”
“Remember when you said I should invite Wes to the wedding?”
“Interest further piqued. I remember. Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about asking him?” I can picture the excited gleam in her eyes.
“I sort of kind of already did,” I admit.
“Oh my God, you didn’t!” Her voice is a high-pitched squeal, and I have to hold the phone out to avoid rupturing my eardrum.
“Yes, I did. God, simmer down.”
“I won’t simmer! This is too exciting.”
“So you don’t mind? Emma thinks it’s a terrible idea.”
“Rori, Emma thinks bread is a terrible idea. We don’t listen to Emma, remember?” she chides, making me laugh. Celia is more than familiar with my sister’s perfectionist tendencies, and I feel a rush of gratitude towards her for her understanding. “Anyway, of course I don’t mind. I can’t wait to meet the famous Wes Lake.”
“He’s not that famous,” I mutter.
“To you, he is. He’s an essential part of the Rori canon. So what does this mean, you asking him to the wedding? Is it like, a date? Ooh, are you sharing a hotel room?”
I know there’s no point in lying to Celia, so I tell her the whole story. About going to the country club with Wes, about our kiss, about how I’d blurted out the invite only so that I wouldn’t be tempted to let our kiss go any further. The whole time I talk, I can hear her barely suppressing her laughter.
“It’s not funny!” I protest.
She laughs again. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just ... it is a little funny. You and Wes — I don’t know. It’s like the universe is holding up a neon sign and screaming how can I make this more obvious?”
Her amusement is contagious, and soon we’re both laughing at how absurd this whole situation is. Wes is my client, my ex-boyfriend, my first love — and now my wedding date.
