Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her, trying my best to tear my eyes away from her chest. “I didn’t see you there…”

  She’s got sunglasses on, but I’m pretty sure she’s glaring at me right now like someone who’s out for blood. Or at least fantasizing about giving me a swift kick to the cluster.

  “It’s fine,” she growls. “I’ll just go home and change. It’s fine.”

  I’ve been around the block once or twice with the ladies. I know that it’s fine generally means I hate you, you fucking bastard. I think I read that in a book called “A Total Dickhead’s Guide to Never Getting Laid Again.”

  “Can you wait a minute?” I ask, but she’s already turning around, ready to high-tail it back to the apartment. Damn it, Lucy, don’t take those miraculous breasts away from me. Or the rest of you, for that matter.

  “What for?” she replies over her shoulder. “Did you have some minestrone soup that you wanted to dump over my head to complete the look?”

  I almost want to laugh. This isn’t the Lucy I remember, the meek, shy quasi-teenager who was turning into a woman in front of my eyes during high school and college. This Lucy has developed a serious backbone, and I have to say, I like it. A lot.

  “I’ll come with you and help get you cleaned up,” I say, jogging after her to catch up. “Look, I’m sure you’re hungry. Let me take you out for something to eat once you’ve changed your clothes. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Her shoulders hunch for a moment like she’s giving in to defeat, then she thrusts them back again, apparently unwilling to show any sign of weakness. “Fine,” she says.

  I sidle over next to her, and together, we start walking back to the building.

  “As long as you promise not to pour a vat of alfredo sauce on me, I suppose I can tolerate your presence for a little while,” she snarls, though her lips are betraying a shallow smile. Okay, we’re making progress.

  “I can’t promise anything,” I reply. “But I’ve got to say, the coffee suits you really well.” Another glare. “C’mon, Loose. Again I’m sorry. I was just saying good-bye to a friend, and stupidly didn’t watch where I was going…” I’m staring sideways at her tits again, and I’ve got to admit that it’s really, really hard to focus on any sort of apology when all I want to do is lick the iced coffee off her nipples.

  “Again, it’s okay. We don’t need to dwell on it.” She thrusts her chin up in the air proudly. I get the distinct impression that she hasn’t noticed my hungry eyes.

  “I have a washing machine in my apartment,” I tell her. “We can throw your shirt in, if you’d like. It’ll be good as new by the time we get back from dinner. You’ll never remember that I poured frozen brown stuff all over your chest.”

  “I guess wet t-shirt contests are something altogether different in Italy,” she says as a young man passes by us. I notice him staring at her breasts, too. Part of me wants to punch him for it, but another part wants to shake his hand and say, “Dude, I get it. They’re incredible, right?”

  “Wet t-shirts are the same the world over,” I tell her. “Delightful entertainment.”

  “Hmph.” There goes her chin again, reaching for the sky.

  “Have I done something to offend you?” I ask, immediately realizing what a stupid question that is. “Other than assaulting you with a delicious cold beverage, I mean.”

  “I’m probably just tired,” she responds. Nice non-answer, Loose.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll help you get a second wind. We’ll get you cleaned up, I’ll buy you some dinner and soon enough, Rome will start making you happy instead of miserable.”

  “Does it make you happy?” she asks, turning my way as we open the iron gate to our building and proceed along the passage towards the stairs that lead to my apartment.

  “It does, actually. Yeah, I love it here,” I tell her. “It’s a nice change.”

  “From L.A, you mean?”

  “L.A.?” I ask as we start to climb the left set of stairs. “I haven’t been there in ages. But yeah, this place is sure as hell different from L.A. But then, every place is. I have some weird memories there.”

  “As do I.”

  She throws me another sideways glare along with that retort. What the hell? She seems to be implying that I was the guilty party way back when. Damn it, I’m not the one who deserted her that night. She left me behind, in case she doesn’t remember. Besides, it was almost a decade ago. I can’t imagine that it’s that important to her after all this time.

  “I have some good memories, too,” I tell her, stopping at my door to turn her way. She’s pulled off the sunglasses and she’s staring up into my eyes. Trying to figure me out, I suppose.

  “Oh yeah?” she asks. “Like what?”

  “I remember a particular night, years ago, that started off really well,” I tell her. Immediately her cheeks flush. Okay, so she does know exactly what I’m talking about.

  “Me too,” she replies. “I remember it all too well.”

  “What happened to you, Lucy?” I ask quietly, leaning towards her as I press my arm to the wall, raising it over my head. “What happened to you that night?”

  She stares at me, shock and confusion permeating her features. “You’re really telling me you don’t know?” she asks. “You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head, curious. “Tell me.”

  She grinds her jaw for a moment, then blurts out, “I guess I realized I’d made a stupid mistake, so I left.”

  She’s hiding something, I can tell. Even after all this time I know her face, her eyes. I know when she’s hurting. I knew back then, too. I just wish she’d explained it to me. Hell, I wish she’d explain it to me now, instead of holding all her cards so close to her beautiful chest.

  “Look,” I reply, “if it’s something I did, I just want you to know that I’m officially sorry. All I remember is that I thought we were getting along really well….”

  “So did I.” The sharpness of her words slices through the air like a blade.

  “So why did you…” I begin, but I cut myself off, shaking my head. “You know what? Never mind. There’s no point in rehashing the stupid things we did years ago. You’re here now, and so am I. Maybe we should start over from scratch.” I extend my right hand towards her. “Hi, I’m Dylan Emerson. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She hesitates, wincing a little before finally accepting my offer. “Lucy Horner,” she replies, taking my hand. “And you know what? Starting over would be great.”

  “Good,” I say, my eyes exploring her for a moment before I open the door. I hope she means it.

  Once we’ve slipped inside, I dart to the bedroom to grab her one of my t-shirts. I bring it back out and dangle it in front of her face. “I’ll make you a deal: If you hand me your dirty shirt, you can have this one.” When she reaches for it, I yank it backwards.

  She’s glaring at me, not so amused by my attempt to get her to strip down to her bra. Slowly she crosses her arms over her chest, wincing as she remembers how cold and wet her gorgeous tits still are.

  “Okay, I can see that you’re not going to accept my generous offer. Bedroom’s behind you and to the right,” I tell her, nodding in the direction of the door. “Don’t go flattering yourself by thinking I was actually trying to get your clothes off. I’m a perfect gentleman, and not at all interested in your breasts.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, tearing the shirt out of my hands as she narrows her eyes at me. Wow. If looks could kill, I’d hit the floor like a bag of rocks.

  “Besides, I’m fresh off a relationship,” I call out to her back as I watch her storm into my room. “Well, a sort of relationship. The point is, I’m quasi-safe territory.”

  “A relationship?” she asks, her voice carrying out to my ears from the bedroom. She sounds slightly less hostile all of a sudden, like the thought’s put her at ease. “With whom?”

  I sidle over towards the wall to speak through the bedroom doorway. “A woman called Renata. I me
t her at the architecture firm where I’m doing my research. We only went out for a few weeks; she’s…a bit of a nightmare. But the point is…”

  Looking towards the door as I’m speaking, I realize that she hasn’t closed it entirely. Oh, damn. I can see her reflected in the mirror over the dresser. She’s turned sideways, facing away from me. She’s wearing nothing but her bra, which she’s slipping off as well. Of course she is; it’s wet and stained, too. And God help me, I’m still looking as she peels it off and drops it to the floor.

  Her breasts are even better than I’d suspected. Pert, beautiful pink nipples, no doubt still cold. Pale skin that’s never seen the sun. Wow. She doesn’t even need a bra, does she?

  My dick is going nuts right now, and my brain has shut itself down completely. I don’t even remember what I was talking about. I can’t talk. I can’t move. I just want to get my mouth on her.

  The Lucy addiction I developed so long ago is still deep in my blood, still telling me that I never got my fill.

  I probably never will.

  “The point is?” she calls out, turning towards the mirror as she speaks the words. For a second, her reflected eyes meet mine. She’s still topless, and I’m standing here like an asshole, staring at her perfect hourglass shape.

  I leap the other way, throwing myself onto the couch on the other side of the room, as if she doesn’t know perfectly well that I saw her.

  “The point is, it’s over now,” I call out. “So over.”

  It’s true.

  My hard-on can testify that I am definitely not interested in anyone but you, Lucy Horner.

  Eight

  Lucy

  Dylan just saw me in the mirror. I caught him red-handed. Or blue-balled. Either way, he was totally sneaking a peek at the girls.

  Well, who cares? No fucks given, right? Let him look if it gives him pleasure. Actually, I kind of like the idea. Despite the fact that I’m supposed to be indifferent towards him now, I’ll admit that some part of me is aroused by the thought of him eyeing my semi-naked body.

  I’m not naive enough to think any woman is ever a hundred percent satisfied with what the good lord gave her, but I have to admit, I do like my breasts. And if Dylan wants to get an eyeful of what he’ll never have, I’m okay with torturing him. We can call it payback for what he did to me. He teased me years ago with the promise of a night with him; I’ll tease him with nipples that he’ll never get to suck.

  Quid pro quo.

  By the time I head back into the living room, I’m wearing a t-shirt that smells of laundry detergent, but also vaguely of him. I always loved his scent when we were younger; it reminded me of the beach, of home. I suppose it’s been long enough now that I don’t associate it entirely with the heartbreak of youth and dreams that have exploded in a nauseating mess of stupid girl-emotions.

  Besides, he did apologize for what happened that night, and even if he didn’t get into specifics, it’s high time I let it go. I don’t particularly want to let him know how much it hurt me. I never want to admit that I was in love with him all those years ago. Besides, it’s all in the past, in the days when my emotions were amplified and ridiculous. Maybe I didn’t really know what love was, anyhow. Maybe Dylan was a fantasy, nothing more. A guy I wanted because deep down, I knew I could never have him.

  Seeing him again has taught me how different we both are now, how much we’ve evolved. I know I’ve changed. I’ve moved on, and so has he. That’s not to say that he’s not the same handsome, smooth-talking guy as he always was, but he’s not a child anymore, either. Chances are pretty good that he wouldn’t pull the same crap on me or anyone that he did then. I get the sense that he’s more open, more honest. More grown up.

  It doesn’t matter, anyhow, because I’m not in love with him anymore, right? We’re not dating, nor will we ever. He’s nothing more to me than someone I vaguely know in a city full of strangers. He’s a convenience. A friend who might take me around to see some sights one day, before we each return to our respective abodes and part ways.

  Maybe my mother was right. A young woman alone in a strange city could use a male companion, even if he’s to be a purely platonic one.

  I walk out of the bedroom, triumphant in my resolve not to be attracted to the most attractive man I’ve ever known. I’m totally aware of my lack of a bra as I make my way across the floor towards him; aware, too, of his fascination with my breasts. For some reason I’m intent on making him want me, even if I don’t want anything to happen between us.

  “Drink?” he asks me, his hands cupped over his groin region, possibly to conceal a hard-on. Okay, he definitely saw the girls, and I’m loving how infatuated he seems with them. I am the Torture Queen, and I’m enjoying every second of it.

  Of course, the thought of it gets me aroused too, even though I’d never admit it. It’s not that I’m attracted to him, of course. It’s just my hormones going nuts again.

  Damn you, sexual peak.

  “No thanks,” I say as I hand him my damp garments. “I’m going to head over and get some clean clothes from my place.”

  “Okay. But then I’m taking you out, right?”

  “Yes, fine,” I reply, chancing a smile. For some reason I feel liberated from my former crankiness. Maybe it’s that I have the upper hand now. I know he wants me, which means that I have all the power.

  She who controls erections controls the world.

  “Good.” He puts the clothes on the counter and steps towards me. For a moment it looks like he might put his hands on my waist, but at the last second he thinks better of it. Good. I’m not sure I could handle his touch; it might set off old feelings and make me go weak again. It’s best to keep our distance. We’re friends. Buddies. Chums. Pals. Even though I totally want to have sex with him so badly that it’s making my core ache with the thought of it.

  Okay, fine. I guess I’m not as over him as I thought.

  “I’ll be right back,” I blurt out, pulling away as the word sex springs cruelly into my mind.

  “Okay.”

  I head out onto the balcony that edges around to my apartment and dash around to unlock my door, slipping inside with a smile on my face. The ugliness that’s been lingering on my soul for years has finally begun to wash itself away. I feel like the world is starting over again. Rome, me, Dylan. Everything is new again.

  This is good.

  I slide into my bedroom and pick out a nice little dress, something dark green with spaghetti straps. After throwing it on over a clean strapless bra, I’m sorted and ready to go. I’ll even admit that I’m excited to have someone show me around the city.

  I tell myself that I’m not excited that the someone I’m about to spend time with is Dylan. But it’s possible that I’m lying to myself just a little bit. The truth is that somewhere inside me, old feelings have begun sprouting like weeds and I’m not entirely sure that I want to fight them back. Katherine was right about a lot of things, but maybe the most important one was what she said about not holding the past against someone.

  She also said something about fucking, and I have to admit that I’m starting to see her point. Every time I set eyes on Dylan I go weak and horny at the same time. I want him. I want to make up for everything that went wrong between us.

  Only I’m torn. It’s not like he’s just some guy I met at a bar. He’s a guy I used to care about so much that it nearly ruined me.

  I’m still staring at myself in the mirror when I remember that he’s waiting for me, which means that I need to get back to his place, whether I know what I’m doing or not.

  A moment later I’m hopping over to his flat again, a manufactured smile on my face. I don’t want him to see how confused I am.

  “Ready,” I tell him as I slip in through the door. He’s changed too, into a white cotton shirt and a slightly dressier pair of shorts.

  “Yes, you are,” he says, eyeing me up and down. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but he looks a little like he wants to eat
me. “God, Lucy, you really look great,” he breathes, and I’m not sure if he’s even aware of how much sex there is in his voice.

  “Thanks. You look good too,” I reply.

  Bullshit. He looks amazing, but I’m not going to flatter him. Some part of me still wants to punish him for everything. I’m enjoying being just slightly cruel, playing femme fatale to this horny, sexy, desirable man.

  The only problem is that there’s something I’d enjoy even more. A sudden urge to kiss him has assaulted me. My lips are tingling, as are other bits of my body. It would be the easiest thing right now to step forward, slip a hand around his neck and press my lips to his. To take up exactly where we left off that night seven years ago. I’ll bet I could get everything I wanted and then some. I may be a little shy, a little insecure, but do I know how to seduce a man.

  Fuck, no. Don’t even think about it.

  The thing is, I don’t want to seduce Dylan. I want to get to know him again. To spend time with him, develop a friendship, if that’s even possible for us. The last thing I want is to lose him again the moment one of us does something dumb.

  I pull my eyes away from his and look towards the door, clenching my hands into fists at my sides, my determination forcing my fingernails to dig into my palms.

  “Now, as for dinner…?” I ask. If I can’t eat him, we’d better find something else to satisfy me, stat.

  “There’s a little restaurant around the corner that serves up some great wild boar bolognese,” he tells me, though I get the distinct impression from his tone of voice that it’s not food he wants to eat, either.

  “You had me at wild boar,” I reply.

  Except you can’t have me. Ever. That would be seriously bad. Or seriously good.

  Which is even worse.

  “Good. Let’s go, then,” he replies. His voice is still tight, and I can all but see him trying to be a gentleman despite the sexual tension between us. I get it. If I had any less self-control, I’d be straddling his gorgeous face by now.