by Serena Bell
In my workshop. I’m supposed to be finishing a table, but instead I’m imagining you on it.
Are you? I add a peach emoji, just for good measure.
What are you doing still in the car?
On a whim, I snap a selfie of my hand buried between my thighs.
Oh, Jesus. You trying to kill me?
The return photo is of flat abs, a jeans waistband, and a hand plunged deep behind the fly. My mouth goes dry.
What would it take to get you off? he texts.
Not much.
What if I told you what I’d do to you if I were there?
That would do it.
Put the phone down where you can see the screen.
I obey.
First thing is I’d get you naked because I didn’t get to last time. And I think about it all the time, what you’d look like.
He thinks about me, naked, all the time? Does he mean that, or is that just a thing you say when you’re trying to sext someone to orgasm?
I don’t have time to think too long about it, because he keeps the goodness coming.
And then I’d taste you. Everywhere. I’d spend a long time on your mouth, but I want to bite your earlobes and lick your throat and kiss your collarbone, too. And I want to suck on your nipples until it’s almost too much.
The combination of the fantasy he’s evoking and the pressure of my hand is doing its work, fast. I’m panting and arching and wriggling, using my other hand to pinch and tweak my nipples.
But what I really want most is to lick between your legs.
A surge of heat and pure, sheer lust almost finishes me off.
“Hey Siri,” I say. “Tell Sawyer Paulson I’m so close.”
“Sending a text message to Sawyer Paulson that says ‘I’m so close.’ ”
I want to get you so wet you can’t tell what’s you and what’s me. Circle your clit, teasing you to the edge, and then pull back until you beg me to let you come.
With an involuntary cry, I come in fierce waves, bearing down on the armrest, digging my fingernails into the faux leather.
“Hey Siri. Tell Sawyer Paulson I just came.”
“Sending a text message to Sawyer Paulson that says ‘I just came.’ ”
A moment later:
Fuck, Elle. I’m right behind you.
And then:
Jesus. That was voodoo fucking good.
I laugh. And I return to my senses, amused and a little abashed by how thoroughly he made me lose my head. I’m sitting in my car with my dress hitched up and my hand between my legs, sexting my next-door neighbor. A neighbor who has already made me behave insanely on another occasion and will quite likely make me do all kinds of things I won’t respect myself for the next day at Trevor’s wedding.
Wait. Speaking of Trevor’s wedding…
I think that was technically cheating, I tell him.
Nah. It was foreplay.
Does that mean there could be other kinds of “foreplay” between now and our “one-time” repeat?
My still throbbing body gives that idea an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Chapter 19
Elle
Hattie meets me at the Lucerne Mall on Saturday morning. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a high waist, knee-high boots, and a cropped sweater that tapers to a wide band just above her waistline. Her black hair falls in glossy loose ringlets to her shoulders, and her makeup is impeccable.
Normally, I feel frumpy next to Hattie, who since her divorce has devoted an enormous amount of time to her appearance—Barrecore class, Pilates, regular cardio, time spent at Sephora and the Macy’s makeup counter, hair, clothes, full-body waxing, you name it, she has pursued it in the interest of getting laid and moving on. I’m more the Ben-and-Jerry’s-to-drown-your-sorrows type.
But today I’m feeling pretty darn good. I got up early enough to wash my hair and blow it dry, and I spent a long time doing my makeup and choosing my clothes.
I was thinking, Who knows when I might need to send a selfie to a certain shameless next-door neighbor?
“Wow,” says Hattie. “You look fabulous.”
“Thanks.”
“Your dirty games with the neighbor obviously agree with you.”
I’d told her the whole story, complete with Sawyer’s rescuing me and my wounded pride from the Helen-and-Trevor-show, his kiss, the wedding-day proposition, and a very short expurgated version of the unexpected “foreplay” a few days ago. Hattie, being Hattie, had withheld judgment. She was delighted to hear I had a date to the wedding, that I was getting some, and that Trevor wouldn’t “win.”
“No dirty texts since the last day of school.”
Which is fine. I’ve been checking my phone compulsively, of course, and have started flirty texts to Sawyer a few times, but I always delete them before sending. After what happened with Trevor—
I guess I want to be pursued, you know? I don’t want to be the pathetic one ever again.
“Let’s go make you irresistible,” Hattie says.
Hattie is a great shopping assistant. We gather a pile of dresses in Nordstrom and she sends me into the dressing room.
The first two I don’t even bother showing her. They’re not good for my petite frame. Then come a few I need her advice about. She gives me a head shake, then another, then a lukewarm, “I don’t hate that one…” Which makes us both laugh.
I’ve probably tried on ten dresses when I slip into one that unexpectedly makes me stop and catch my breath. I wouldn’t have picked it off the rack, but Hattie has a good eye. Dusty pink isn’t a color that looks good on most people, but this dress totally works for me. It falls to mid-calf, which is a length I usually loathe, but the tunic hemline is actually incredibly flattering. The sleeves are long, the cut simple and form-fitting with a choker neck, a low back, and a deep keyhole cutout that reveals a ton of cleavage without being cheap.
“Holy shit,” Hattie says.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say dryly.
“I’d fuck you,” she says.
I laugh. “Sorry, get in line.” I look back over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror. “Should I take a picture and send it to Sawyer?”
She shakes her head. “No. You need to see his face the first time he sees you in that dress. But you should text him.”
I hesitate a moment, but what the fuck.
Just bought a dress for the wedding.
I pocket my phone before I can get sucked into watching for those three little dots to form…
The shoe department is next, where with Hattie’s help, I find a pair of dusty-pink peep-toe kitten-heel sandals with three thin ankle straps. They make my legs look like I’ve been working out, and I can’t stop admiring my calves in the mirror. It’s been years since I wore heels.
“I don’t get out enough,” I tell Hattie.
“No, you don’t.”
“It’s a good thing Sawyer doesn’t want a relationship. I can practice on him and it won’t matter that I’m rusty and lame.”
“You’re not rusty and lame,” Hattie says.
“No, I know, I mean—but he can be my practice guy, and then I can date a lot and buy a lot of sexy clothes and shoes.”
“With Trevor’s money,” Hattie adds. “You should keep a separate account with Trevor’s alimony money and use it for all the things you know would piss him off, like strappy sandals and vibrators and dates with other guys. Use your writing money and the child support for food and Madden’s stuff and saving for college.”
I laugh. “Do you do that?”
“If I ever actually received an alimony check I would do that,” she says.
She doesn’t talk much about her ex-husband. He was a jerk when they were married—borderline emotionally abusive and complet
ely uninvested in her life or the kids—and now he barely sees the kids and is a complete deadbeat financially. To be fair, Trevor’s rolling in money between his investment banking job and Helen’s modeling work, but it isn’t like Hattie’s ex is broke, just a loser.
“How is the writing going, by the way?” Hattie asks.
“It’s great,” I say. “I think the fact that I’m willing to write pretty much anything has helped me out. I mean, I have the areas of focus and that helps me market—medical, scientific, tech—but I’ve been taking other work, copywriting, social media and blog content, whatever, and even without Trevor’s money I think Madden and I would be fine.”
Which is a great feeling, obviously. It’s not PC to admit it, but I had a moment of sheer terror when Trevor said he was leaving. I had no idea whether I could make it on my own. He’d been supporting me for the last eight years, my writing jobs had dwindled to hobby level, and mixed in with all the hurt and anger was this thin, thready panic—I can’t be a single mom!
But it turns out I can, and I’m pretty damn good at it.
“Have you done anything with the divorce book yet?”
“No.”
“Come on, Elle, it’s good! You should try to get it published. Or get an agent. I have a friend who wrote a book about organizing your kitchen that wasn’t one-eighth as cute or funny as your book and she wrote a proposal and sent it to an agent, and blammo! She’s a bestseller.”
“I don’t think it usually works like that,” I say dryly.
“Well, you won’t know if you don’t try, will you?”
“Guess not,” I say, which I know is code for I’m not planning to try, but she can believe it means You’re right, Hattie! I should try! if it’ll let her sleep better at night.
I unstrap myself from the beautiful shoes. Midway, my phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket.
Picture or it didn’t happen.
Hattie says I need to see your face the first time you see me in the dress.
I’m dying over here, Elle.
Wait till you see the shoes.
Hattie’s face appears above my phone screen. “Quit sexting and let’s go find something that’ll really blow his mind.”
At Victoria’s Secret, Hattie and I take dressing rooms side by side.
“Oh, geez,” she mutters. “I don’t even know how to put this on.” There’s a rustle of clothing and then, “Yeah. No.” More rustling. “That’s more like it.” She whistles softly. “Maybe that’ll help. Elle. Can I confess something?”
“Sure.”
“I have had some really bad sex in the last few months.”
Laughter bursts out of me, and I think I hear someone laughing in the dressing room on the other side of me. It is so like Hattie to start this conversation in a semipublic place.
“I think men are watching too much porn,” she laments. “I’m not a bicycle pump.”
There’s definitely laughter coming from the other dressing room. I’m biting back my own. “Hold that thought, Hattie. We’ll discuss it at lunch.”
Meanwhile, I’ve donned a barely there dusty-pink G-string and teeny-tiny lace demi-bra. And I’m staring at myself in the mirror, pleased with the result.
I grab my phone. You’re really going to like what I have on now.
Tell me????
There is not very much of it. And it is pink. That is all I can say.
I hate you right now. Jonah is home and I can’t even go upstairs and *imagine* for myself.
Maybe tonight?
Are you volunteering to help with the imagining?
I decide to leave him hanging—or, um, its opposite—for a bit on that question.
Chapter 20
Sawyer
Do you play board games?
Standing in my workshop where the three coffee tables are almost done, I stare at my phone. That so wasn’t the text I was hoping for. I’m still waiting for her to answer my question. The one about whether she was planning to help me out with my not-so-little problem, the erection I’ve been sporting on and off since she first texted me from the mall earlier today.
Or, let’s face it, since I kissed her the other day.
I haven’t spent this much time hard since I was thirteen, and I definitely haven’t felt this frustrated. My right hand is not supplying the relief I desperately want, and if anything, my fantasies about the ways I want to kiss and touch and lick and fuck Elle Dunning are getting more vivid.
Not as a rule, I text back.
Madden and I just took out Settlers of Catan and we were wondering if you and Jonah wanted to play.
I don’t know how.
We’ll teach you.
If I’m being honest with myself, I will admit that my number one motivation for agreeing to the invitation is that it will get me in the same room with Elle. Not that I think seeing her will in any way take the edge off my lust. But it’s better than not seeing her.
Okay. Can we bring something? I have a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer.
I never turn down chocolate chip cookie dough.
I immediately wonder how I can turn that knowledge to my advantage…
Then I start thinking about what it would be like to lick ice cream off her nipples…
It takes a while to cool down enough so I can head inside and convey the invitation to Jonah. He’s thrilled, of course. While I run upstairs to change out of my work clothes, he grabs the ice cream from the freezer, then practically drags me out of our house, along the sidewalk, and up the steps to Elle and Madden’s door.
Elle answers. She’s wearing her sunny blond hair in a messy bun. She’s cute and smiley, and she’s one of those people who wears her happiness so close to the surface of the skin. She sort of vibrates with happiness, and I can’t help smiling at her.
“I can’t believe you’ve never played Catan!” she exclaims, throwing the door wide to let us in. “You’re in for a treat.”
After the texts we exchanged, part of my brain is stuck on the image of her in a fancy dress, so I have to adjust to the sight of a fitted white tank top and cropped yoga pants.
Not that it’s an unhappy adjustment. Neither leaves anything to the imagination, and—yup. My dick hardens appreciably behind my fly, and I’m glad I’m wearing briefs and sturdy jeans.
I step inside, Jonah behind me, and we follow her into her dining room. I try not to glue my gaze to the curve of her ass under those skintight pants…
I force myself, instead, to notice my surroundings, which means her furniture. I tend to always look at other people’s furniture with a critical eye, noticing where another craftsman cut corners or missed an opportunity to shine. Whoever made this table slathered way too much polyurethane on the surface, obscuring some beautiful quarter-sawn oak. I’d love to sand it down and redo it with an oiled finish, maybe replace the legs with something that would balance better with the weight of the top—these look too chunky.
Unlike Elle’s legs. The yoga pants cling to her thighs, which are that perfect combination of strong and soft, and come to an enticing vee where I want to bury my face.
I jerk my attention back to the contents of the room, a much safer subject. Her dining room window faces my house. I step to the window and look out. The fence looks pretty good from here; I’m pleased with my work, though I make a mental note that she’s more or less looking straight down on it. I’ll check, tomorrow, to make sure it looks as good as I want from the top.
“That’s the window I stalk you through,” she blurts.
I turn back to discover her with her hand clapped over her mouth. She’s bright red.
“Stuff just falls out when I open my mouth,” she whispers, dropping her hand.
Which of course makes me look at her mouth. She is wearing pale pink sparkly
gloss, and I imagine she would taste like raspberry if I licked her.
She would taste like Elle, if I licked her.
Jonah and Madden are hunched over a rectangular box on the table, removing tons and tons of little fiddly pieces and fully engaged in the process, so I take a step toward her and say, “I like it.”
She bites her lip. “My mouth?”
“Mmm-hmm. And the things that fall out of it, too.” I lean close and brush her ear with my breath. “There are also some things I would like to put in it. My tongue, for starters.”
“Oh,” she says. Really, more like “ohhh,” but it’s quiet enough not to attract the attention of the boys, who are busily constructing a complicated board out of a series of hexagonal pieces.
“You sit here,” Madden says, pointing me to my seat, “and you sit here, Mom, and Jonah, you’re here.”
I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but I actually really like the game. It’s complex enough to be interesting and simple enough not to make my brain hurt. There’s a lot of interaction and a bit of screw-your-buddy, and before long Elle and I are locked in a tight contest for first place. She takes the “longest road” card, and then I steal it back, but she quickly retaliates by grabbing the “largest army” card. We both have nine victory points and need only one to win. And—wouldn’t you know it—we’re competing over a single intersection. Whoever gets the resources he or she needs to build a settlement there is going to win.
It’s my turn. And all I need is to convince someone to trade me a forest hex resource—lumber—and I’ll have what I need to win. I try Madden first, but he doesn’t have one, and then I try Jonah, but he doesn’t have one, and then I turn to Elle and say, “I don’t suppose you have any wood you’d give me,” and she gives me this thousand-watt seductive smile and mouths, “Isn’t that my line?”
Then, while I’m still trying to find a single functioning brain cell, she asks the boys, “How dumb does he think I am? If I give him my wood, he’ll win.”
Not dumb at all. Smart as a whip, fun to be around, and really fucking pretty, with wisps of her blond hair tumbling out of the messy bun and her mouth all glossy and that sheen of happy coming off her skin.
