It takes several minutes and more self-control than I realized I possessed until tonight, but Bree begins to relax beneath my touch. Eventually, relaxation becomes something more, something urgent, a question that demands an answer and refuses to accept anything but the truth.
And the truth is that I was born to be in this bed tonight, to make love to this woman, to show her with every slow, sensuous stroke into her body that her pleasure is my calling, my bliss, and the most powerful aphrodisiac I’ve ever known.
“Shane. Oh God, Shane.” She clings to my waist, her entire body trembling beneath me as she nears the edge. “It’s so intense, so much better than I imagined.”
“You’re everything,” I confess, fighting a losing battle against the orgasm rising inside of me. “Everything. The best. Ever. Fuck, Bree, I’m so close. Can you come with me, baby? Come with me.”
She answers with a cry as her pussy locks around my cock.
I’d assumed the super-durable condom would mute the bliss of this final moment, but nothing could be further from the truth. I feel every ripple as her body undulates around me, and the release that ignites at the base of my spine is like nothing I’ve ever known.
I come like a rocket achieving liftoff, like fireworks streaking through the night sky, like a star dying in a flash of glory and light and pure, unrelenting beauty.
I come so hard I lose time for a few seconds, but when my brain catches up with my body, I’m already by the sink, tucking the used condom into a plastic sandwich bag and then shoving that bag into a larger bag before dumping it in the trash. Bones still limp with pleasure, I wash my hands and then dampen a washcloth and do some below the waist cleaning, making sure I’m allergen-free before snagging a fresh pair of boxers from my bag.
When I’m certain I’m safe, I cross back to Bree, who’s lying curled on her side, watching me with a mysterious smile on her face.
“Come here,” she whispers, patting the mattress beside her. “Right here. And let’s discuss this wonderful thing.”
Grinning hard enough to make my jaw hurt, I stretch out next to her, taking her hand in mine and pressing it to my ribs, just above my heart.
And then we talk.
About everything.
About the past half hour and about all the hours before that. About her mom and dad and how hard it’s been to watch them split up and about my family and how poverty shaped our lives until hockey came along to give us a way out. We talk about what it’s like to be old enough to realize you have no idea what you’re doing, but too young to be sure that life is ever going to be anything but hard and confusing.
And then we talk about silly things like unicorns and zombies and which would win in a fight. About the stars and what creatures might be living on planets far away from ours. And about our favorite road-trip candies and what evil sugary treats we need to score at the gas station tomorrow.
“Red whips and giant sweet-and-sour tarts,” I say without hesitation. “They are, without a doubt, the finest of all sugary treats.”
Bree grins. “I thought you’d say that.” Before I can insist she stay in bed beside me, she slips from beneath the covers, padding across the van to crouch down near her open duffle. When she returns, she’s bearing a tiny sand bucket, like something you’d buy a kid at the dollar store. Inside are red vines and sweet-and-sour tarts and a note that reads, “To my favorite fromancing friend. Some treats nearly as sweet as you are. And a bucket to play in the sand. I call dibs on burying you first. Xo, Bree.”
Throat swelling with unexpected emotion, I nod, fighting for control as I force out a soft, “Thank you. This is…perfect.”
“No, this is perfect,” she says, kissing me soft and slow. Moaning in agreement, I draw her on top of me as I lie back on the bed.
And then she reminds me of what perfect really means, and we don’t sleep for a very, very long time. But when we do, we wink out tucked tight together, so close it’s hard to imagine an inch between us, let alone nearly two-thousand miles.
Chapter 11
Bree
June in the Pacific Northwest is a mercurial creature, especially along the coast. By day, you’re likely to enjoy temperatures in the upper sixties, making it the perfect weather for hiking, beach biking, or reading in the sun beneath a light blanket. But by night, the temperature plummets, dropping into the low forties and occasionally coming so close to freezing you’ll wake with your nose numb and your breath forming crystals in front of your face.
I’ve been on enough early summer camping excursions with friends and family to know better than to fall asleep before donning my warmest leggings, a sweatshirt, and a cozy sock cap pulled down to cover the tips of my soon-to-be-frosty ears.
But last night was so intense, so overwhelming, so completely and euphorically perfect that I foolishly succumbed to exhaustion wearing nothing but Shane’s T-shirt and a pair of panties. I wake up shivering, with my shoulders hunched to my ears, my arms clenched, and a tension headache already beginning to pulse from my temples down to the back of my neck.
Worst of all, I’m alone on the mattress in the back of the van. The incredibly sexy, heat-generating man who spooned me into the best sleep in recent memory has abandoned our snuggle space.
I sit up, drawing the fleece top blanket around my shoulders, but there’s no sign of Shane at the kitchenette or on the wee couch. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, giving me a clear view of Doris, assuring me he’s not answering nature’s call, either.
I’m sure he’s just outside taking a walk or starting a fire or something perfectly acceptable, but I can’t help feeling breathlessly disappointed. Bereft, even.
Yes, bereft is a good word, though a ridiculous one.
I have no reason to feel abandoned and sad. One does not plummet into the depths of despair because one’s fuck buddy isn’t there when one wakes up the morning after. Last night was incredible, yes, but this was always intended to be a low-key kind of thing. No expectations, no angst, no hang-ups—it’s the buddies with benefits mantra.
So why do I ache to have Shane’s arms around me?
Why am I so desperate to see his smile and ask if he slept as well as I did?
Why do I long to press my face to his T-shirt and inhale the pine tree and clean socks smell of him, that smell I’ve come to realize isn’t his cologne, after all? It’s just Shane—delicious Shane, who I would have loved to wake with kisses on his closed eyelids.
“Friends don’t kiss friend’s eyelids. That’s taking fromance too far,” I grumble as I worm my way across the mattress in my blanket cocoon, bound for my duffle and the jeans and sweatshirts within.
But last night felt like a door opening to all sorts of previously unexpected intimacies. Things could get really confusing really fast.
When we first started this experiment, I was certain I’d have no problem keeping feelings out of the equation. Shane isn’t my type, Shane is just a friend, and Shane is moving away in a month. I’d assumed all of those things would make it easy to keep things purely physical.
But now…
Something is changing, shifting, slipping inside of me, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to find myself in way over my head.
The thought is as sobering as the frigid air that prickles across my skin as I slip out of my cocoon and grab the jeans folded on top of my duffle. I wiggle into the stiff denim quickly and reach for a fresh bikini top, tee, and sweatshirt, but the clothes are freezing and offer little warmth.
By the time I shove my feet into my sneakers, I’m shivering so hard my teeth are chattering.
I use the bathroom and wash my hands in frigid water before running my fingers through my hair, making a half-hearted attempt to tame my bed head in the cramped space before breaking for the door to the van. I care more about getting warm by a fire than I do about getting pretty, but when I tumble outside to the campsite, the fire pit is filled with ash as gray as the fog clinging to the coastline, making the evergreen t
rees on the distant shore look dark and ominous.
The air is warmer out here—the damp breeze off the ocean thaws my nose enough for it to start running—but it’s still too chilly to be running around in nothing but a sweatshirt. Sniffing hard, I glance up and down the shore, searching for footprints or some sign of where Shane has gone, but the world is still and silent, save for the muffled hush of the waves retreating across the pebbled sand as the tide moves away from our camp.
It feels like I’m the only person left alive on earth.
And though I usually enjoy being alone—relish it, in fact—at the moment the notion is so breathlessly depressing that the backs of my eyes begin to sting. A moment later, my tight throat and aching ribs join the misery parade.
By the time a warm hand comes to rest on my waist, making me squeal and jump in surprise, tears are slipping quietly down my cheeks.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Shane says.
I spin to face him with a swiftly indrawn breath and find him holding a cardboard tray filled with to-go cups of coffee and foil-wrapped sandwiches that smell like pure cheesy-bacon goodness.
His smile fades when he sees my face. “You okay?” He crouches to set the tray on the ground before bringing both hands to my waist. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
I shake my head as I swipe at my tears with my fingers, not wanting to confess what a mess I am or how deeply waking without him affected me. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
But Shane isn’t the type to let tears go without getting to the bottom of whatever has caused them. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t be crying. Come on.” His head dips closer to mine as he adds more softly. “Talk to me, doc. You can trust me.”
I can trust him. I know that. Trust is why I reached out to Shane about this plan instead of any of the other perfectly acceptable friends-with-benefits candidates in my circle of male acquaintances.
Or that’s what I tricked myself into believing, anyway. That my choice was all about Shane being so responsible and level-headed. That it had nothing to do with the way his smile makes me ache with happiness or how every fun thing is more fun with him along for the ride.
For years, I’ve convinced myself that only a man with poetry in his veins, angst in his heart, and a love for skin-tight black jeans paired with vintage band tees could blaze a trail to my heart. I thought my ideal mate would come wrapped up in a previously approved package, complete with an extensive record collection and first editions of classic books that would pair perfectly with mine.
Shane isn’t anything like the men I usually date. He’s a laidback jock who listens to classic rock and eats meat—lots of it. He’s not much of a reader—unless he’s got his hands on a copy of Antique Collector Monthly—had never set foot in a museum until I dragged him to his first opening and refuses to attend any movie that isn’t going to incorporate multiple explosions in the plot line.
But there is poetry in the way he looks at me, in the way he works so hard at keeping me fed, in his crazy collections and his appreciation of lovely old things and his crazy van life barter schemes and the way he listens with his entire body, leaning forward with his arms braced on his knees, not wanting to miss a word of what I have to say.
He makes me feel…important. Like someone worth being seen and heard, not some silly former model who stupidly thinks she’s got what it takes to be a doctor someday.
Even my family, my biggest fans and most tireless supporters, aren’t sure I’m going to get that Ph.D. They believe in me, but they also know that until eighteen months ago, when I quit modeling to focus on getting my undergrad degree, I wasn’t what anyone would call an exceptional student.
I’ve always been more of a dreamer than a doer, a kid who let real-world responsibilities slip through the cracks more often than I should. A late bloomer who was still figuring out where to plant myself long after most of my friends were already tending a garden full of grown-up accomplishments.
But Shane has never doubted that I’m going to make this dream come true. He has faith in me, this man. An unshakeable, unwavering faith that I’ve never appreciated the way I should.
Until now, standing in the cold sea air with tears still damp on my cheeks and my heart tied up in knots because the truth has finally penetrated.
Shane is going away, and not just for a few hours to grab breakfast. He’s going far, far away, and I will miss him more than I can say. I will miss his faith in me and his easy laugh and the comfort of his company. I will miss his thoughts and our long, meandering conversations and the poetry we make when we touch.
But most of all, I will miss his heart, that big, beautiful heart that’s presently filling his eyes with fear because I’ve been standing here sniffling for way too long.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing the words through my tight throat.
“Why are you sorry?” He searches my face as I try to work up the courage to tell him the truth. To tell him I failed the test and turned out to be a stupid virgin who can’t keep sex and love separate, after all.
I’m falling in love with him, I realize. It’s so clear and, like the giant purple rhinoceros statue downtown, leaves me baffled as to how I managed to avoid seeing it for so long.
“Bree?” he prods gently, my name a test I don’t want to fail.
My timing couldn’t be worse, and there’s a good chance Shane will want nothing to do with a more-than-fuck-buddies relationship, but the emotion swelling inside me is like a bird set free from a cage. It’s out in the world, flying, swooping, soaring—getting stronger with every passing second, and there’s no way it’s going back behind bars.
There’s only one choice to be made.
I stand up straight, summon every bit of bravery in my shivering body, and say, “I woke up and you weren’t there, and it made me sad. And then I realized why it made me sad.”
Shane nods soberly. “Why?”
“Because being just friends is stupid,” I say, the backs of my eyes stinging again. “I hate being just friends.”
His brow relaxes, and what looks like hope creeps into his eyes. “Yeah? You do?”
I nod and sniff. “I do. Whose dumb idea was it to be just friends when it would clearly be so much better if we were more than friends?”
“I don’t know, but screw that,” he says, pulling me close. “I’m with you. I don’t want to be your friend. I want to be yours. Period.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.
“Yes,” he assures me. “And I want you to be mine. So what do you say, doc? Be my old lady? Make an honest man of me?”
“Yes. I will be your old lady.” More tears fill my eyes, but they’re happy tears this time, happy and hopeful, and I’m so relieved, my arms shake as I twine them around Shane’s neck with a laugh. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I’ve got things figured out, and then I’m blindsided by something I didn’t see coming all over again. At this rate, I’m never going to be a proper adult.”
He rubs a hand up and down my back. “Good. I don’t like proper people. They make me nervous.” He kisses my forehead gently, and Shane forehead-kisses are better than Valium. I’m instantly more relaxed and optimistic about what the future might hold.
There are unexpected miracles out there in the world—Shane’s proof of it.
So when he says, “Want to grab napkins while I get the fire started? I don’t want your bacon and extra cheese croissant to get cold,” I nod.
“Napkins coming right up.” I start to move away but then lunge back into his arms at the last minute, hugging him tight enough to make him grunt. “You’re the best.”
“Ditto, doc,” he says. “The very best.”
Feeling as warm as an extra cheesy croissant fresh from the toaster oven, I grab plates and napkins, and we eat breakfast by the fire, watching the fog thin and fade, leaving another beautiful day stretching out before us.
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Chapter 12
Shane
We don’t talk about how it’s all going to work—whether we’re signing up for a long-distance relationship or if Bree might consider moving to Kansas City with me once we’ve got a few months of coupledom under our belts—but I’m not worried about it.
I’m not worried about anything.
Not a damned thing.
Life is good. So good I can’t bring myself to stress about the future.
All morning, as Bree and I clean up the campsite and get ready to head out—stealing kisses and grinning at each other like fools—I’m humming with happiness and gratitude. It’s so good to be with her like this. Together for real, without having to pretend that “just friends” or “friends with bennies” is enough for me.
Last night was so much more than sex.
For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to make love, to create something breathtaking and beautiful out of nothing but two bodies and everything one incredible woman makes me feel. It took all the willpower I possess to not let it all spill out, to stop myself from confessing that I’m falling in love with her and I can’t seem to stop.
Thankfully, now I won’t have to.
I’m on cloud fucking nine. I can’t remember the last time life felt so flawless, effortless, like I’ve finally clicked into the place the universe was holding just for me.
I grew up in a great family. The Wallaces were poor but rolling in love and laughs. It wasn’t until I got pretty far along in youth hockey and started outgrowing my goalie pads every six months—triggering weeks of our family surviving on Hamburger Helper and mac and cheese—that I realized we weren’t as well off as the other people playing in the league. But I never wanted for food or fun, and I always knew where I belonged.
For a relatively laidback kid like me, that was all I needed to grow up happy.
Still, beneath the surface, I longed for something more. I wanted to make a name for myself, to rise high enough to earn the kind of money that would ensure my mom never had to clean another client’s toilet, and my dad could quit risking his life crushing cars at the junkyard.
Puck Buddies Page 10
