“Huh,” I say and she shifts slightly.
“What?”
“There’re a few surfers down the beach. They’re headed this way.”
She squeaks and turns her head, so I tut at her. “Don’t open your eyes, bad girl.”
There’s another small noise, but I know, I know she closed them again, because I told her to. And a good thing because there aren’t any surfers. They are convenient figments of my filthy imagination. She’s tensed some against me and usually that would bug me—I want her to be comfortable with me—but a little adrenaline never hurt anyone.
So I delve my hand into her panties, my fingers slicking against her hot, willing flesh. I dip my fingers back to where she’s wet, oh my god, so wet already, and gather up some moisture to make circling her clit in the way she likes easier. She mewls and oh, does that ever make me hard.
“They’re walking this way, Luce. They’ve got their boards under their arms and they’re talking to each other. But, oh—one of them looked over here.”
She twists underneath my hands, but I don’t let up, just keep up the assault against her hot, wet, swollen flesh. The resistance doesn’t feel real, though, not like she really wants me to stop. It feels like an enhancement, a plea, because this is hot and she wants to test herself. Or me. How far will I push her to go? If she told me to stop, I would. I’d tell her to open her eyes so she could see it was only us and the waves, that the surfers are a fiction my sex-addled imagination came up with. But she doesn’t tell me to stop, doesn’t push me away, so I keep up the ruse.
“How close do you think they can get before they’ll hear those little sex noises you make, huh? Do you think they’ll realize that under this blanket I’ve got you spread out like an all-you-can-eat buffet? Think one or both of them might like to get in on that?”
There’s a panicked squeak accompanied by a twist of her hips, so I pet the inside of her thigh and back off. There’s a tightrope I’m walking and I’m guiding her with me. How far is too far? I don’t want either of us to fall. I push on with my fantasy, still circling her clit and taking pauses to pinch her gently.
“Or maybe they’d like to stand here and watch me finger-fuck you until you come.” I slip my fingers inside her, loving how snug and hot it feels, loving how she lets me literally inside of her, loving how she makes a gasp that turns into a soft moan because it feels so good to be filled. “They’re only about fifty feet away now. Think I can make you come right when they’re passing by? Are you gonna be quiet, Luce? Or are you going to let them hear you because you want them to know? What do you think?”
Her hips are bucking under the blanket, and if there were anyone on the beach, they’d have no trouble guessing what exactly was going on. But there’s no one, just us and the screechy seagulls. She doesn’t have to know that, though.
“Thirty feet,” I say, pushing my fingers as far and as hard as they’ll go given the angle, trying to rub my palm on her clit because she likes that. “They’re definitely watching you. They’re not even pretending not to.”
A cry escapes her throat, but it doesn’t slow her movements. If anything she’s writhing against my hand, and when I say twenty, she clamps her hand over mine and thrusts into me even harder.
“Ten, Luce. They’re practically on top of us and they’re staring. Both of them, because you’re so fucking beautiful and shameless.”
She rocks up again, and that’s when I hear it, the sound of pleasure forced between her teeth because she’s trying so hard to not make a peep. It escapes anyway because it’s too big for her to hold in. And hell, maybe I’m a mess, but I can get Lucy off. I can make her happy for a few precious minutes, force her to make those sounds that nearly drag my own orgasm out of me. It’s only through sheer strength of will that I’m not blowing my load where my zipper is rubbing uncomfortably between my dick and Lucy’s behind.
Her back’s arched, but she grinds her hips against me, taking the pleasure she wants from our hands. She rocks out the last beats of her climax, and I can feel her muscles clutching my fingers in time. The only thing better would be feeling her clamp down around my dick. Maybe some other time because this isn’t about me.
She’s basically collapsed against my chest, and I’d like to hold her there, pet her hair, stroke her neck, lay kisses on her freckled skin, but I can’t because she sits bolt upright, dislodging our hands.
“What’s the matter?”
“Did they—I thought—”
The panic in her voice slays me. She might play it cool, but I know she worries. It’s fun to play, but the fear of getting caught is too much.
“Oh, Lucy.” I reach for her, pull her against me, and hold her tight, hoping she can’t hear my heart pounding. “There’s no one here. Just us. I made it up. A story.”
She’s breathing hard and not the hot panting of a post-orgasmic woman, but an anxious sucking of breath into her lungs.
“Are you just saying that?” Her head twists in either direction, scouring the beach for phantom surfers she’s not going to find.
“No. I promise. I thought—I thought you’d like it. I thought it would get you off. I’m sorry if—”
She stops flailing, and her shoulders drop. Her fingers find my forearms and curl around them.
“It did. Get me off, I mean, but then when I thought…”
“No, I know. I wouldn’t do that. Unless we’d talked about it before. That—it wouldn’t be cool. Hot, maybe, but not cool.” Jeez, panic makes me sound stupid.
“Yeah, okay.”
I want to see her face, double-check to make sure she’s okay because, dammit, if I only have a week with her, I don’t want to fuck it up. When she looks at me in the office after this, I want it to be with longing, with memories of how hot we burned, not of how badly I fucked up and made her uncomfortable. But she doesn’t turn around. I have to be satisfied with the way she slumps against me and how her breath evens out. In less than a minute, she’s making soft kitten-sleepy noises and her hands loosen on my forearms.
She’s asleep.
I smile, because even though I’m sure the whole being awake and busting her ass getting that report done for twenty-four hours is likely the better part of it, it still makes me feel damn good that she’s basically passed out after I got her off. Mission accomplished.
Chapter Twelve
‡
December 22nd
Lucy
Something is chirping.
Something is chirping, I’m weirdly comfortable, and there’s sunlight hitting my face. Which is downright bizarre, because I’m at the office. Or I should be except…
Everything that happened last night comes flooding back to me. Evans asking if I’d let him surprise me and then…then the beach. And the surfers. And the earth-shattering orgasm. That’s pretty much the last thing I remember. Which is fine. So fine. I smile thinking about it.
And then realize I don’t remember going anywhere afterward. Which means… I shift, and yes, there’s a body pressed against my back and an arm slung over my waist and the soft snuffling of someone still asleep. Evans.
That’s when it occurs to me that the chirping sounds somewhat…unnatural. Not birds exactly, but a soundtrack of birds on loop. I start pawing around the blankets, realizing we must look homeless, sleeping out here on the beach like this. It’s a good thing no cops have come by and roused us. Or is it? Because now I’m starting to panic a bit about what time it is, exactly.
Given the sun, it can’t be too late, but I don’t have any time to spare. Finally I locate my phone and click it on to see it’s almost seven. Shit. Not terrible, but not great given we have to drive back to the office from the beach.
I scooch out from under Evans’s sleep-heavy arm and roll over to look at him. If I was allowed, I’d brush the reddish-brown hair off his forehead and kiss him, because even though I’m on edge now, that was a nice thing he did and I’d like to say thank you. I will, just not in a sweet, boyfriend-girl
friend way, because we’re not. Can’t be.
Which is too bad because aside from all the stress and worry and insanity, this might be the happiest I’ve been…ever. And yes, the sex has had some—okay, a lot—to do with that. Who would’ve thought Evans of all people would turn out to be a master of sex? But it’s been more than that. I like how he looks at me. Also the way he doesn’t talk down to me and instead talks to me because he has no doubt I can do my job. Because I do it.
That’s the stab of guilt that gets me moving because I shouldn’t be lying here, mooning over my… Evans would never say fuck buddy, would probably turn bright red at even the suggestion. But lover has always sounded faintly ridiculous to me, like something someone in a soap opera should say, not actual real live people. I don’t know. Whatever he is to me, he’s a good one. My Evans. For a couple more days, at any rate.
I reach out, intending to shake him awake, but I can’t bring myself to be even that rough with him when I know he would wake me in the gentlest way he could. He may be bossy when we’re fooling around but not otherwise. So I slide my hand down his arm, rubbing the loose cotton of his shirt over his nicely muscled forearm. I don’t know when Evans finds the time to work out, but he must because he’s wonderfully made.
A slow smile creeps across his face, and I hope he’s remembering last night. Although he probably had a pretty frustrating night given that he finger-fucked me until I came and then basically passed out. I hope he got himself off afterward because I sure didn’t.
I keep rubbing his arm, and he blinks his eyes open, yawning and looking around like he too forgot where we were, that we’d slept out on the beach like vagrants with an exhibitionist streak. That’s when the freak-out happens.
“Crap.” He sits bolt upright, patting himself down until he locates his phone in his pocket, which is where the chirping’s been coming from. “Lucy, I’m so sorry. I set it for six and I didn’t want to use some horrible siren because that’s not fun to wake up to and I—”
“Hey, it’s okay.” I put my hand back on his arm, give him a gentle squeeze. “We’re all right. It’s maybe a bit of a later start than we’d planned, but I haven’t slept that well for a long time. So, thanks. That was nice.”
A goofy, lopsided smile slides onto his face, and he looks down, as if he can’t believe his good luck, as though maybe he’s used to getting crap thrown at him no matter what he does. And sure, I know India gives him a hard time, but when he does something right, she lets him know that too. Maybe someone else taught him no matter what he does, he should brace himself for a sucker punch or a kick to the teeth. No wonder the guy apologizes to thresholds he trips over.
“Cool. Yeah, me too. I’m glad you liked it. We should get going, though.”
He’s right. It would be awesome to huddle with Evans under the blanket and watch the sunrise, maybe while I returned the favor by sliding down his zipper, reaching into his pants, and drawing his thick hardness out to stroke until I’d worked him up so much he’d spill in my hand. And then he could watch me lick it off my fingers. He’d groan, probably cover his eyes and fall back on the blanket, muttering about how I was going to kill him. And I’d giggle and poke at him, maybe provoke him into rolling me over onto my back.
But no more beach antics for us; we’ve got to go. We get our stuff packed up with a minimum of discussion and hike back to the car. The trip back to the office is short since there’s not so much traffic this early in the morning, and I think it’s a Saturday? Maybe? No, wait, Saturday is wishful thinking. It’s Friday, but only three days before Christmas.
I try to put myself back together during our trip, get in the headspace of the office and get a handle on next steps. I’m guessing Evans must be doing the same thing because he’s silent too, but not in the steering-wheel clutching nervousness I might expect from him.
We pull into the empty—except for my car—parking garage and though we’re heading up together, we pause outside the door. Like once we step through, we’ll have to go back to being Lucy and Evans, the sweetly bumbling, red-headed office pets.
He looks at me, mouth open as if he might say something. I can almost see the words swirling around in his head, but they get blown away before he can form them into something meaningful. Instead, he opens the door and gestures me through to where the elevator is waiting for us.
I let us into the dark and empty office, everyone except us spending time with their families or in transit to somewhere that isn’t here. There’s a twinge in my stomach because I should be at home, in my mom’s kitchen, helping cook the mounds of holiday food. Chatting with my cousins and being interrogated by my aunts and uncles. But the thing is—the twinge is kind of dull and it’s colored by relief. That I won’t have to see the glances or the pinched faces when I say, yes, I’m still a secretary.
It makes sense to me that administrative work doesn’t appeal to my farm-bred family. They like the hard, physical work of farm life, and they wouldn’t enjoy the mental workouts I’ve had to practice since India started thinking of me as more than a means to a cup of really good coffee.
I don’t expect them to understand it necessarily, but I wouldn’t mind if they’d at least make an effort to try to understand what I enjoy about my job. But mostly they think I’ve failed. Lucy couldn’t hack it on the big screen and now she’s stuck fetching some bitch’s coffee. Which is true, but—it’s more than that now. I have a job I’m proud of.
And I don’t want to think about what my towering brothers would have to say about Evans. He’s not some withering wisp of a person, but his power doesn’t reside so much in his slim musculature as in his mind. That’s hot. I doubt my family would be impressed, but I am.
Speaking of, he follows close behind me, so close that, though we’re not touching, I feel him nonetheless. It’s comforting, and…something else. I should’ve had my fill at the beach this morning, what with the coma-inducing orgasm, but his proximity is making me think less-than-decent thoughts.
Thoughts I suspect he wouldn’t mind indulging.
Except we need to shower and get to work. But maybe there’s a way I could have everything I want. Because why the heck not? It’s Christmas, isn’t it, and that’s when wishes are supposed to come true.
I stop abruptly in the hall where Evans would go left and I’d go right to get to our respective desks, and he bumps into me, the apology rolling close behind.
“Sorry, Lucy, I didn’t mean to—”
“What are you doing right now, Evans?”
I turn on him and he’s standing there, all disheveled and bewildered, and I want to take him by the shirt collar and kiss him stupid. It probably wouldn’t take much, given that he looks dazed already.
“Now? I was going to, uh, take a shower…” His face pinks and it’s charming. I love it when he’s all bossy and in charge, but I love too how he still blushes when he’s not putting that front on. It’s adorable and it makes me feel safe, as though I’m not the only one who’s awkward and unsure, not the only one who’s uncool and still trying to figure my shit out. “And then I was going to get down to brass tacks.”
“I was wondering if maybe…” Some of my bluster has deserted me because I’m, well, me, but his eyes, wide and alert, urge me into spilling. “If you might like some company for the shower. And, you know, it’ll save water. For the drought.”
Yes, because you’re the height of environmentalism, Lucy.
He’s not going to argue with me, though. His gaze gets hot and he shifts his hips as if he might be getting hard at the suggestion.
“We could do that. For the planet.”
“For the planet,” I agree, and before he can talk himself out of it because we don’t have time for naked and wet antics, I take his hand and tug him toward India’s office. She’d said I should feel free to use her bathroom this week since I’d basically be living here. It was kind of her. Even though there are a couple of bathrooms down the hall near Evans’s office, hers is way n
icer. She redid it when she took over Jack’s office with a cascade of blue tiles, glass, and chrome. It’s like a spa. But I suppose if a person spends half their life at the office as India does, they should at least have a pretty place to do it in.
Panic grips me briefly as I think about India coming into the office, but checking my watch, I don’t think she’ll be in for a while yet. She has a ton on her plate, but Cris is still in town and she tends to do her early morning and late night work at home when he’s here. We’ve probably got a couple of hours before Hurricane India makes landfall.
Once in the bathroom, I shut the door and flip the lock, pushing Evans up against the wood as I do. I’m so tired I can’t believe I have the energy to get turned on, but here I am, tearing at his clothes and going up on tiptoes to kiss him. We must be in the same boat because there’s only a beat of resistance and then he’s stripping me just as surely. His tongue demands entrance to my mouth, and I give it to him. And when skin meets skin and our mouths are crushed against each other, the tiredness falls away and my body buzzes with arousal.
Evans is already hard, his erection pressing against my belly. I don’t want it against me; I want it in me. I’m hungry for him. Ravenous, in fact. I don’t want to break apart from our aggressive kiss, but what’s waiting for me on the other side is worth it so I drag myself away, panting. “Shower.”
He drops a brief nod, and when I turn to the glass-enclosed stall, there’s a hard smack on my butt. “In you get.”
I squeak because it’s unexpected and then Evans is spluttering behind me.
“I’m sorry, Luce. You said you didn’t want to be hit and I did and that’s so not okay. It’s just…your ass…”
He sounds so helplessly enamored, his eyes darting to my butt as if there was some kind of magnetic attraction between them, only to have him drag them back up to my face. I can practically hear him chastising himself in his head: Look at her face, Evans, jeez. You animal.
Due South (The Compass series Book 5) Page 12
