by Tawna Fenske
“Harder,” she whispers. She lets go of the tree with one hand, and I watch her fingers move to the front of her body.
But this time, I want to be the one stroking her. I want to be the one who makes her come. “Let me,” I whisper against her neck.
I take one hand off her hips and slip the first two fingers in my mouth. It’s partly to warm them, partly to make sure they’re slick enough to glide just right.
The second I touch her clit, she bucks against me.
“Oh God, Simon! Don’t stop.”
I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m pounding her harder now, stroking her tight little bud with soft, butterfly strokes of my fingertips. The second she tenses around me, I know she’s close. It’s sooner than I wanted, but I doubt I could hold out much longer anyway. Not with Cassie clenched this snug and hot around me.
“That’s it, baby,” I growl. “I want to feel you come. Just like this.”
The familiar cry starts in her throat, so different from the muffled one at the club. Her sex squeezes around me, and that’s all it takes. All I need to tip me over the edge.
We come together in a hot, wet burst of light and frozen air and the muffled crunch of snow under our boots.
Or is that the crunch of tires?
It dawns on me that the buzz in my head isn’t my brain exploding, but the hum of an approaching engine. Cassie hears it the same moment I do, and her eyes go wide. We spring apart like teenagers caught groping in a movie theater, fumbling fast with buttons and zippers and layers.
I’ve just gotten my belt buckled when a mint-green truck pulls up behind Cassie’s. The US Forest Service logo is emblazoned on a door that swings wide open to reveal a middle-aged guy in a khaki uniform and a green parka.
“Afternoon.” He tips his hat to both of us, but his eyes are on Cassie. “Everything okay, here, ma’am?”
Cassie nods, looking dazed and flushed. It dawns on me the guy is trying to determine if he’s stumbled upon a sexual assault in progress. I feel a wave of gratitude, even as I hope like hell the guy gets back in his truck and takes off.
No such luck.
He takes a step closer, studying us both a little too intently for my comfort. “We’ve had a rash of poaching in this area recently,” he said. “Deer hunters. I don’t suppose either of you has a gun?”
Is it my imagination, or did his eyes just drop to the front of my jeans? I’m pretty sure I got my pants zipped, but my hard-on hasn’t fully subsided. I shift a little so Cassie is in front of me and clear my throat.
“No, sir,” I tell him. “No firearms of any kind.”
“Good. That’s good.” He looks around like he’s trying to figure out why two people would be up here in the middle of nowhere in February with their hair disheveled and the scent of sex in the air. I have no idea if what we’ve just done is illegal, but I’d rather not find out.
“We have a permit,” Cassie says.
My brain is still filled with sex, and I turn to look at Cassie with surprise. There’s a permit for outdoor sex?
“For native plant collection,” Cassie continues. “The permit’s in the truck.”
“You’re collecting plants in the middle of winter?” The ranger gives her a skeptical look. “In the snow?”
“It’s the perfect time.” Her voice is surprisingly breezy, or maybe it’s just a contrast to my own racing pulse. “Everything’s gone dormant this time of year, so it’s much easier to transplant.”
The Forest Service guy frowns, probably wondering why we don’t have any tools, but Cassie continues with her story. “We’re scouting for a few good specimens before we start digging,” she says. “Ceanothus velutinus, Arctostaphylos patula—that’s snowbrush and greenleaf manzanita.”
“Uh-huh.” The guy nods slowly, and I can’t tell if he’s buying it.
I pat the tree trunk next to us and try to look casual. “We were just admiring the Pinus—uh—”
“Pinus contorta,” Cassie supplies, shooting me a look that suggests I should probably shut up. “Obviously, this one’s a little big.”
“Quite large,” says the Forest Service guy, folding his arms over his chest.
“Right,” Cassie says. “We’re not digging it up or anything. Just admiring the specimen.”
“Admiring the specimen.” He looks at us for a few more beats, and I could swear he’s smiling a little under that moustache. “So, that’s what the kids call it these days?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”
With a sharp little laugh, he turns on his heel and stalks back to his truck. “Just be careful out here,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you getting eaten by wild animals.”
I watch him go, stifling the urge to laugh. “Too late, officer,” I murmur as the truck door slams and Cassie dissolves into giggles.
Chapter Twelve
Cassie
Several days pass, and believe it or not, I don’t spend every waking hour thinking about the stupid-hot guy who’s been having sex with me.
After a long week of evaluating soil nutrient levels at a vineyard, I find myself at home in my PJs on Thursday night with a bowl of Cheetos in my lap and my computer on the coffee table in front of me. I’m sipping a glass of pinot noir from the aforementioned vineyard while compiling a report on sludge management and nonhazardous process wastes.
Sometimes I’m so glamorous I can’t stand myself.
I’ve just shoved a handful of Cheetos in my mouth when the phone rings. I glance down to see Simon’s name on the readout, and my stupid heart does a kicky little tap dance in my chest.
Reminding myself that I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to open her jars or hit her G-spot, I finish chewing my Cheetos and hit the button to accept the call.
“Hey, Simon.”
“Hey, sexy.”
I catch myself grinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the compliment or because I’m actually pretty un-sexy right now. My cupcake-patterned leggings have a hole in one knee, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt that says Soil scientists know all the dirt.
I hit save on my computer file and lean back against the couch with the phone cradled against my ear. “How did your work thingy go last night?”
I’m doing my best to sound casual, but the truth is that I’m super curious about Simon’s job. I get the sense he doesn’t like talking about it much, which only makes me more curious.
Also, I’ll admit it—I’m wondering if he took a date. He didn’t say much about the event, except that he had to get dressed up. My sisters and I had plans last night, so I couldn’t have gone with him even if he had invited me, which he didn’t. Because we’re not dating.
But is it wrong to hope he didn’t take someone else?
“The event was good,” he says in response to the question I’ve forgotten asking. “Actually, really good. Get this—I won a two-night getaway to Cascara Springs. That’s that fancy resort in Central Oregon.”
“You’re kidding me.” I drop the Cheeto I’d been holding and try not to feel jealous. “My sisters have been dying to go there since it opened. They made me look at all the pictures on the website. Lisa’s been trying to get her fiancé to take her.”
“Yeah, I hear it’s amazing. So is the package I won. Here, I’ll read you the certificate.”
I hear a rustling of paper, and I try to picture Simon at home. I’ve never seen his house, but I imagine it’s tidy and sparse with a lot of computer stuff lying around. Or maybe it’s more of a bachelor pad with piles of laundry in the corner and a roommate or two.
He begins to read, and I order myself to pay attention.
“This certificate entitles the bearer and one guest to round-trip limousine transportation from Portland, Oregon to Cascara Springs Res—”
“A limousine? You’re kidding me.”
“That’s just the transportation. Once we get there, it says we get lunch for two, an all-inclusive spa day including double mud bath and ninety-minut
e massage. There’s a two-night stay in a deluxe cabin, plus a few other things in this basket—looks like a bottle of wine and some slippers and—”
“Holy shit.” I’m not sure if I’m dumbfounded by the magnitude of this prize package or by the fact that he said “we.” Does he mean us? Simon and me, together?
I don’t want to presume anything. I wipe Cheeto dust on the knee of my leggings and pick up my wineglass off the end table. “That’s great, Simon. Congratulations. You won this at a work event?”
“It was a charity function I had to go to for work. Normally, I dread those things, but it really paid off this time.”
“I’ll say.” I’m not sure what a charity thing has to do with his job as a computer repair guy. I open my mouth to ask, but he’s quicker than I am.
“So, what are you doing this weekend?”
“This weekend?” I should probably invent something so I don’t sound desperate and too available, but the only thing I can come up with is testing the pH levels of my houseplants’ soil.
That’s lamer than being desperate and available.
“I don’t have plans,” I say. “Why?”
“Come with me. Be my date.”
“Are you serious?” My heart is thudding in my ears, but I tell myself it’s just the excitement of a luxury getaway. It has nothing to do with Simon himself. With the feelings that may or may not be growing bigger than I expected.
“Totally serious,” he says. “This seems like fate, doesn’t it? Number ten on The List—”
“‘Naughty spa day at super-snooty place for rich assholes,’” I recite, a little embarrassed now by my own word choice.
“We can be assholes together,” he says.
“There’s no one else I’d rather be an asshole with,” I tell him, which is true.
I bite my lip, wondering what the odds are that he’d win a luxury getaway at a place that so perfectly fits what I described on the list. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is fate.
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’d love to go.”
“Awesome. I’ll email you a pic of the certificate. That has all the details about the package.”
“Perfect,” I say, imagining myself as the sort of woman who’d hop in a limousine bound for a luxury spa resort at the foot of the Cascade Mountains. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for agreeing to come.”
I hang up before I can make some asinine joke about the number of times I plan to come, since that’s the purpose of the trip. It is the purpose, right? We’re still just having sex with each other and not dating. There’s no reason to read anything into this.
I stare at the phone for a second, then pick it up again and hit the speed-dial number for Missy. If I remember right, my sisters have a standing date for hot yoga on Thursdays, followed by make-your-own-smoothie nights at Lisa’s place.
“Hey, Cass!” Missy’s voice is cheerful, and I can hear a blender running in the background. “We were just talking about you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. We were trying to remember that crazy story you told us a couple years ago about hooking up with that guy in the wine cellar at that vineyard over in Dundee. What was his name again? Ace or Hulk or something like that?”
“I—uh—something like that.” Crap. I’d forgotten that story. Does this mean I have to add something else to The List? On second thought, maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world. Maybe if I just keep adding items, I’ll never have to figure out how to cut things off with Simon.
“Listen, I’m heading out of town for the weekend,” I say. “Can we reschedule our date to talk about flowers for Lisa’s wedding?”
“Hang on, let me put you on speaker.”
There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, followed by a twangy echo. I hear Missy whispering something to Lisa, and I swear I hear the words “flaking out on us.”
“Cassie?” It’s Lisa’s voice this time. “What’s this about rescheduling our flower-viewing party?”
“Right. Something came up. I promise I’ll be there when you actually meet with the florist, but since we were just going to look at catalogs anyway, I thought maybe we could—”
“What came up? This isn’t a work thing, is it?”
“No, it’s not a work thing.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been invited to Cascara Springs Resort.”
“What?!”
My sisters shriek in unison, and I find myself smiling. They’re jealous, I can tell. Is it wrong to feel a tiny bit smug?
“You trollop!” Missy says with the utmost fondness. “Let me guess—you’re going there with some guy?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “He asked me to come with him on this fancy spa getaway.”
I don’t mention that he won it. I don’t mention that Simon and I aren’t really serious. The thing I highlight is that he chose me.
I’m annoyed that this is what excites me most.
“You’re totally off the hook,” Lisa says. “That’s a good excuse.”
“Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime trip,” Missy says. “I’ve been dying to go there.”
“You’ll have to tell us all about it,” Lisa adds.
“Oh, I will.” I wonder if that’s true. For some reason, I’ve found myself holding back on sharing details of my hookups with Simon. How’s that for irony? I blab all the gory details when the stories are figments of my imagination, but clam up when they finally come true.
I’m not sure what to make of that.
“So. Thanks for understanding,” I say. “I’ve gotta go pack.”
“I’ll bring you some things tomorrow,” Lisa says. “God knows your wardrobe isn’t up to visiting a place like Cascara Springs.”
“Oh!” Missy adds. “You can borrow my Burberry scarf. And my red Jimmy Choo stilettos.”
“She wouldn’t be able to walk in those.”
As my sisters bicker about dressing me, I settle back against the couch. Shoving a fresh handful of Cheetos in my mouth, I try not to think too much about Simon undressing me.
Or how little time we have left for him to do that.
Chapter Thirteen
Simon
For the record, I wasn’t lying about winning the Cascara Springs Resort gift basket. Everything I told Cassie is included—the limo ride, the mud bath, the two nights of deluxe lodging.
And I was lucky enough to be the winning bidder on the whole package.
Okay, luck may not be the right word. The auction was for charity, and I may have placed a bid high enough to not only ensure I’d get the package, but that the charity will be comfortably funded for the next five or six years.
What? It was for a good cause, and Cassie gets to cross item number ten off her list. It’s a win-win for everyone.
So why do I feel guilty?
“This feels amazing,” Cassie says, and I push my guilt aside to focus on feeling amazing right along with her.
It’s not hard to do.
I’m sitting in a massive brown tub filled with a thick, warm soup of muddy water. Cassie’s on the opposite end with her arms resting on the edges and a blissed-out look on her face. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and those perfect breasts are bobbing on the surface like rosy apples. Her face is covered with a special volcanic mud mask, and I swear to God I’ve never seen anyone this beautiful in all my life.
I take a deep breath and order myself to stop ogling her.
“I was reading up on some of the different types of mud they use here,” Cassie says with her eyes still closed. “There’s a black mud they use for treating arthritis and rheumatism, and a white mud that’s shown to have healing properties for burns.”
“So, what about this stuff?” I scoop a gooey handful off the bottom of the tub and let it trickle through my fingers. It really does feel awesome. Silky would never be an adjective I’d use to describe mud, but that’s kind of what this is like.
“Exfoliation,” she says. “And relaxation. That’s the main
thing. God, this feels wonderful.”
“It really does.” I’m not just talking about the mud. I’m talking about being here with Cassie in a double mud bath at a luxury spa, which ranks up there with the top experiences of my life.
“I love that you’re so passionate about mud,” I tell her.
“And I love that you won this package. Seriously, thank you for inviting me.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad you could come.”
Her eyes are still closed, and she gives a blissed-out sigh while swishing her fingers through the warm, earthy liquid. “A girl could get used to this kind of luxury.”
Something cold pools in the middle of my chest as those words ping around inside my eardrums.
A girl could get used to this kind of luxury.
Those are the same words Kaitlyn uttered when I took her to Paris to celebrate six months of dating. This was after I treated her to a shopping spree along la rue de Rennes, but before the ten-course dinner with wine pairings.
It was my own damn fault, I told myself later. I’m the one who set the expectation that I’d shower her with money. That life with me would be filled with that kind of extravagance.
Could I really blame her for not wanting to take on the other parts of my life? The less-glamorous ones that revolve around family and work and constant advocacy for my sister. It was hardly Kaitlyn’s fault for making assumptions. And she was far from the only girlfriend who decided to cut and run when she saw the big picture.
I take a deep breath and will myself back to the present. I’m here with Cassie, savoring this once-in-a-lifetime experience. I know it can’t be more than this, but I can enjoy it while it lasts.
“You sure you don’t want to have sex in here?”
She opens her eyes and grins. “Not unless you want dirt clods in some uncomfortable places.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Besides, I was pretty specific in the story I told my sisters,” she says. “I jotted some notes about the details I remember.”
“Care to fill me in?”
“Well, I remember telling them about the double mud bath with a hot guy.”
