“Yes,” she says in a breathy voice that sends a buzz through my whole body. “But you knew that.”
I shake my head. I do know that. But I don’t know that either. I don’t know anything with her. I don’t know what’s real and what’s a game.
“I didn’t know that,” I say, and maybe I’m lying, but I can’t help it. I want to hear her say it, even though this is the riskiest thing to do in the world. To tread into this territory of us, of the almost-sex we had. I’m already burning up; I’m hot all over.
She raises her eyes and meets my gaze. “You know what I told you that night. I mean, I don’t have anything to compare it to—”
I cut her off. “Good.”
“But I’ve never let anyone do that to me before.”
She said that the night we were together. It made me feel electric all over, hearing it from a hot girl I wanted to have a one-night stand with, a last fling before I went on the wagon. Hearing it now, knowing her, understanding her, being privy to all her deep, dark secrets is the biggest turn-on of my life. I’m dying for her to touch me right now, even though I know we won’t go there, but I want it so badly. I want to feel her hands on me, I want her to unzip my jeans and do something about how uncomfortable I am right now with my dick straining hard against the fly.
“Yeah?” I say in a hoarse voice because I can’t manage sentences, much less coherent thought. I can’t move either, because if I shift an inch, I will lunge at her, pull her under me, and fumble at our zippers to get all our clothes off. And I can’t do that to her. She’s a virgin, and she’s messed up in the head, and if I take her virginity because she winds me up with a few words, then I am more of an ass than those pathetic men who hired her.
“I told you that, Trey,” she says softly, and there’s something about this moment that feels like a confessional, like she needs to tell me these things, like she has to say them. “But I want you to know that now. Now that we’re friends. I know how you feel about what I’ve done, but I want you to know it was so different with you,” she says, and even though she’s perfectly still, her words are moving toward me, reaching deep down inside me, gutting me.
It was so different with you.
She is killing me. I am hanging on to the frayed end of a rope with only the smallest bit of self-restraint left.
“No one has ever made me come. I’ve never let anyone touch me. I never wanted to be touched. I never even knew what it would feel like to have someone do that,” she says, and licks her lips, and I am dying. Completely dying right now. My hands are twitching, and I grip the beer bottle hard, so hard I could break it, but I have to hold onto something, because all I want right now is to touch her. The whole living room is burning, the space between us is hot and humming and full of all this hazy desire I feel, and it’s taking over my body, my brain, my heart.
If I wasn’t already sitting down, I might collapse. Because this feeling is knocking the breath out of me. It is staggering.
“Harley,” I say in a low voice.
“Trey, what happened last night?”
The room spins, and I know I should go, but I also know I won’t leave. Neither one of us moves. Neither one of us breaks. Maybe we are both stronger than we think. Or maybe we are both afraid of getting hurt.
“What do you mean?”
“What happened with us in the courtyard? Last night was weird.”
“You didn’t like it?” I sound defensive, and my guard is back up. Maybe this is good. I need some self-protection around her.
“I liked it. Too much.”
I run a hand through my hair.
“Did you?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you seriously have to ask?”
“Yes,” she says emphatically. She juts out her chin. “Yes. I do have to ask.”
Then I hear the sound of the key in the lock. The door groans open loudly, and Kristen spills in, all keys and big purse and her black hair in a crazy mess.
“Oh,” Kristen says, surprised to see us on the couch. Two statues caught in unexpected lust. The roommate and the guy who was seconds away from claiming her sexy, pouty, lipstick-free mouth. “What are you guys up to?”
“Just hanging,” Harley says, smoothing out an unseen wrinkle in her shirt.
“You took one of my beers,” she says to me, zeroing in on me from behind those cat-eye glasses.
“Yeah. That okay?”
“I can’t let you drink alone. Harley’s diet soda doesn’t count.”
Then Kristen grabs a Coors and plops down between us on the couch. I’ve never been so ready to toss someone from the room, nor been so grateful to have a barrier in my life. “The movie sucked. I need to get the taste of it out of my mouth.”
“What was it?”
“Some Romanian film about a guy who leaves a goldfish on the roof of his car as he writes haikus while driving cross-country.”
“Sounds wretched.”
“It was. Let’s get drunk. Or caffeinated, in your case,” she says, tipping her forehead to Harley.
“I’m in,” I say because I could use a few more beers right about now, that’s for sure.
Then my phone buzzes. I tap the screen to see Jordan’s name. Shift’s over. Beer time?
“Jordan wants to get a beer,” I say to Kristen and Harley.
Kristen holds her arms out wide, as if to say the answer is here.
Harley catches my gaze and raises an eyebrow, her reminder that she wanted to set them up. “Invite him over.”
“If you insist.”
29
Harley
“Never have I ever worn ladies’ shoes.”
Kristen nearly spits out her beer with laughter. She points at Trey. “So not fair. We have to drink,” she says with an indignant whine.
“Obviously we’ve worn ladies’ shoes,” I add.
Trey smiles along with Jordan. “Drink up, ladies.”
Kristen shoots a wide-eyed stare at Jordan, who’s cross-legged on the blue carpet in our living room. She parks her hands on her hips. “Well. The more interesting question is whether you have?”
Jordan holds up a hand like a stop sign. “Once. I did it once, and I did it for a chick.”
Kristen cracks up.
“Drink!” Trey shouts at Jordan, like he’s smack-talking him. Then he raises both arms over his head, victorious. “I am the only one whose feet are pure.”
I laugh as Matt Nathanson blares from my playlist. Kristen and I picked the music for the game, and we love Matt Nathanson. He is sex in musical form.
Kristen is running at full buzz, and both Jordan and Trey are chasing their own intoxication. We’re down to one beer left from the two six-packs in the fridge.
“I’ve never had a threesome,” Kristen blurts out. She scans the rest of us quickly, first me, and I shake my head, then Jordan does the same. She stares at Trey, asking the question silently. He has a guilty look in his eyes. He shrugs and takes a drink.
My face burns. Jealousy slithers through me. It crawls and wraps around my internal organs as Jordan high-fives his friend. “Dude. Why have you never told me that before?”
Trey shrugs and laughs. “I guess I wasn’t drunk enough before,” he says, moving on easily. Making me wonder if that’s how he was with the women. Switching on and off. Seamlessly jumping from one to another. Or to three. “Never have I ever given a blow job,” Trey offers next, looking awfully proud of himself.
Jordan bangs his beer down emphatically on the coffee table. “Never have. Never will.”
Kristen rolls her eyes. “Plenty,” she says in a deliberately seductive voice. “And I’ve been told my blow jobs are quite spectacular.”
Jordan blinks, intrigued. He grabs the neck of his bottle. “I have to drink just because that was a crazy hot thing to say.”
Kristen turns to me and eyes my Diet Coke. “C’mon. Drink up, bitch.”
I shake my head. “I don’t meet the qualifications.”
“For real?
You have never given a blow job?”
Another shake. I run my index finger once across my lips as if I’m zipping them up. “These lips are pure, baby,” I say playfully.
“How does that happen?”
“Just happens.”
“No. Seriously,” she presses, and now I don’t feel so playful anymore.
“Just never have,” I say evasively. I could lie. I mean, who doesn’t lie in this game? But then, I’m kind of proud of not having blown a guy. Not that that’s some huge accomplishment—I’m only admitting the truth for me. Because I’m glad I didn’t put any of my clients’ dicks in my mouth. I drew some lines, and so I don’t take a drink.
I’ve done so much, yet I’ve done so little.
Kristen waggles her empty bottle. “So sad. No more beer.”
“Want me to get more?” Jordan offers.
“Hell yeah,” Kristen says. “I’ll go with you.”
She hops up from the couch, ready for more, and they head out.
“I guess his love for action flicks and hers for art house movies didn’t get in the way of their shared love of beer and drinking games,” I say.
“Evidently they found common ground.” Then Trey yawns. “I should go,” he mumbles, but he shows no signs of leaving. Instead, he sinks deeper into the couch, and his eyelids start to flutter. I glance at my phone. It’s past midnight.
“Do you want to stay?”
He smiles weakly. “I’m so fucking tired,” he says, and then he goes horizontal on the couch.
“I’ll get you a blanket.”
“I’m fine.”
“No. I want to.” I head for my room, grab a blanket, and bring it to the living room where he’s already stretched out. He’s untying his shoes, kicking them off, and I dim the light.
“Are you going to tuck me in?”
I stick out my tongue. “No.”
“C’mon. Read me a bedtime story.”
“Three little kittens lost their mittens,” I begin, and he smiles. A sweet, warm, happy smile that erases the faint traces of annoyance I felt moments ago in the game. My phone lights up, and I grab it from the coffee table, swiping the screen. I read Kristen’s message. Hungry. Stopping at Wendy’s Diner for fries and burgers. Want anything?
I write back: No, thanks.
I drape the blanket over Trey, but he pushes it down to his waist.
“It’s hot. Can I take off my shirt?”
“You don’t need my permission.”
He raises an arm behind his back and tugs it off in one swift motion. He’s shirtless, and he hasn’t been since the night we were together. My breath catches. Even in the dark, I can make out the outline of his chest, solid and strong, his arms all muscled and corded and covered in tats.
Reflexively, I lick my lips.
“Lie down with me,” he whispers. He sounds sleepy drunk and sexy, and the invitation is far too inviting to pass up.
I slide in next to him so he’s spooning me, and it’s innocent, I suppose—or I’m letting myself pretend this is an extension of the hand-holding and the hugging and the sock removing. We are simply two friends sharing a small couch. But then he wraps his arm around me, sighs happily, and exhales against my neck. A strand of my hair flutters.
“Harley,” he murmurs, and there’s some kind of wonder in his voice that I want to let myself believe in, that I want to cocoon and hold in my hands, a fragile glass globe that could break. But I’m pretty sure it’s the Silver Bullet talking when he whispers, “This is so nice.”
“You’re drunk.”
I feel him shrug against me. “Maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot,” I counter.
“So then you won’t get mad in the morning when I ask you about this. Have you really never given a blow job?”
I roll my eyes, even though it’s dark, even though he’s snug behind me and can’t see my eyes. “No. I told you that.” I tense up. “Why?”
“Did you ever want to before?”
“No.”
“Do you now?”
I laugh. “You offering yourself?”
He laughs too, and I can feel his breath against my neck. There’s a faint smell of beer, but it’s mingled with him, and I have the sudden urge to taste beer now for the first time. On his lips. “Anytime,” he says softly, but that’s all. There’s no innuendo in his voice. Nothing more than a continuation of the game in some ways.
I push against his arm playfully. “And how the hell did you have a threesome, king of the studs?”
“Two ladies.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured it was two ladies.” Then with a more serious, searching tone, I ask, “Was it good?”
I’m not even sure why I’m asking. It’s like I’m picking at a scab, hunting for a wound so I can worry away at it.
“I barely remember it,” he says in a sleepy voice. A warm breeze blows through the open window, carrying with it the faraway sounds of cars and cabs on late-night Manhattan streets. Somewhere out there, Jordan and Kristen are having fries. In here, I feel as if we are the only two people in the world. In the dark, with hushed voices, whispering about our pasts.
“But you remember you had two at once,” I point out.
“Yeah, and that’s it,” he says, and loops his arm tighter around my waist. I inhale sharply at the closeness. More, tighter, closer. He’s bringing me nearer to him, his jeans against mine, his bare chest against my shirt, his breath on my neck, and now, there, his hand on my belly. Then slinking under the bottom of my shirt, inching its way to my stomach.
I gasp quietly as his fingertips reach my bare skin.
“But there’s this other girl, and I remember everything about her,” he says, and in an instant, all I see, all I feel are his words. They have their own heartbeat and pulse, a living being, surrounding me.
He traces lazy fingers across my stomach, and I want this feeling to last forever because it’s so out of this world intense. I swear my body is sliding onto another plane of existence, some realm of pleasure I’ve never allowed before, as feelings spill over—want, desire, fear, all wrapped up in a messy package, without a bow.
I close my eyes and revel in the sensations racing through my body at the slightest touch of his fingertips on my belly. I want so badly for him to touch me more, and I am so scared of what will happen if he does. I don’t know how it would feel. But that’s not true—I do know. Because he’s made me feel this way before, and now he’s doing it again.
And I don’t know what it means. If it means we’re something, or we’re nothing, or we are just this moment. We are the here and now.
“You do?” I ask.
He nods against me, his lips practically brushing my neck in a sweet kiss. Not quite, but almost. “I remember the way she smelled so sexy and sweet,” he begins, and my heart stops and then speeds up, and I don’t know if I can breathe. He plays with a strand of my hair, running it through his fingers, then leaning his head into my hair, inhaling me. Everything inside of me is burning with a tingling heat, and butterflies flutter within me, wishing, hoping. I never felt a thing for my clients; with Trey, that is literally all I do—feel. As if my body is glowing, and I am flickering with every second of contact, or merely the promise of contact. The possibility. Just the slightest touch from him is the sweetest escape. “And the sounds she made,” he continues, and I feel my cheeks flush, but still I’m dying for more, so I have to ask.
“What did she sound like?”
He sighs happily, and buzzes his lips against my earlobe. “Like no one had ever made her feel that way before.”
“No one had,” I say, and he spreads his fingers across my stomach. I shiver and my breath hitches.
“Like that,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his words. “That was how she sounded when I touched her.”
He draws circles on my flesh, lazy lines across my belly, and I can’t help it. I am beyond turned on, I am floating on a cloud of lust, so I wriggle against him, feeling how
hard he is against my backside.
He groans in my ear at the pressure of my body against his erection, and it’s still strange to me to want to do this. To want to be touched. To want more. And after last night in the courtyard and tonight at the bar, to want to do this right now is bizarre to me. As if my life is built into separate rooms, and I’ve left one and entered another. And here, now, in this room, I am only a girl of the moment, of flesh and blood and want, and I am aching all over for him. He’s drunk, I know he’s drunk. I know if he were sober, he wouldn’t be doing this, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t care.
“It sounds like she liked it when you touched her,” I whisper, and I’m silently praying that he’ll slide his hand down my pants, that he’ll touch me again, taste me, do something, anything, to alleviate the throbbing between my legs. This is so rare for me, so unusual to feel this way. To be wet. To be wanting. To be turned on. But he does this to me. He lets me experience my body in a new way.
“I loved touching her,” he says, and with one strong hand on my hip, he turns me 180 degrees so I’m facing him. His eyes are barely open, but he bends his mouth to my neck and begins kissing me there, and in seconds, I am asking for more.
“Trey,” I whisper, as if his name has ten syllables and I have to say them all, feel them all, taste them all as his soft lips explore my neck. He tugs me closer, hooking a hand around my thigh, moving my leg on top of his, and then yanking me closer so I’m practically straddling his thigh in this position. More kisses rain down on my skin, and I can’t help it. I start rubbing myself against his thigh, and I whimper at the contact that’s both relief and a wish for more.
“Do that, Harley,” he says in a rough, ragged voice. “Do that and don’t stop. I want to get you off.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. I loved doing that to you. I love everything about making you come. I want to make you come in every way. With my mouth, with my fingers, with you riding me just like this right now,” he says, before he dives back to my neck, layering hot, desperate kisses on me as I move against him. I should be embarrassed—I’m dry humping his leg after all. But I want to do this, and maybe that’s why I’m not ashamed. Because I am wound full of desire and this dark craving for him. My breathing grows stilted and erratic as the feelings build inside me, like lightning crackling through my veins, hot and wild and electric. Soon his hands are in my hair, and his mouth returns to mine. He kisses me with the kind of deep, furious kiss of a man who has to have his woman, and that woman happens to be dangerously close to coming.
The Start of Us: Book 1 in the No Regrets series Page 13
