Wicked Sexy Liar

by Christina Lauren

Why do I think he is absolutely telling the truth? He smiles shyly, but behind his honey-brown eyes, I can see he’s still hunting.

  “I’m sure you’re amazing.” I lean back against the sink, staring him down and shocked that I’m even still standing here. “But I don’t even remember your name.”

  “Yes, you do.” He leans forward, crossing his arms on the glossy wood.

  I bite back a smile.

  “What time do you get off tonight?” he asks.

  I can’t help but look at his mouth and imagine how it would feel moving, hot and open, down my neck, my breasts, over my ribs.

  It occurs to me that if one wanted to break a losing streak, one would go with a sure thing, right? Who better to bust me out of my sex drought than someone who clearly knows what he’s doing? And someone who wouldn’t need it to mean anything?

  A few beats of silence pass between us before I straighten, reaching for a ticket one of the waitresses sets down next to me. It’s now or never.

  “I get off at one.”

  Chapter TWO

  Luke

  I’M NOT SURE what it is about this girl that’s so different from every other girl I’ve let into my house, but I find myself racing up the steps and getting to the door before her, doing a quick scan of the dark living room, a tiny peek toward the kitchen.

  Not too bad.

  No food left out on the coffee table and—more important—no boxers on the kitchen floor. I’m doing the mental trigger finger salute to the gods to make sure we’re on the same page here: there’d better not be any condom wrappers visible in the bedroom. Or the bathroom, for that matter.

  I open the door wider for her and grin. “Come on in.”

  Logan looks at my face and then into the darkness before taking a cautious step forward. I reach past her, flicking on the living room lights.

  And there it is: the difference. Most girls enter my house walking backward, with their fists curled in my shirt. Some step inside with their eyes on my face, waiting for the tiny lift of my chin to the left, the silent The bedroom is that way. This one walks in looking at everything the way she looks at me, like she’s not sure she wants to touch anything.

  I can almost hear the words embedded in her deep inhale before she says them out loud: “I just realized I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

  I step back a little. Without hesitation, my answer is, “Nothing you don’t want to do.”

  But inside I’m letting out a long-suffering groan; it’s been a long day with a lot of drama. I’d really like to lose myself in some fast sex tonight, but don’t want it to be a long, drawn-out seduction.

  As if it’s already given up on plan A, my stomach rumbles and I glance toward the kitchen. “Hungry?”

  She shrugs. “A little?”

  “I have some . . .” Walking over, I open the fridge and lean in, inspecting. “Beer. Tortillas. Sriracha. Celery, pepperoni, and . . .” Opening a drawer, I say, “String cheese.”

  I turn and look at her when I’m met with silence, and her wary expression is hilarious. I draw a circle in the air, asking, “What is that face?”

  “I have no idea what face I’m making,” she says, straightening and giving me a little smile instead.

  I lean my arm on the open refrigerator door. “Then tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Her brows lift as if to confirm that I really want to hear it. When I nod, she says, “You’re almost too stereotypical to be real.”

  A laugh barks out of me. “Am I?”

  The truth comes out in a torrent: “You’re hot as sin, had to double-check to make sure the last girl didn’t leave her underwear on the couch, and your fridge is bachelor-level empty.”

  So let’s add observant to the list of things that intrigue me about this girl.

  I shrug, flashing her a quick grin. “I eat out a lot.”

  She skirts past my innuendo with a tiny smirk. “But if these things are all as well correlated as I suspect, it means you’re really good in bed and probably have an enormous penis.”

  A smile tugs at the side of my mouth, and I fight it as long as I can but end up bursting out laughing. Finally, she gives in to a real smile of her own and it snags me somewhere dusty and unexpected. Sexy smiles go straight to my cock, but her smile isn’t just sexy, it’s happy. And it isn’t just the dimples. It’s the twinkle in her eyes, something that seems to look deeper than the surface. I don’t even know if it’s possible for a true smile to be anything other than happy but hers is the best happy smile I’ve seen in . . .

  I wipe my face with a palm and then move closer to her, fighting the ratcheting tension in my gut as I reach for a loose strand of her hair. I smooth it behind the curve of her ear, whispering, “Look, Logan.”

  Her eyes narrow skeptically for a moment, and then she’s biting back a grin.

  I consider asking her about it, but it’s a little disarming to see her like this, away from the dim, colorful lighting at Fred’s. There, she looked a little harder: guarded eyes behind her teasing smile. Here, I can see that her eyes aren’t just blue but a ring of deep cobalt around the brightest turquoise, and her nose is dusted with the faintest freckles. She chews the corner of her lip as she surveys my living room again.

  Holy shit, is she a virgin?

  Should I ask?

  No. She’s wearing shit-kicking boots with a short plaid skirt, and there’s no way I’m risking taking those steel toes to my shin, or worse.

  “If you want to fool around, I’m down,” I tell her. “You’re beautiful, and sweet, and your mouth looks like candy.” I’m looking at her lips when I say this, but I can’t help sense that she’s just rolled her eyes. She gives off the oddest duality: a tough exterior coupled with the impression that she still requires careful handling.

  “Or,” I say, taking a step back, “we can order pizza and play some Titanfall on the Xbox.” I’m guessing she’ll pass on that one—which we all know is fine by me, because I can’t imagine a girl this hot even knows what Titanfall is.

  I don’t expect the way her eyes brighten and, before she can put the expression away, I see her glance at my living room. Clearly, I’ve pegged her all wrong.

  Kicking off my shoes, I walk back into the kitchen, grab two beers, and nod to the living room. “Let’s go.”

  With a smile and a little bounce in her step, she walks over and settles on the couch beside me. I watch her grab the controller with her right hand, her thumb expertly sliding across the small joystick. “Will it embarrass you if I kick your ass?” she asks.

  I shake my head, smiling as I boot up the system. “Nope. My Grams got this for me last week, and I’m sure she’d be tickled to know a lady friend beat me.”

  I feel her stare on the side of my face as I click through the start-up menu. When I turn to look at her, her dimples flash as she smiles. “That’s cute.”

  “It’s cute that my grandma got me a first-person-shooter game?” I’m tempted to tell her about the year Grams sent me to Vegas for my twenty-first birthday and told me tattoos were okay but made me promise I wouldn’t hire any hookers. When I replied that I never needed to pay for sex, she smacked me on the back of the head.

  “Yeah.” Logan looks away, at the television. “Although you’re what? Twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-three. Twenty-four in October.”

  “Aw. Twenty-three and a half!” She pinches my cheek. “My eleven-and-a-half-year-old cousin does that, too.”

  “You’re very funny.”

  Her answering laugh vibrates through me. “Almost twenty-four,” she says. “So maybe it’s time to give up the video games?”

  I nod toward her hands. “You look pretty comfortable holding that controller, Pot.”

  She shrugs, and looks at me again. “Let’s just say I’ve held one of these more recently than one of those.” She nods to my lap in return and I cough, nearly choking on my sip of beer. When she looks back to the television, she barks out a laugh, pointing to the scre
en. “Please tell me you’re not GiantD92.”

  With a wink, I tell her, “I think you know I am.”

  Logan shakes her head at me, but it doesn’t read like exasperation. Her cheeks are clearly pink, visible even in the dim light from the television, and she’s sitting only a few inches away from me.

  She joins the game and we choose our pilot types. It’s only once the game loads and we’re dropped into the map when I realize I’ve never played video games with a girl, other than my sister Margot, who’s terrible. I’ve got the basics of running up walls, vaulting and the like, but am still trying to easily transition into the Titan controls and some of the tactical tricks. Beside me, Logan has no problem with any of it; I’m beginning to think maybe she’s a hustler.

  She’s not a small-talker. She’s sweet, but not giggly, and is clearly not trying to impress me. Even so, she is already kicking my ass. Regardless, it’s easy between us like this, with nothing but the sound of video game gunfire and our occasional string of curse words in victory or frustration.

  “Use your sniper rifle!” she shouts, even though she’s right next to me.

  Our thumbs hammer on the controllers.

  “No, I like the MK5.”

  “Dude, you’re blasting everywhere, you’re going to hit me, just be more precise for like two fucking seconds!”

  Laughing, I switch my gun and in a few shots manage to take down an Ogre, clearing a path forward.

  “Tell me I was right,” she sings.

  “You were—fuck!” I yell. In a rain of blood, my pilot is killed by fire from a chain gun from the other team. “Where the hell did that one come from?”

  She pauses the game. “Wow. You didn’t last very long.” Her eyes are bright with amusement, lips twisted in a sardonic grin.

  She seems so comfortable cracking innuendo, joking about sex—about why we’re here—but I sense the act itself is what she can’t initiate.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  She reaches for her beer. “You mean another one?”

  I stare at her, straight-faced.

  Giving in with a teasing smile—those fucking dimples make something inside me melt then begin to boil—she says, “Yes, fine. As long as you won’t be offended if I decline to answer.”

  “Why did you leave with me tonight? At the risk of sounding like a complete asshole, you said you don’t go home with customers, but here you are.”

  “I don’t,” she says quickly, but quietly. “Ever.”

  I meant the question generally, but her answer surprises me. “Never?”

  She shakes her head.

  I wonder if that’s all I’m going to get. She didn’t answer my question, but when I look at her, it feels like she’s still mulling it over. Finally, she pulls one leg up on the couch, facing me.

  “Let me ask you a question, too,” she says.

  Lifting my chin in a small nod, I take a sip of my beer, waiting.

  “Do you do this a lot?” she asks.

  Although her gesture when she says this encompasses the whole room, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean the video game.

  I try to do a quick count in my head. Maybe ten in the past couple of months? That might sound like a lot to her. “I mean . . . not every night, but yeah, sometimes.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  Why? The question sounds absurd. Why do I have sex? Is she for real?

  I study her; those brilliant blue eyes are fixed on my face, waiting for an answer. How is it possible for someone to seem so innocent and so wary all at the same time?

  Truthfully, I’ve been asked some variation of this before, maybe a handful of times. Usually the woman looks up at me in bed, before or after we fuck, and voices it as casually as possible.

  You must have a lot of girls in your bed.

  When was the last time you just brought someone home?

  I hope you know I don’t do this all the time. This is different, Luke.

  But I never get this question on the couch, conversationally, while fully dressed, with clear eyes staring at me and mostly free of judgment. It just feels like Logan wants to understand.

  “Right now I’d be terrible at anything more,” I tell her. “I don’t mean I’m scared of commitment or any shit like that. I mean, I’ve been in love before and am not sure I could do all that again.”

  She lets out a short, sharp laugh at this, nodding as she tilts her beer to her mouth.

  “At least,” I continue, “not right now when I’m working like crazy.” This sounds ridiculous. I can hear it, can hear the absurdity. We’re all working like crazy. We’re all busy and young and chaotic. “But, regardless, I’m a guy. I like sex. I like women. Is that the level of honesty you’re looking for?”

  She nods.

  “Your turn,” I say. Something ancient seems to be creaking to life inside my chest. It’s been forever since I’ve had a conversation like this—earnest, and open—with someone other than my family, and I forgot how nice it feels.

  She drinks deeply from her beer again before answering. I watch her throat as she swallows. It’s long, pale, and smooth. “I left with you because I was barreled by a wave this morning.”

  She surfs . . . that certainly explains her body.

  “It’s been so long since I was rolled like that,” she says, staring down at the bottle in her hand. “I forgot how scary it is. For the first part of the morning, I couldn’t catch a single good wave. And then one came along that just ground me to dust. All day, I’ve been tense and out of sorts. It’s like it never occurs to me to work out tension with sex. Tonight I figured, Why not?”

  “Why not?” I repeat quietly, feeling my pulse charge forward as it seems to become a possibility.

  She nods but her eyes are on my lips now.

  “Whatever you want, okay?” I tell her.

  Slowly, so slowly I can see every emotion pass through her eyes—uncertainty, fear, desire, determination—she leans forward and brushes her mouth over mine. It feels like silk.

  “We’re only doing this tonight,” she says, pulling back a few inches to meet my eyes. And when she says it, it sounds nothing like it has coming from other girls. She’s not worried she’ll fall into the trap of thinking it’s more; she’s worried I will. Her dimples dig into her cheeks as she smiles, saying, “So make sure to show me all your tricks.”

  I laugh into another kiss. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t come back to the bar expecting to get head in the parking lot,” she says against my mouth. “I’m not that girl.”

  See? I was right.

  I pull back to look her in the eye and salute her with my fingers at my forehead. “Understood.”

  Without much ceremony, she reaches for the hem of my shirt and helps me out of it. Her hands come up, warm but tentative, fingertips before palms smoothing over my skin. Exploring, as if it’s been forever since she did this and she’s forgotten what skin feels like. Her hands are soft; her nails are only long enough to scratch lightly down my chest and over my stomach before she gets to work on the buttons of my jeans.

  Whoa. Jesus.

  I slide my hips just out of her reach, pulling a condom out of my pocket and placing it near her hip. “Do you want to go to my room?”

  She shakes her head. “Here is good.” She tugs me closer and works my pants and boxers down my hips before a thought seems to halt her movements. “Do you live alone?”

  I kiss her, speaking against her lips, as I kick my pants to the floor. “You’re getting me naked on my couch, so, God, I hope so.”

  I feel her giggle against my mouth when I bend to suck at her throat, and subtly shift away from her hands. I don’t want her hands on my cock yet; neither of us is ready to fuck and what’s the hurry? It’s a complete one-eighty from only five minutes ago. She’s not hesitant anymore, not even a little. I wonder if she’s like that in everything: cautious, then almost recklessly committed. Even so, there’s still a film of detachment there
, as if she’s checking things off a mental list without really giving over to anything.

  It’s weird.

  Usually I sense a frantic need for connection—the inescapable snare of eye contact, a quiet string of questions, kisses that feel like secrets being offered—and it means I can choose how much of it I want. But Logan isn’t looking for deep connection with me; she seems to want the paradox of getting it over with and being consumed.

  I’m oddly reminded of driving through the Rockies with my parents during a snowstorm: Mom happily remarking on how lovely it was while Dad focused intently on the mechanics of getting us all there safely. My job is to navigate us both through this.

  She guides my hands to her shirt and then closes her eyes as I unbutton it down her front, kissing. She smells like oranges and the sweet scent of girl.

  I pull her shirt from her shoulders, down her arms, and unclasp her bra. Fuck, her chest is nice, too. Breasts just bigger than my hands. Flat, toned stomach. She has the body of a girl who unself-consciously surfs in a bikini: curved, tanned, and defined. I want to lose myself in this, want to sense her own relief from it, or even feel some urgency overwhelm her ability to control. For once I want to linger on my bed, lights on, talking nonsense while I kiss all these perfect parts of her.

  But I can feel the tension in her abdomen, the way she just wants to move forward, keep going, get there.

  Is this how it feels to be with me when I’m distracted and simply need to fuck?

  Bending, I kiss her chin, her lips, parting them with mine. Her tongue is small and soft in my mouth and beneath the tang of beer she tastes like oranges, too. I imagine her reaching for one at the bar, idly sucking on it between mixing drinks.

  “Come on,” I whisper, sucking at her lower lip. Give me something. “Touch me.”

  She licks my upper lip and a tight noise of want escapes her mouth.

  “It’s okay to want this. I want this. You’re not doing anything wrong here.”

  A tentative hand slides around my neck, her legs spreading as she pulls me between them and

  come on

  come on

  there.

  I feel it, when she softens under me, giving in. Her hand comes up to my face, the other reaching for me, curling around my dick. I harden from her touch, and inhale the sweet citrus smell of her, bending to suck a soft nipple into my mouth, groaning at the way it stiffens against my tongue.