The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Oh my God.” She flops her body to the side and buries her head in the pillows.

  I tear the covers off her, leaving her curled up in her bra and underwear, and then I give her ass a big slap. With a yelp, she jackknifes off the bed and swirls around to look me in the eyes, fury striking in them.

  “You did not just spank me.”

  “I think I did.”

  “You’re going to regret that.” She stands on the bed, and before I know what’s happening, she’s launching herself at me, flattening me on the mattress, her body straddling me once again.

  “Aw, memories,” I say while gripping her thighs.

  Her nostrils flare. “You think this is funny?”

  I let out a loud laugh. “I do.”

  “So, if I start moving my hips again . . .” She shifts, and I quickly toss her off me and push myself to my feet.

  “Don’t you even fucking think about it.”

  She launches her body at me and clings to my chest, wrapping her legs around my waist. I can’t do anything but grip her and try to steady us as she sticks to me like glue, her hips once again grinding against mine.

  “If you think it’s so funny, then I’ll keep doing it.”

  I arch my pelvis away from her, trying to keep her crotch from meeting up with mine. “Hazel, stop. You’re going to make me hard again.”

  “But it’s funny, Crew.”

  I see what she’s doing. Well, two can play at this game.

  I spin around and lay her on the bed, grabbing her hands and locking them above her head, then I move my pelvis against hers. This time I’m the one taking control.

  “Okay, then. Let’s laugh about it,” I say.

  Her eyes widen and her breath catches in her chest.

  “Crew, I was . . .” She bites her bottom lip and I watch her eyes slowly start to close and her legs begin to fall open.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  SHIT!

  My hips thrust slightly harder, and her fingers entwine with mine.

  “Hazel,” I whisper. Her eyes barely flutter open, and when they do, I ask, “What are we doing?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Want me to stop?”

  “Yes and no.”

  I chuckle. “That’s not an answer.”

  My cock hardens rapidly as I move against her some more. She rotates with me, and we both pick up our strokes.

  “Do you want to stop?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I answer hoarsely. “But I feel as though we should. I don’t want you being weird with me.”

  “I don’t want to be weird either.”

  “Okay, then I should stop.”

  “Yup.”

  But I don’t. Instead, I keep moving, faster and faster, and I realize if I don’t stop soon, I’m going to come in my pants for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  “I should really stop,” I say, my teeth clenched, the pleasure that’s pooling at the base of my cock way too fucking good to give up.

  “Yeah,” she says breathlessly, moving her hips faster. “Oh God, yes, you should stop.”

  “Shit, Haze, are you close?”

  Her large round eyes connect with mine and she slowly nods, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip.

  “Don’t let this be weird between us. Please,” I beg her. “Because, fuck, I need this release, but I need you too.”

  “I won’t let it be weird.”

  “Promise?”

  She nods, her breath picking up. “Yes . . . promise.” Her hands grip tighter, her back arches, and her core matches up to mine. And fuck, her tits. God, they’re fucking gorgeous. She’s gorgeous. Sexy as hell. “Yes, Crew, right there,” she whispers, and it’s my fucking undoing.

  I plant my legs and thrust hard, my cock rubbing against her arousal, causing her to moan louder and louder until she arches so high I can see the point of her nipples pebbling against her black bra as she comes, her hips wildly seeking out every last ounce of pleasure.

  The pressure at the base of my cock builds, my balls tighten, and, before I know it, I’m coming once again, riding out the pleasure with her until we both slow down our hips and stare at each other.

  We’re silent for a few seconds before she starts laughing.

  “Not the kind of reaction a guy likes after he makes a girl come.”

  “I’m sorry, but . . . we must be really freaking horny if we’re dry humping like teenagers.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, well, it’s been a really long time for me, so I can’t be responsible for what my dick does.” I grip her hands tighter. In fact, when was the last time I had sex?

  She laughs and sits up. “I think I should take a shower and you should clean up.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  She nods. “And the letter. Can’t forget the letter.”

  “You’re right.” I start to lift up but then pause. “Promise we’re good.”

  She nods again and bites her bottom lip. Not helping, Haze. “Nothing changes, right?”

  The pleading in her eyes—the desperation—sends a wave of disappointment through me. Nothing changes? Not even a little? A part of me wonders—what if things did change, what if we did make some moves forward, progress whatever this is between us—would it be so terrible? I love Hazel. She’s one of my best friends. It almost seems as if we’d be missing out on something if we didn’t give this a try.

  Then again, from the way she’s looking at me, I’m going to guess that she might not be thinking the what I am. That even though these feelings and emotions bubbling up inside me are strong and they’re making me act out, she might not feel the same way.

  She might not want to invest in something romantic. Not when my future is unknown, not when we live so far apart. I can understand the hesitation.

  Swallowing my pride and the resurgence of feelings, I nod. “Nothing changes, Haze.”

  “Still friends?”

  “Always friends.”

  She looks between us and asks, “Given that your shorts are all, um, gooey—”

  “Jesus.”

  She chuckles. “Maybe you should clean up first, yeah?”

  “Probably smart.” I glance down, my dick still semi hard, a wet spot on my shorts. “Think you could look away?”

  “You’re making it weird.”

  “Uh, I think it would be weirder if you got a shot of what’s going on down below.”

  “You’re right.” She covers her eyes. “Go ahead, walk away from me, take care of your man problems.”

  Rolling my eyes, I lift off her and go to my suitcase for another pair of boxers. We’re going to have to do laundry at this rate.

  When I’m in the bathroom cleaning up, I hear Hazel from the other room. “Wow, quite the spread. There are so many pastries and sausages to choose from.”

  Chuckling, I say, “I am quite the gentleman, after all.” And I know Hazel likes her sausage.

  * * *

  “Okay, are you ready for this letter?” Hazel asks, coming up next to me, freshly showered and fed.

  “I am if you are.”

  When she said nothing would be weird, she meant it. Ever since our second humping, she’s been the normal one. Teasing me, playing around, singing Christmas songs while getting ready for the day, even if she has a pounding headache, as she’s announced many times. I’m the one who’s feeling weird. I’m the one who’s trying to act normal now. I’m the one who doesn’t feel right in his own skin.

  My mind is foggy.

  My heart is racing.

  And my body is aching for more. So much more.

  I can’t stop staring at her lips and wondering how they might taste.

  I can’t stop checking out her ass every time she bends over.

  And I can’t take my eyes off her tits in that sweater.

  “Then stop staring at me and grab the letter,” Hazel says, pulling me from my haze.

  “Yeah, right.”

  I lift the envelop
e from the nightstand and start to open it, when Hazel’s hand stills mine. “Are you sure this isn’t going to be weird?”

  “Why? Am I making it weird?”

  “You’re acting a little weird,” she admits.

  “Sorry.” I let out a slow breath. “Everything is cool. No worries.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Yup.” I hold the letter up and say, “Let’s find out where we’re going.” I flip the envelope over and start to open it, but the whole time, all I can think about is Hazel’s sweet moans.

  Shit, maybe the second dry hump wasn’t a good idea, because at least the first time almost felt like a dream, a distant memory. But the second time when I picked up the scent of her arousal, when I saw her eyes roll back in her head in bliss, where I heard every moan—yeah, that’s vivid as shit in my head, and I think it will be for a while.

  I pull out the letter and unfold it. Clearing my throat, I read out loud. “‘Hey, kiddos. How was the Christkindlesmarkt? Did you try the fire tongs punch? I hope you did. Gloria and I had a little too much fun while drinking it.’” I pause and look at Hazel. “Looks as if everyone has fun drinking it.”

  She smirks. “Wonder if there’s aftereffects the next day for others as well.”

  “Probably tradition, actually.”

  “So, you think it’s customary to dry hump your friend after drinking fire tongs punch?”

  “I think I read somewhere that it’s a German tradition.”

  “Well, you know what they say: when in Rome . . .” She shrugs, and I swear, I don’t understand how she can go from a horrified wreck, burying herself under the covers, to being so casual about what happened that it doesn’t even seem like a blip on her radar.

  I’m a goddamn mess inside. Why isn’t she?

  “Right.” I chuckle, even though I don’t want to, and then turn back to the letter. “’This morning—hopefully it’s morning for you—you’re off to Würzburg. The drive is only an hour and a half, so you won’t be spending too much time in the car, but Würzburg is the start of your real journey. Many, many years ago, I went there with Gloria. She fell in love with Germany, and I fell in love with her. Friends at the time, we weren’t romantically involved, but this trip changed my life forever as we travelled down the popular route called The Romantic Road.’” I swallow hard. What the hell was Pops thinking?

  “Everything okay?” Hazel asks.

  “Yeah, sorry. Throat is a little dry.”

  “Here.” She hands me a water and I take a sip even though I’m not thirsty. No, I’m freaked out, because in a short amount of time I’ve been reconnected with my good friend—and I mean short—I’ve started to see her in a different light. I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself when around her. I’ve had to hug her, kiss her forehead, hold her hand . . . I crave her laugh and her smile, and I fucking dry humped her. And, yes, technically, she did the humping first, but we were drunk last night. I was fully alert for every grind, every pound of pleasure that passed through us this morning.

  And now Pops wants to send us on some sort of romantic trip?

  Is this what he was trying to get at the entire time? To get me to fall for Hazel? Because from the grave, he’s doing a damn good job.

  “Better?” Hazel asks.

  “Yes, thank you.” I turn back to the letter. “‘Now, I’m not saying for you two to fall in love.’” Well, there you have it. He’s not trying to play matchmaker. “‘But what you get from this trip is based solely on you. It’s about reconnecting, about finding your passion, about sitting back and reflecting on your lives and where you want to go from here. This trip is to give you time for soul-searching, and the sights you’ll come across will be magnificent, unlike anything you’ve ever imagined. The rich history will blow you away. The image of Germany wrapped up in a blanket of snow will leave you breathless, and by the end of this road trip, down a romantic fantasy of castles and half-timbered houses, I hope that you leave with an appreciation for the simple things, for the ease of making hard decisions because you follow your heart instead of your brain, and that you’re refreshed with a new understanding of one another. You aren’t anyone in this world without the people around you. Both of you need to remember that. Hazel, my dear Twigs, you can’t do everything on your own, so please stop believing you should. And, Crew, my moronic grandson, you can’t leave the people who’ve been there for you your entire life behind, so stop believing you could.’”

  Shit. That last comment hits me hard.

  But instead of recoiling, Hazel turns in toward me and rubs my back while resting her chin on my shoulder.

  Finishing up the letter, I read, “‘In the envelope, there’s a map of the Romantic Road and where you’ll be stopping for the night. You won’t be stopping in every town along the way, but you’re welcome to, if you want. The Romantic Road isn’t very long at all. You could drive the length of it in a day. But the point of traveling this road is to appreciate the beauty of it. Immerse yourselves in the culture, don’t second-guess one thing, and for the love of God, just enjoy yourselves.’” I smile. “‘Today, when you reach Würzburg, you’ll go to a wine tasting. Germany is known for their beer, but little do people know, they’re proficient winemakers as well, and that’s what you’ll be enjoying today. Directions and other vital information are attached. Have fun. Love you, Pops.’”

  “More wine?” Hazel asks. “I’m going to have to eat more bread to get through that.”

  “Let’s just hope there’s no rum in it,” I joke.

  She nods. “For your underwear’s sake.”

  * * *

  “Right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” Ingrid, our sommelier, says, guiding us toward an archway that leads to a staircase.

  “We’re not married, actually,” Hazel says, surprising me. “Just friends.”

  “Ah, my apologies.” Ingrid gestures toward the stairs. “Follow the guiding lights into the wine cellar and we’ll be right down.”

  “Thank you,” Hazel says. Taking a step forward, her foot gets caught in the wood, and she falls forward. I quickly grab her by the hand and keep her from tumbling down the stairs.

  “Oh, are you okay?” Ingrid asks.

  “I got her.” I hold up our connected hands. “Don’t worry.”

  The staircase is dark, only lit by sconces, which are somehow secured to the cave-like walls that form the tunnel we’re descending into. “Wine cellar” is right. It almost feels as if we’re entering an entirely different world—the underworld.

  As we descend, Hazel removes her hand from mine. That’s the third time today she’s shied away from my touch. Call me paranoid, but I feel like it has something to do with what happened last night and this morning, but then again, she’s still acting more casual about the whole thing than I am.

  “Everything okay?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, great,” she answers with a little too much pep in her voice. “I mean, this staircase is a little creepy, but if there’s wine at the end of the tunnel, I’m not going to let mood lighting scare me.”

  Not wanting to get into it with her, I drop the topic and say, “While you were in the bathroom, I did a quick search on the Romantic Road, and it really is only a two-and-a-half-hour drive, but Pops has us on the road for six more days.”

  “Are you complaining about spending more time with me?”

  “No,” I say quickly as we reach the bottom of the stairs and turn right into a dimly lit wine cellar. Barrels of wine are held up by iron racks and span all the way down the long tunnel of the underground. To the left is a taste-testing area where bar-height tables and stools are scattered throughout the space, with strings of bulb lights offering a delicate ambiance while keeping the atmosphere cozy and intimate.

  “I wonder where we’ll be for Christmas,” Hazel says, dragging her fingers over a barrel of wine. “I’ve always gone to my grandparents’ for Christmas, so this will be new for me. We don’t even have any Christmas cookies.”

/>   “Not true. We have all that Lebkuchen.”

  “True.” She glances at me. “I’ve never spent Christmas with you. Do you have any traditions I should know about?”

  “Nothing that I think we could do here.”

  “Like what?”

  We’re walking down the long aisleway of all the wine, barely taking in the different years and flavors. Honestly, I’m completely inept when it comes to wine. I only know if it tastes good to me, and that’s about it. I’m more of a beer guy. I know that doesn’t shock anyone, given I’m in a fraternity and I’m a student athlete, but thought I’d put it out there.

  “Christmas Eve, we’d do the traditional thing of wearing matching pajamas and then take pictures in them. Pops always read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to us which, when I got older seemed kind of weird, but I know it’s something I’m going to miss terribly this year. And then, when I was older, Pops would sneak into my room at midnight and whisper, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and together, we’d have a Christmas cookie before he went back to his room. Christmas morning was meticulously planned out. It wasn’t a free-for-all. We all sat around the tree and opened up individual gifts while everyone watched. Took hours to get through the presents, and we always paused to refill on hot chocolate or hot cider. A tray of donuts, turnovers, and cookies was always in the middle of the coffee table to add to the sugar high of the day. Christmas music played in the background, there was always some sort of argument going on between my mom and Uncle Paul, and Dad would just sit back, coffee in hand, and take it all in. If magic was real, then it would be Christmas morning at Pops’s house.”

  “I love that,” Hazel says just as Ingrid comes up behind us.

  “Your wine is ready if you’d like to take a seat at your table.”

  “Sure.” I hold my arm out for Hazel to take but either she doesn’t see me, or she ignores it. She walks in front of me with Ingrid as I trail behind her.

  Yup, something is off, and I’m not sure she’s going to let me pry deep enough to figure out what it is.

  Hell, I don’t need to figure it out. The problem is still at the forefront of my mind. I dry humped my friend, and now things are awkward. That’s what happens when you cross that line and have no plan of action for the repercussions afterwards.