by Piper Lawson
She takes a breath, shielding her eyes from the sun as she squints up at me. “Siblings have their issues. I thought we were exempt from that, because we were so close for so long. Looking back, maybe things weren’t as perfect as they seemed. Even when we were kids, guys would pretend to like me to get an invite to our house to get close to her. She liked the attention, the games. In high school, I figured out it wasn’t worth my time competing with her. Men bend over backward for women like my sister. Not for me.”
The idea that her twin or anyone else—including her—made her feel that way has my hands clenching the handlebars. “That’s first-class bullshit. You are exquisite. Not your sister, not anyone else. If you need someone to prove it to you, I will yell it through the streets of Edgartown.”
She presses her lips together, hiding a smile. “Because that’s what a good boyfriend does?”
“Because it’s true. Get on the handlebars.”
Her eyes widen, but she leaves her bike on the rack as I pull mine out.
I do what I promised, calling into the wind while she laughs from her spot perched up front.
It feels as though we’re kids again, only it’s better. My childhood was split between parties and red carpets and being afraid the other shoe would drop—that my dad would take off, that we’d lose everything.
This is freedom. Knowing I have my own back, that the only person I need is a breath away and she won’t turn her back on me.
I stop outside an ice cream store.
“I can’t believe I didn’t wind up with tire tracks down my back,” she pants as she hops off the bike and trips up to the window.
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
“I trust you with my life.”
What about with your heart?
The question rises up from nowhere.
She studies the menu, and I study her.
“What are you getting?” she asks. “I’m going mint chocolate chip all the way.”
“Chocolate,” I say absently.
There’s something I need to say to her, a declaration burning in my throat that needs to be voiced, because it feels right. They call us up to order before I can.
We head back to the hotel in time to change for the reception.
Daisy showers first, because she says she’ll need to dry her hair and take longer getting ready.
When I get out from the shower, there’s an email from Holt to me and Xavier suggesting a new way of organizing the associates. It’s as if he’s already thinking of being in charge.
I snort.
Xavier will hate it…
But as I scroll down, I see Xavier’s response, and my amusement dies.
He likes the idea.
My hand clenches on the phone. While I’m here, Holt’s in the city, trying to suck up before Monday’s vote on the new investment.
Before I can decide on a path forward, the door opens and Daisy emerges from the bathroom. She’s wearing the black dress I bought her, her hair pinned up on one side, the other side loose in waves.
It’s edgy and classy as fuck.
Everything on my mind evaporates: the deal, my boss, my heart thudding in my ribs.
The only thing that matters is her.
I close the distance between us, brush the hair off her shoulder. “You’re stunning.”
Color creeps up her cheeks. It's so unlike her—no matter what she said earlier about feeling as if she's not the most gorgeous woman in any room, her lack of confidence never shows—that I take a second to memorize it.
“Ben?”
“Yeah.”
Our day together comes rushing back, how damned good it felt to spend time with her with no agenda, no motive except enjoying one another’s company.
Her red lips are the same shade they were at the club the night I kissed her.
I want to kiss her again, so fucking badly.
And when I do, I won’t stop.
Her eyes widen as if she's reading my every thought. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips, her chest rising as she inhales before responding.
“We should go.”
I nod and hold out an arm to escort her downstairs, pretending she didn’t shut me down.
14
The reception is glamorous and tasteful, low lighting and cultured laughter. Still, I can’t forget that even though I’ve been trying to keep things under control all weekend, now she’s the one holding me in check.
Richard welcomes everyone, and Aiden gives a toast. The bride makes a few remarks, plus shares logistical comments for those attending the bachelor and bachelorette parties.
“Have fun,” I say solemnly as my best friend disappears into the back of a limo with a wink.
The guys who aren’t going to the bachelor party invited me for an evening of smoking cigars and drinking and talking business, how Richard bought these properties after he swore he wouldn’t.
“Exceptional opportunities require new approaches,” is all he says.
The topic turns to women, how Camila landed Aiden. Then it turns to me.
“I was surprised to see you caught up,” Richard comments. “Not that I keep up with the society pages, but my wife would’ve mentioned it to me.”
I lift my glass. “Exceptional opportunities require new approaches.”
The men laugh, but it’s true.
Daisy and I have been friends a long fucking time, but it’s getting harder to remind myself she’s only my partner in crime, my right-hand woman.
I want to talk about her dreams, to slay anything that comes between them and her.
I want to know her insecurities so I can strip them away if she’ll let me.
I want her to look at me as if I’m all she needs.
And it’s getting harder and harder to remind myself I shouldn’t.
The men get back to the hotel first, and some of us linger on the porch for a last drink and cigars. It’s nearly two in the morning—and I’m thinking I’ll be first in bed tonight—when the limo pulls up outside the hotel and the women spill out.
“How did we end up doing the respectable thing?” Aiden muses.
I catch sight of my friend as she emerges from the car—long, curvy legs first—and starts up the walkway.
She could pass for sober.
She’s not.
But if that wasn’t enough of a warning, her arm is linked with one of the other women—the one who propositioned me last night.
Warning bells go off in my head.
“Ben!” Daisy exclaims when she spots me.
I shake my head. “Come here.”
I trade her new friend’s arm for mine.
“You’ve got a good one,” the woman says, receding before I can ask what she means.
“You said I should have fun,” she says as I help her down the hall and into the stairwell. “So I did.”
“I’m glad.”
In the stairwell, my attention locks on a tissue clasped in her hand. “Was it a tear jerker?”
“Hmm? Oh. I cut myself, but I didn’t want to say anything.”
I pull back the tissue. The edge of her palm is dark with blood. My stomach plummets. “You’re hurt.”
“One of the women tripped, and I tried to catch her before she hit the ground but something sharp stabbed me.”
I turn her hand in mine, searching the cut for signs of debris. “We need to clean this. Now.”
Daisy groans but lets me help her up the rest of the stairs. I unlock our room, holding the door.
She kicks off her shoes and pads across the carpet to the marble bathroom. “Have you seen this tub, Ben? I want one at home. All that’s missing is Henry Cavill.”
“If you’d given me more notice, I would’ve arranged it for you,” I grit out, unable to match her levity.
Daisy tosses me a knowing look over her shoulder.
I steer her toward the vanity, holding her arm over the sink. “You wash,” I instruct her. “I’m getting peroxide.”
“You packed some? What a Boy Scout.”
My glare goes unappreciated. “Hold this under the water until I get back.” I retrieve my travel supplies and come back. I take her hand, studying the cut again. To my relief, it’s only bleeding a little. “I think you’ll live. But I’m cleaning it anyway.”
“Do your worst, Dr. Ben.”
She smiles at me, and I shake my head as if I can impress upon her how not cool it is that she worried me by daring to bleed when I was already distracted by her. Us.
“It’s just a little blood,” she says.
I wet a clean pad with peroxide and she hisses as I press it on the cut. “I don’t like the thought of you in danger.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I look up to see her watching me steadily, not looking the least bit drunk. On the contrary, she looks lucid, intent, and way too fucking beautiful.
"That woman says she hit on you and you turned her down,” Daisy goes on. “Why?”
I dispose of the pad and search in my bag for a bandage. “I’m here with you.”
“But you’re not here with me.”
"We agreed that for this month, we'd be… faithful," I say for lack of a better word.
"I don't want you to be faithful to me because you promised. I want you to be faithful because you choose to be."
I wrap her hand in silence, the only sound a couple’s distant laughter in the hallway, muffled by the door.
I could tell her I am faithful to her. That I have been for a long fucking time.
That the heart beating in my chest sounds different when she’s around, and whatever superpower I’ve been exercising to ignore that fact is fading after weeks.
Months.
Years.
“The women were great,” she goes on at last. “They let loose and it felt like a real relationship.” She sighs happily. “I haven’t had that in so long. I have that with my girls at work, but it’s not the same. Not since Vi.”
My chest tightens. “I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
I can’t replace her sister. But when she shoots me a look, it doesn’t seem like she’s thinking about her sister.
I drop her hand and Daisy turns, her hips sinking against the vanity, the bright bulbs reflecting on her smooth back above the dress.
“When they told me there was one bed, first I thought, that’s a bad idea. He’s going to be so close all night. And you were. I woke up early in the morning and you were holding me and it felt…”
“How did it feel?” I need the answer more than I’ve needed anything.
She inspects the bandage on her hand before letting it fall back to her side. “It felt right.”
I exhale hard.
Daisy’s watching me like she wants me every bit as much as I want her.
Not taking advantage of my beautiful, tipsy friend tonight will be hard, especially after spending today with her, realizing what it could be like. As if maybe I’m missing something.
“Tell you what,” I say, “I’ll run you a bath. You get into your pajamas.”
She heads out to the room while I strip off my tie and roll up my sleeves and run the bath. Then I straighten, seeing her in something that’s definitely not what I expected.
“Are you ready?” She brushes past me in her strapless black bra, her breasts spilling over the top, and matching panties.
I can’t resist cutting a look over my shoulder. The sight of her ass in that thong is sweet heaven and hell at once.
“D, those aren’t pajamas.”
“I’ll put them on later,” she insists, waving her bandaged hand.
Shit.
I'm a decent man, but I'm no hero and I've never aspired to be. It takes muscles I didn't know I had to get out of there. To sit on the bed, reading stock markets and political shit to get my dick under control and erase the sight of her in that lingerie.
When that fails, I take a page from her book and summon reason.
Pros and cons of fucking my best friend.
Pro. She’s stunningly, arrestingly beautiful, and affects me like no one has in a long time.
Pro. If I do it, I’ll stop thinking about how it feels to be so deep inside her she forgets everything that’s not me.
Pro. I’d give half my personal equity portfolio to hear the sound she makes when she comes.
* * *
Con. She’s my best friend. I can’t cross that line.
Con. She’s buzzed and bleeding.
Con. See previous. For fuck’s sake, man.
* * *
Pro. I’m definitely feeling something for her and I think she has feelings for me. We’re adults and we deserve to play that out.
* * *
Big-ass con. Feeling something for her doesn’t mean I can afford to fuck up our friendship and my life. Especially given what went down eight years ago. What I can never take back and don’t deserve to.
“Ben?” she calls.
I ignore it, but there’s only silence after.
Maybe she slipped. Maybe she needs help.
I drag my ass across the suite, holding my breath as I push open the bathroom door.
She didn’t slip.
She’s in the bath, bubbles up to her collarbone. Her face turns my way, eyes warm and satisfied and lips parted.
“Can you take my hair out?”
I start to say no but take in her bandaged hand resting on one side of the tub. “Yeah.”
I sit behind her and roll up the sleeves of my shirt before setting to work on the pins. “That woman said you had a good one. What did she mean?”
“We were arguing over whose boyfriend or husband was the worst or best. I told them you were the best. Because you’re loyal. And fierce. And you always have my back.”
The way she says those words, it sounds like they mean everything.
Knowing it’s dangerous but needing to prove myself, my hands finish their work and slip down to her shoulders.
She groans. “Oh. That feels good. I need to stop wearing heels. Or at least buy a standing desk.”
“I’ll get you one for your birthday,” I murmur.
She’s soft and smooth and this is torture, but I can’t stop touching her.
“No one’s ever washed my back before.” Her silky hair trails across my forearms. “I’ve never showered with anyone either. I’m afraid of slipping. It’s weird and paranoid.”
“So you’ve never had sex in a shower?”
She shudders, her nose wrinkling. “That sounds deadly.”
My laugh is dry as a desert. “It’s fucking awesome.”
She sucks in a measured breath.
I need to get back on solid ground. “Tell me something good.”
She shifts back, laying her head against my shoulder. Her breasts rise up out of the bubbles. “I had a dream about you last night.”
The languorous confession, the way she trails a finger along the side of the bathtub, makes it clear what kind.
“You did?”
Daisy nods, her shiny hair slipping over my hands. “I have lots of dreams about you.”
Hearing my best friend say those words shouldn’t tear my control.
It does.
It destroys me.
“So why wouldn’t you let me kiss you earlier?” I challenge softly.
The words hang between us, and I almost think she won’t answer.
“Because if you kiss me, I’ll wonder if you’re doing it for an audience, or if you’re doing it because you want to.”
I shut my eyes.
I get why she’d ask, and I hate that she has to. I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t know what will happen tomorrow or next month or the one after that.
But right now, this one area is perfectly clear.
My lips brush her ear. “There’s no audience now. I just fucking want you.”
Her pulse is heavy in her throat, and I want to suck on her, see if the heat of my tongue slows it or speeds i
t more.
My hands slide lower, inching along her slick skin, finally grazing her breasts. She's smooth and slippery from the water, and my cock is already testing the zipper of my pants before my thumbs find her hard nipples.
I don’t know if it’s Daisy’s breathy moan or the way she presses her face into my neck, like she wants me to comfort her from the torture of my hands, that turns me on most.
Or maybe it’s how she feels, as if she was made to fit in my palms.
She urges me on, her hands covering mine, and I massage her breasts. The edges of my rolled-up sleeves are getting wet and I give zero fucks.
“Damn, you’re gorgeous,” I murmur in her ear.
“Your hands feel so good.” Her hips are arching, nearly coming out of the water.
Until I realize it’s because she must’ve hit the drain and the water level’s going down.
I keep touching her, and more of her is exposed as the tub drains. The bubbles leave sudsy patches that slide over her skin. She grabs one of my hands and moves it down her body as her hips lift and emerge from the water.
I’m going to hell. A special one for grown men who fuck their beautiful best friends when they know it’ll ruin everything.
My fingers slip between her thighs and it’s my turn to groan. “You’re so wet.”
“It’s a bathtub.”
I laugh tightly. “That’s not why you’re wet. You want this.” I stroke a line down her pussy and she sucks in a breath.
Am I actually going to finger fuck this woman in a bathtub?
I pull my hand back and she turns to face me, leaving her chin and elbows on the tub as she watches with hungry, half-lidded eyes. “Why are you stopping?”
“This is a bad idea.”
“You’re right. We should do it in bed.” She rises up naked and steps out, dripping her way across the tile.
I rub a hand through my hair, admiring her bare curves…
At least until she slips.
My grin is gone as I lunge, catching her arm and lifting her.
"You're a menace," I mutter as I carry her across the room.
She laughs breathlessly, playing with my collar and leaving wet patches on my shirt before I set her on the bed. “Only to myself.”