by Tawna Fenske
“Oh.”
I hit the button for the fifth floor as my mouth finds hers. I kiss her hard and deep, hoping I’m not pushing my luck. There’s a fine line between dirty talk and outright crudeness, but hopefully I’m erring on the right side of the equation.
I’m sure of it when Sarah moans and kisses me back, tunneling her fingers into my hair. Cardboard and big poofs of netting keep us from pressing our bodies together, but we kiss like we’re starving for it. Like we’re teenagers discovering sex for the first time, eager to spend hours touching and kissing and stroking.
I kiss her deeper, giving in to my urge to be a little rough. To give her what her body is begging for. My body wants it, too, wants her.
I break the kiss but keep a firm grasp on the back of her neck as I lose myself in her eyes. “I know loofas and soap are designed to rub together, but I’m dying to get out of these costumes so I can touch you.”
“Me, too.”
She shivers as I kiss my way down her throat. I’ve just reached the top of her breasts when the elevator dings and the doors swish open. We spring apart like we expect to see a janitor there with a mop and a video camera, but it’s just the two of us. I take her hand and pull her out into the dimly lit hall.
“This way.”
I lead her down the hallway, practically sprinting for the room at the end of it. It’s less than a hundred yards from the elevator, but we barely make it there. We’re so desperate to touch each other that we stop halfway, legs tangling together as our mouths collide. I press her against the wall, kissing her until we’re both breathless.
“I’m feeling grateful right now for how you constructed this costume,” I tell her as I slide a strap off her shoulder. “Makes it easier to remove.”
She laughs and clutches at my hair as I kiss my way across her collarbones. “My girlfriends had the idea,” she said. “They’re the ones who stitched the netting on a dress that pulls on and off easily.”
“God bless your girlfriends,” I say, nipping at the tops of her breasts. “Come on.”
I lead her the rest of the way to the conference room, praying no one’s come along and locked the door since I discovered this place twenty minutes ago. My prayers are answered, and I push through the door and into the small, carpeted room. Moonlight pours in through a pair of skylights above the conference table, so I don’t bother hitting the lights.
I do flip the lock and push a chair up against the knob for good measure.
When I turn around, Sarah has boosted herself up on the conference room table. A slow smile spreads over her face, and she parts her legs. “I’ve never been licked by a bar of soap.”
I grin and walk toward her. “And I’ve never gone down on a body puff.”
I drop to my knees in front of her, grateful to see she’s already ditched her panties. Or maybe she wasn’t wearing any to start with. The thought makes my dick ten times harder. My mouth waters at the thought of tasting her again. I haven’t stopped thinking about that sweetness, remembering the way her slick walls gripped my fingers as she came in my mouth.
Wedging myself between her thighs, I drape her legs over my shoulders. Her soft pink lips are parted and lovely, practically begging for my tongue. I’m dying to devour her, but I want to take my time. To keep the delicious tease going for as long as possible.
“Ian,” she pants as I exhale a slow, warm breath above her clit. I give the tiniest, softest lick imaginable, barely a graze.
But Sarah practically levitates off the table.
“Please, Ian,” she begs.
“Please what, Sarah?”
“Please make me come.”
That I can do.
I start at her clit and lick the soft parting of her seam, spreading her with my tongue. She’s so wet already, so fucking ready.
But I’m not. Oh, I’m hard all right, and more than capable of taking her with the hurried fierceness she’s begging for. But right now, I want to tease. To draw out the slow swirl of pleasure as I commit every inch of her to memory.
Her fingers twine in my hair, clawing with enough force that I wonder if I’ll be missing clumps of hair in the morning. I don’t care. All I care about right now is bringing her as much pleasure as possible.
“Lay back,” I urge. It’s partly to save me from being scalped by her clenched fist, but mostly to get her to let go and relax. To open herself up to me completely.
She obliges, releasing my hair and leaning back on her elbows. Her legs part wider, and it’s like the most beautiful smorgasbord I’ve ever imagined. Pretty, pink flesh is on full display in front of me, inches from my mouth. I’ve never seen anything so goddamn lovely.
“Sarah,” I whisper. I shut my mouth then, because what the hell was I about to say?
I’ve always wanted you.
You’re just like I dreamed you’d be.
God, I need you.
It’s the latter I focus on, the fact that this is carnal and nothing more. It’s how it has to be now, and I can deliver. Slowly, I stroke my tongue along her opening. Jesus, she’s sweet. And so sensitive she’s arching up before I even reach her clit. I always imagined she’d be like this, but I never knew for sure. The reality socks me in the gut like the best kind of sucker punch, like a surprise under the tree Christmas morning.
Her moans sound muffled, and I glance up to see she’s biting her forearm, trying to mask her cries of pleasure.
For some reason that turns me on more, and my hard-on presses painfully against the edge of the ridiculous soap box. My palms are clamped around her hips, holding her steady. I draw one hand back and slip it between her legs. My fingertips tease her slick entrance, and she bucks against me.
“Fuck me, Ian.”
“Come for me first,” I murmur, dipping two fingers into her. “Can you do that for me, Sarah?”
She moans as I sink both digits into her and go back to licking her. Her clit is swollen and ripe, and I can tell by the way her pussy pulses around my fingers that she’s close. I curl my fingers up, locating her G-spot like she handed me a map to it.
Her body goes rigid, and her breath stops. It’s like the calm before the storm, and then the tornado hits.
“Ian, yes!” She grinds her hips, fucking my fingers, my face, taking her pleasure as she gasps and moans and squeezes tight around me.
I bring her down slowly, planting soft little licks along her opening as she twitches with aftershocks. Dotting one last kiss on her hipbone, I stand up and work my way out of the cumbersome soap costume.
Sarah props herself up on her elbows to watch me. “How come you get to take off your costume?”
“Because I can’t very well fuck you when I’m dressed as a bar of soap.”
She grins. “Fair point.” She slips a hand into the front of her dress, and I hold my breath as her fingers sweep across her nipple. When she draws her hand back, she’s holding a foil packet. “Condom,” she says. “Lisa stitched it into my dress. She’s an interior designer, and her sewing skills come in handy sometimes.”
“Remind me to send flowers to Lisa.”
I have the box off and the condom on in a matter of seconds. Sarah scoots to the edge of the table and opens her legs in invitation. “I haven’t stopped thinking about this since last night,” she says. “About having you inside me again.”
“Let’s make it happen, then.”
I know she’s wet and ready, but I still make an effort to ease in slowly. She hooks her ankles around my hips, high heels digging into my ass cheeks. “Please don’t hold back,” she begs. “Take me hard.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I grab her just below the waist, fixing my palms around her hips like they were made to fit there. I thrust into her, burying myself deep in her slippery cleft. She moans and tightens her legs around me, urging me on. It’s like our bodies were made for this. Like someone molded us from clay so we’d fit together perfectly, each of us moving to a matched rhythm in our heads.
&
nbsp; How did I never realize it could feel like this?
“You feel so fucking good,” I tell her, already on the brink of losing my mind. “God, Sarah.”
“I love how deep you are.”
“Me, too,” I groan, burying myself again. “Me, too.”
Her fingers slip into the space between our bodies, gliding over her clit as I fuck her. I wish I could contort myself to let my tongue do the work, but I’m only mortal. And I’m damn glad she has the self-awareness to do what it takes to get herself there.
“Come with me, Ian,” she pants. “I’m close.”
Christ. I thrust into her harder, eager to catch up, eager to feel her sharp spasms of pleasure gripping me. I groan as the first wave hits, then sends me flipping headfirst over the edge of the waterfall. Waves of pleasure pound me from all sides, and I’m going under, falling hard, swirling into the blackness.
I wait for the spasms to fade before I pull her up and against my chest. Her heart is thudding so hard I can feel it through layers of loofa netting. Or maybe that’s my heart?
The two organs we agreed to keep out of this are fighting for attention, and I remind myself there’s nothing symbolic about this. It’s sex, pure and simple. Nothing more, no hearts involved.
That’s the way this has to be.
…
A few nights later, I call my mom.
The phone rings so many times that I think she’s not going to pick up. When she does, her voice is breathless like she’s been running.
“Mom? It’s Ian. Are you okay?”
I kick myself for thinking I need to tell her who I am. For reminding her that her only living son is on the phone, instead of the one she lost.
“Ian, baby. How are you?”
“I’m good.” Relief floods through me that she’s not hurt or sick or— “I’m great, actually. Did you get my message?”
“Yes, and I’m so excited. How long are you in Oregon?”
“I’m not sure right now.”
I consider telling her about Sarah. About the fake marriage proposal and all that entails. My parents had their differences, but one thing they always agreed on was that they adored my college pal. Sarah had several holiday dinners with my family, and everyone grew to think of her as one of us. Even Shane.
Especially Shane.
There’s a lump in my throat that wasn’t there when I picked up the phone, and I force myself to swallow it down as my mother prattles on about her vegetable garden and her nemesis at the Senior Center and the gentleman friend she played bingo with last Thursday.
“So what else is new with you, sweetheart?” There’s a hopeful tone in my mother’s voice that tells me what her next words are going to be. “Any news in the romance department?”
I hesitate, wanting to tell her.
But now isn’t the right time. Hell, I’m not even sure how seriously Sarah’s considering my offer. I like to think she’s getting there, but I might be kidding myself.
What if she says no?
The whispered words in the back of my brain fill me with more dread than I wish they did. I wouldn’t be heartbroken, because you can’t break something that’s already been smashed to bits. But if Sarah won’t marry me, I can’t fathom meeting anyone else on earth who’d fit my life the way she does.
That’s not love—it’s common sense—but my stupid chest aches just the same.
“No news,” I tell my mother carefully. “Not yet.”
“I always hoped you’d find happiness with someone,” she says, her tone a bit wistful. “A happy marriage is such a blessing.”
And an unhappy one is a curse.
I don’t say this out loud. The words would cut her deeply, and she’s already been cut badly enough.
“I’m open to getting married eventually,” I say carefully. “I just—I’m not sure my idea of marriage is quite the same as yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just—I’d be more interested in a sort of business arrangement. Something less…volatile.”
My mom is quiet for a long moment. If I were sitting in her living room now, I know I’d see her pinching the bridge of her nose the way she always does when she’s trying very, very hard to understand something her confounding son is saying. “Honey, a life without passion—”
“Sounds perfect for me,” I finish, wondering if it’s too soon to end this conversation. But then I feel like a shitty son, so I soften my voice and try again. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m happy.”
“You are?”
There’s that hopeful note again. And there’s that lump in my throat.
“I am,” I assure her. “I promise I’ll come see you as soon as I can, okay?”
“When?”
“Next weekend, maybe? Or the weekend after that. There’s one more big hurdle I need to get over before I can close this deal.”
“What’s the hurdle?”
“A business dinner.” I try to inject the words with some enthusiasm, but they fall flat. “The executives want to get to know me on a more personal level. We’re going out to this fancy family-style restaurant with all spouses and significant others and seeing how we all mesh as a group.”
“Oh.” There’s enough motherly concern in that syllable to power a daycare. “Will you be okay with that?”
“Yeah.” I realize as I say it that I’m actually believing it. “I’ll have Sarah with me, so that should help.”
“Sarah?” Her voice brightens like I just informed her I’ll be taking the Pope as my date to church. “Oh, she’s lovely. I thought the two of you had lost touch.”
“We’re still in touch,” I assure her, trying not to think too much about all the touching we’ve been doing lately. “Anyway, she’s coming with me to the dinner.”
“So you won’t be alone.”
There’s that lump in my throat again. “Right. So I won’t be alone.”
The lump stays put as we say our goodbyes, and I hang up and take a deep breath. What the hell is wrong with me?
Glancing down, I see I’m gripping the phone so hard the case bends. I set it down and flop onto my hotel bed, breathing in and out until the tightness in my throat eases and I can swallow like a normal human being.
But the ache in my chest isn’t going away. I put my hand over my heart, rubbing almost unconsciously. I hate this.
Talking to my mother shouldn’t make me emotional.
Thinking about Sarah shouldn’t make me emotional.
Remembering Shane shouldn’t—
I stop there, determined to fight off these stupid waves of feeling. I’ve done it before, done it for years, with no problem at all. There’s no reason I can’t keep doing it, keep myself numb the way I’ve done for a decade.
I sit up too fast, pretty sure that’s the reason I’m dizzy. It has nothing to do with these feelings, nothing to do with Sarah or the effect she has on me.
Reassured, I fling myself from the bed and stomp off to take a cold shower.
Chapter Seven
Sarah
Since I am apparently incapable of keeping my clothes on around Ian Nolan these days, I set a public place for our next get-together. A public place that does not have any discreetly located conference rooms.
Not that I didn’t love what happened the other night. Holy God, did I love it.
Which is precisely why I need to focus today. If we’re having a professional conversation about a business arrangement, I can’t very well go in with stars in my eyes and my ankles around my ears.
“So this is the contract my attorney has prepared,” Ian explains over the loud whir of a cappuccino machine. He’s wearing a dark purple T-shirt that brings out the green sparks in his eyes and makes his hair blaze with red-gold flashes of light. I could get lost in all this color, but now’s not the time for that.
“Contract,” I say, tearing a hunk off my blueberry muffin and shoving it into my mouth. “Got it.”
Ian rests a hand on a pile of pape
rs that’s as thick as a dictionary, then pushes it across the table to me. “You can take your time reviewing it on your own, and when you’re ready to review it with your attorney, I’ll pay the legal fees for the lawyer of your choice.”
I stare at him as I finish chewing my muffin and pick up my steaming mug of cappuccino. “You have to appreciate the irony right now.”
The look he gives me is curious. He has both arms spread casually across the back of the booth, a position that’s made three different women ogle his biceps in the last ten minutes.
Ian, of course, hasn’t noticed. “What irony?”
“We’re sitting here in the same coffee shop where we hung out at nineteen when we had to dig through the seats of my 1997 Mercury Tracer Wagon to find enough change to split a small black coffee and a scone. Now you’re throwing around money like it’s something you use to wallpaper your den.”
Ian grins and drops one hand to pick up his double espresso. It’s a far cry from the sugar-laden Frappuccinos he favored in college on the rare occasion he had enough cash to splurge. Other than that, not much has changed. Then again, everything’s changed, starting with the fact that Ian has been inside me and we’re considering tying the knot.
But we are sitting in the same booth we used to claim while studying for exams, so there’s that.
“I told you I’d make sure you were financially secure,” he says.
“I’m already financially secure,” I insist, blowing into my own coffee cup. Not this secure, but I do okay.
Ian sets his mug down and reaches across the table to brush my knuckles with the tips of his fingers. I shiver, even though it’s a platonic gesture. Mostly platonic. “That’s one of the reasons I think this is a great idea,” he says. “I know you’re not after me for my money. And I’m not after you for yours.”
I snort-laugh into my foamy cappuccino. “Hardly.”
“I already know you have a track record for not giving a shit about other people’s money, and you’ve made smart choices about your own. I dig that about you. It makes us financially compatible.”
“Financially compatible.” Be still my heart. I blow into my mug again. “So why get married at all? It’s not like this is frontier America and we’re pioneers who need to pair up for safety and breeding purposes.”