The Last

by Tawna Fenske

  “That sounds kinda awesome, actually.” I set the glasses aside in a tall patch of grass, but Ian grabs one of them and settles onto the blanket beside me.

  His body heat warms me instantly, and his shoulder is broad and strong enough for me to lean against. Taking the bottle from my hand, he tips a tiny splash of wine into the lone glass, then presses the cork back in firmly and gives it a hard shake.

  “Aeration for dummies without decanters,” he says as I set the glass aside.

  “Not the sort of thing we worried about in college with a five-dollar bottle of Boone’s Strawberry Hill.”

  “Good times.”

  He stops shaking and pulls out the cork before handing the bottle back to me. I take a sip, feeling oddly naughty drinking wine straight from the bottle. Is this what counts for wild when you’re thirty?

  The wine is earthy and spicy and perfect for a summer evening with the faintest nip of fall in the air. I hand the bottle to Ian and lean back against him to look up at the stars. “Your mom seems happy about the engagement.”

  “Yeah.” He lifts the wine to his lips, and I watch his throat move as he swallows before resting the bottle on his knee. “She’s always wanted a daughter-in-law. I’ll warn you up front that she’ll start badgering us about grandkids the second I get the ring on your finger.”

  “I can live with that.”

  He passes the bottle back, and I take another sip. The rich liquid goes down easy, warming me from the inside out. Or maybe it’s Ian who’s making me feel like that.

  He squirts some canned cheese onto a cracker and hands it to me. “Keeping it classy.”

  I laugh and plant the bottle in the grass at the edge of the blanket. I bite into the cracker, marveling at how normal this feels. The wine, the setting, the impromptu picnic with an old friend who happens to be the guy I’ve just agreed to marry.

  “You okay?” Ian asks.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You just shivered. Here, let’s do this.” He picks up the second blanket and pulls it around us, tenting us into a cocoon filled with our shared body heat. I’m instantly heated through, even though I wasn’t cold to start.

  “Thanks.” I accept another cheese-frosted cracker as I lean back against his chest and study the stars. It occurs to me how many gestures of affection between us are about practicality. We’re snuggling now for warmth, and we held hands at his dinner with the bosses to present a picture of a united front.

  But today at the reindeer place, he held my hand without any reason at all. Is that significant, or am I looking for signs where there will never be any?

  “So I guess we should talk about the wedding thing,” he says. “How soon, when, where, all that good stuff.”

  “I suppose so.” Part of me is glad that I have my back to him, that I can’t see his face. If I could, I’d be searching hard for some hidden meaning in his words.

  “Is there anything you used to picture when you thought about your wedding someday?”

  I take another sip of wine and consider the question. “When I was six, I wanted to get married in my Wonder Woman costume,” I tell him. “And friends who went to the costume party with me the last few years teased me that I’d eventually get married in my ninja costume.”

  “I’m sensing a theme here,” he says.

  “We have the soap and loofa costumes already,” I point out. “Seems a shame not to use them again.”

  He laughs, but it’s a quiet laugh. A thoughtful one. Something’s on his mind. “Seriously though, do you want the full wedding? The dress, the flowers, the bridesmaids—”

  “The nonexistent father walking me down the aisle?” I shake my head. “I was never going to be able to pull off the traditional thing anyway. I’m good with deviating from the norm.”

  “How about a naked wedding?”

  The teasing note in his voice tells me he’s not serious, so I play along. “Would we be the only naked ones, or would our attendants have to show skin, too?”

  “Oh, everyone’s naked,” he says. “The guests, the minister, the caterers—”

  The mental picture makes me laugh so hard I start sneezing. I lean forward to cover my mouth, hoping I don’t tip over the wine.

  Ian rubs my back. “You okay?”

  “I’m good,” I tell him. “I’ve been sneezy all day.”

  “Might be the juniper. A lot of people are allergic to it.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” I tell him. “I’ve always loved the smell of juniper. Probably just dust.”

  I’m not sneezing anymore, but he’s still rubbing my back. I love the feel of his big palm making circles over my spine through the soft cotton of my T-shirt. If I were a cat, I’d be purring right now.

  “Remember that guy in our Econ class who insisted people have an orgasm every time they sneeze?” he says.

  I laugh, recalling the seriousness of his expression as he lectured us about biological functions. “He was so self-righteous about it, too,” I recall. “He wouldn’t believe you that it’s a myth, even after you gave him all that scientific evidence.”

  “There is the endorphin release, though,” he concedes. “And the erectile tissue in the nose relaxes after you sneeze.”

  The phrase “erectile tissue in the nose” shouldn’t be sexy, and it’s totally not. But there’s something about Ian’s hand on my back and his breath ruffling my hair that’s making me feel deliciously tingly.

  Or maybe that’s the effects of the sneeze. I lean back against his chest again, sighing when he puts his arms around me. “You know what also feels sorta orgasmy?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Yawning,” I tell him. “Like when you’re just getting started on your workday and you do one of those great, big, growly yawns that goes all the way into your ears?”

  Ian laughs. “That does feel pretty good. I don’t know if it’s orgasmic-level good, but it’s pretty awesome.”

  I snuggle against him, loving the feel of his chest against my shoulder blades. “All right, give me orgasmic-level good.”

  “Hmm…” He picks up the wine bottle and takes a drink before setting it back in the grass. His bicep brushes the edge of my breast on the way down, and I wonder if he did it on purpose. “How about that first sip of a really good Moscow Mule with just the right amount of fresh mint and ginger beer on a hot summer day?”

  “Not bad.” I shift against him, conscious of the fact that I’m nestled between his thighs with my tailbone up against his fly. I can’t tell if the hardness I’m feeling is his zipper or his—nope, it’s definitely not his zipper. I squirm again, rewarded by a hardening against my butt.

  “What about that feeling when you first wake up after sleeping late on a Saturday, and you do that awesome full-body stretch that leaves everything all tingly and satisfied,” I suggest.

  “You’re big on the tingly,” he says, his breath brushing my ear. “And the sleep-related sensations.”

  “I do love my beauty sleep.”

  This time it’s Ian who shifts, pressing his growing erection against me. I hold back a moan, though I’m seriously turned on by the evidence of his arousal. By the fact that we’re continuing with our normal conversation like we’re both unaware of the desire snapping between us like little lightning bolts.

  “Okay,” he says. “How about that feeling when you’ve been cold all day and you slip into a Jacuzzi.”

  “Definitely blissful,” I agree. “I don’t know about orgasm levels, but it does feel good.”

  He laughs, and I feel the rumble against my spine. His arms are folded under my breasts, and I shift again just to feel the knuckle of his thumb brush the underside of my nipple. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation of being pressed up against the hard length of his chest.

  This. This is pretty close to orgasmic.

  Ian’s lips brush the top of my ear, sending goose bumps rippling down my arms. “How about biting into a brownie that’s right out of the oven,�
�� he suggests, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. “Or rubbing a kitten’s belly.”

  “Not orgasmic.” My voice comes out high and tight, and I squirm again to feel his full length against my tailbone. Ian pushes back, meeting my signal with his own. “Nice,” I continue, “but not orgasmic.”

  “Maybe we both need a refresher on orgasmic,” he says. “As a reminder of what it feels like.”

  A little shiver of excitement ripples through me, but I do my best to keep my voice even. “I don’t know,” I say. “Based on those last couple examples, I’m not positive you know orgasmic.”

  “Oh, I know orgasmic.” His breath ruffles my hair as his hand moves slowly down the plane of my belly. I start to suck in my stomach, to do my best impression of a woman with rock-hard abs. But I stop myself and breathe easy. Ian already knows my body, and he seems to like it the way it is.

  His hand skims over my stomach and keeps going, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath the stretchy waist of my skirt and inside my panties. I draw in a breath as my legs fall apart on their own, aching for his touch.

  “Is that what you want?” he murmurs in my ear, fingertips scant millimeters from the throbbing bundle of nerves coiled tight with need. “You want me to touch you right here?”

  Heat pools between my legs, and I nod against his chest. “Please.”

  The pad of one finger skims the aching bud, and I gasp with pleasure. He keeps going, spreading open my folds to dip a finger inside.

  I’m slick already, and have been since the second he wrapped the blanket around us and pulled me against his solid body. Still, we both gasp with surprise as his finger slips easily inside me.

  “God, Sarah,” he murmurs against my ear as he slides two fingers into me, pumping them in a sweet, slick rhythm. “You’re so wet.”

  “You have that effect on me.” My voice comes out high and shaky as he plunges in again and strokes my clit with his thumb. How did he learn to do this? To play me like a guitar that’s building to a crescendo in only a few notes?

  “You get to me, too.” He presses against me from behind, letting me feel the long, hard length of him. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

  “Maybe a hint.” I squirm, trying to work his finger deeper. To make his bicep brush my nipples again. His breath is warm against my neck, and the hardness of his chest leaves me craving the feel of it against my naked breasts.

  How can I want him this desperately when I’ve had him already? I’ve always loved sex, but I’ve never felt as insatiably turned on as I do with Ian.

  My knee bumps the wine bottle, and I make a frantic grab for it before it can topple in the grass. Ian reaches out and sets it on a hard patch of earth at the base of a tree.

  Then he rolls us to our sides, his fingers barely missing a beat between my legs. He shifts so he’s snugged up spoon-style behind me, his cock pressing against my tailbone.

  We’re hidden by the blanket and the cover of darkness, so I reach up and wriggle out of my panties. My skirt stays on, but Ian hikes it up around my waist so I’m bared to him.

  There’s the soft snick of a zipper behind me, and he’s nudging my opening. I shift one leg, a silent plea for him to take me. To plunge in hard and fast.

  His cheek rests against mine, arms enveloping me in a nest of heat. “I love this,” he murmurs as he presses against my slick opening “Feeling you with nothing between us.”

  He slides inside, and I cry out softly. Crickets fall silent in the pasture, then start up again three seconds later like nothing happened.

  But everything’s happening under this blanket. Ian’s hips set a rhythm that has my whole body moving with him. With my thighs pressed together, I feel every hard inch of him inside me.

  “Show me,” he whispers as his palm skims my breasts on the way down. The pad of his thumb glides over my clit, making me whimper. “Show me exactly how you like it, Sarah. How to make you come like this.”

  I groan as he drives into me from behind, working his magic both inside and out. “I think you’ve pretty much nailed it.”

  “I want to feel how you touch yourself,” he says. “I want to know exactly what gets you there.”

  His thumb’s delicious circles are driving me insane in the best possible way, a technique that’s damn near perfect. I couldn’t do it better myself, but I love that he’s eager to know my body. That he recognizes there’s an art to getting a woman off like this.

  “Just like that,” I murmur, sliding my hand down and applying the tiniest bit of pressure to his fingers. “Yes.”

  He responds with just the touch I’m craving, not too firm, not too soft, exactly right. He pushes into me again from behind as his fingers move over my clit.

  “You feel so fucking good,” he growls in my ear.

  I groan as he tilts his hips to hit something amazing. His fingers glide over my clit, mimicking the rhythm I’ve set for us. “Oh! Just like that.”

  “Do it, Sarah,” he murmurs. “Keep grinding on me just like that. Show me how you like it.”

  I press against him, conscious of every point where our bodies are touching. His stubbled cheek is rough against mine, leaving every nerve raw and tingly.

  My hand still covers his, and I move his fingers faster, kicking up the intensity. He kisses the edge of my jaw and pumps into me with slick, even strokes.

  The smell of crushed grass fills my senses, and I clutch a handful of it to keep myself from toppling over. To brace against his delicious thrusts. Somewhere in the distance a coyote howls, and I wonder how many night creatures are getting an eyeful right now. The air is crisp and cool on my face, but blissfully warm here in our cocoon. I lift my gaze to the sky and feel myself swirling into the funnel of stars above us.

  When his body tenses, I know he’s close. I’ve learned how to read him, just like I’ve learned how to get us both there at the same time. I move his fingers faster, gasping as he seizes up.

  “Ian,” I gasp.

  He curses and thrusts in hard, like those two syllables were a blessing. A cue for us both to go hurtling over the edge together.

  His shudder ripples through me, and I let go of his hand to clutch at the grass. He keeps stroking, moving faster as I cry out at the crest of the first wave. My fingers tear a clump of grass from the earth as I plummet over the edge. The smell of fresh dirt and torn grass fills my senses as Ian fills the rest of me, pumping me so full I’m dizzy with it.

  When we’re both breathless and spent, he doesn’t pull out. Not right away. He’s still throbbing inside me, and I lie there savoring the sensation of being this close to another human. To Ian, not just anyone. Ian.

  He presses a kiss into the hollow beneath my ear. “Was that pretty close to an orgasm?”

  I laugh and snuggle back against him. “Pretty close,” I murmur. “Pretty close to perfection.”

  And that’s when I know something else.

  I’m in love with Ian Nolan.

  Head over heels, dizzyingly, stupidly, blindly in love with my best friend.

  Dammit.

  …

  I swear I blink once and the wedding day arrives.

  Not mine, of course.

  Cassie and Simon’s. Less than a week goes by after that starry night in Ian’s mom’s field, and suddenly I’m sitting at a fancy dressing table wearing champagne-colored silk and gripping the most beautiful bouquet I’ve ever held in my nervously sweating palms.

  This is the day. The deadline Ian and I agreed on to be certain about moving forward with this marriage. I’m certain, but not about the marriage of convenience.

  I’m more positive than ever I’m in love with Ian. I haven’t told him, and I’m not sure I should.

  “You look amazing.”

  I turn toward the dressing table where Cassie’s sisters are putting the finishing touches on her hair and makeup. Lisa adjusts Cassie’s veil and leans down so their faces are framed together in the mirror. “You’re seriously the prettiest br
ide I’ve ever seen,” Lisa says as a photographer clicks off the heartwarming shot of the two sisters.

  “Hey!” Happily married Missy gives Lisa a stern look, but I can tell she’s not really mad. She’s smiling like a proud mother hen and wearing a dress that’s nearly identical to mine, except for the ruched bodice and sweetheart neckline.

  “I can’t argue, actually,” Missy adds as she straightens the pearl choker at her sister’s throat. “You do look perfect, Cassie.”

  Cassie smiles and pokes at her left eye. “Thanks. I feel like I have hunks of grass glued to my eyelids. Are these things really necessary?”

  “You’ll thank us later,” Missy assures her. “False eyelashes will make your eyes pop in photos.”

  Cassie frowns at herself in the mirror. “I’m not sure I like the sound of eyeball popping.”

  Lisa straightens and glances over at me. I grip the eyeliner pencil I’m holding and concentrate very hard on not feeling wistful. On not thinking about how much Simon loves Cassie and Cassie loves Simon and how that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.

  Regardless of what happens between Ian and me, we’re going to be married in the coming months. That’s the end goal, right? Long-term companionship, family, the white picket fence. This is what I’ve wanted since I was a little girl.

  “Let me help you with that.” Lisa marches over and snags the eyeliner from my hand before settling daintily on the bench beside me. Her dress is champagne silk, too, but strapless to show off her flawless shoulders. “I can’t believe we’ll all be married soon,” she says as she applies the liner with expert hands. “It’s a big year for all of us.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  I swallow hard and wonder why I’m so nervous. I don’t think it’s bridesmaid jitters. It’s the fact that I’m about to walk down the aisle for a wedding I’ve anticipated for months. Out there in the audience is Ian, the man I’m pledged to marry, the man I’m pretty sure I’m in love with.

  I never would have expected this back when Cassie sent her save-the-date cards.

  “There,” Lisa says, tracing a thin line at the edge of my right eyelid. “All set.”