Skin Deep

by Lauren Hawkeye

  Hand shaking, she picked up the beer. It had gone warm, but she took a sip anyway, not tasting anything because all her attention was focused on Fred’s hand and the way it was moving up her thigh with excruciating slowness.

  She was wearing tiny cutoffs, the denim so well-worn that it was torn in places and soft as butter in others. Those were layered with a pair of lacy boy shorts, and neither provided the slightest bit of resistance as Fred’s questing fingers found the crease where her pelvis met her thigh.

  She sucked in a breath, fingers tightening on the bottle. Exhaling slowly, she fought to keep her expression neutral as he tucked one large finger beneath the hem of the shorts, toying with the elastic lace that lay beneath.

  “Careful,” he whispered, picking up his own drink. “Wouldn’t want anyone to look at you and know how wet you are.”

  “I’m not wet,” she retorted. She sank back against the faux leather cushion of the booth back when he delved farther, moving his questing fingers closer to her core by tucking them beneath the lace of her underpants as well. “Shit.”

  “Don’t ever think you can lie to me.” His words were cocky, even as she was desperate for him to look at her. He refused, casting his stare steadfastly on the empty table in front of them. “If I slide my fingers inside you, am I going to find you wet?”

  “Why don’t you try and see?” Her words were staccato, pushed from her torso as she panted for air. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.”

  “I think you’d like it if I did. If I slid my fingers right up inside you.” He rubbed his fingers over her outer folds to punctuate his words, and she struggled to withhold a moan. “I’m right, aren’t I, you dirty girl? You’d get off from having my fingers inside you while we’re sitting here, out in public where anyone can see.”

  “Fred. Jesus.” Amy willed herself not to prove his words true, but as she did, he worked his entire hand into the lace of her boy shorts. That massive hand of his cupped her mound, his thumb stroking over the slit that divided her labia, and it was all she could do to keep from sobbing out loud.

  “Shh.” This time he leaned in against her, his shoulder bumping against hers companionably. “I know my touch makes you want to scream. But just look...your sister is here. Her fiancé. Theo, and my brother Frank. Do you really want them to see you whimpering from my touch? What would they think, seeing bossy little Amy Marchande melting from the touch of a man?”

  “Oh, fuck you.” Amy leaned against him, hard, but didn’t dare to lift her eyes from the table, to glare at him for withholding what her body so desperately craved. She wanted to look him in the eyes, to lose herself in those pools of pale green and to ask where this thread of dominance came from when it hadn’t made an appearance before. She didn’t, because she was afraid—afraid of hearing him voice the answer to a question she hadn’t asked.

  Every single sexual encounter she’d ever had, whether with men or women or beings who identified somewhere in between...with beings who identified as straight or gay or bi... She’d been the one who was in control. She’d always been in charge, the one who had led the encounter, dictating the content and the rules, defining the limits.

  When she’d first seen Fred in that bar so many years ago, she’d known only that she wanted him. What had come after had seemed a natural consequence. She’d been the aggressor and had remained in control. Being a woman, of course she had recognized and cherished the fact that he had let her be so, even though his physical body was undeniably so much powerful than hers.

  She hadn’t realized that she’d internalized that power dynamic until Fred stroked that single finger through her damp folds, searching for proof that she melted at his command. She hadn’t anticipated any commands from him at all, and that made her response even hotter.

  “See something you like?” She recalled the words he’d once uttered, poised above her in a fancy hotel in a city she’d considered her own, and she melted around his questing fingers.

  She’d never thought of Fred as dominant per se. Not since he’d told her that he was turned on by whatever made her melt.

  He understood more about her than she’d ever imagined. She didn’t consider herself submissive, per se...more that she was happy to assume the role if she happened upon a partner who was dominant.

  She’d only slept with this particular man twice, in situations in which he hadn’t commanded control, but now she understood. He didn’t need to be dominant...unless his partner needed him to step into that role.

  In another place, another time, she might have pretended that she was appalled at the bossiness of his words, his voice, his fingers.

  Here and now, she felt stripped to the bone. No—to the marrow.

  Never in her life had she ever imagined that she was submissive. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Right now, in this public situation in which he demanded her submission? In public, when his brother and her brothers-in-law and sister could return at any moment?

  She’d never been so turned on. She’d never been so wet. She’d never imagined that she’d be tempted to flaunt her arousal; no—that she’d be proud of the feelings that this man had coaxed out of her body with his words and his hands. Secretly.

  At the moment, as his strong fingers swiped through the slit that divided her lower lips? She didn’t care who saw. She didn’t care who knew how much she melted at the slightest pressure from this man, and only this one.

  Fred’s twin, Frank, had reached the bar, never out of Amy’s sight. As her body yearned beneath Fred’s expert ministrations, she again pondered the same question that had momentarily perplexed her a handful of years ago in Amsterdam.

  Two men. Identical in every aspect that was naked to the visible eye. No discernible differences in grooming, in style, in demeanor.

  Yet when she’d looked across that Euro club five years ago, she hadn’t seen twins and chosen one of a pair. She’d only seen Fred.

  Beneath the table, Fred slid two fingers inside her slick channel. He moved them in a circle, stretching her in the most delicious way. A whimper escaped her lips, and she felt sweat break out all over her skin as she rocked her hips forward, silently begging for more.

  “I wonder if anyone in here is watching us.” Fred leaned in closer. Wrapping his free arm around her torso so that she was tucked back against his chest, he bent to whisper directly into her ear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, I’m sure that someone is. And I wonder if they know what I’m doing to you? If they know that I have my fingers inside you, right this second.”

  “I don’t care if they do.” Her voice was rough and didn’t even seem to belong to her. “Let them look.”

  “I like that answer, dirty girl.” Shifting in the booth, he worked his fingers in even farther. He scissored them inside her, and she felt herself contract around him. “I think that even if Frank came back to the table right now, you’d let me keep my hand buried between these pretty legs of yours. That’s how much you want what I can give you.”

  Her breath escaped her lips on a gasp. He was absolutely right—she was too far gone to care who saw. At the same time, his words made her desperate to come before Frank—before anyone—came back.

  The fact that they could, though? It was fucking hot.

  “I can feel you getting wetter.” She could feel the heat of his skin against her back, sealing them together. Her body trembled so hard as he worked his fingers in even farther still that she was glad of the support. “Now let’s see if we can make you come before you have to explain your filthy behavior to anyone else.”

  Before she could breathe, he slid his fingers in the rest of the way. They were thick and they were long, and when he rotated them inside her, it made her squirm in desperation for his cock. As she tried to rock subtly to enhance his movements, he rubbed his thumb over her clit. She jerked against him, teeth sinking into her tongue until she tasted blo
od.

  “If we were alone right now, I bet you’d be screaming.” He nipped at her ear, circled his thumb around the bud of her clit, and she felt tension start to gather, low and tight in her belly.

  “If we were alone right now, I’d be on top of you.” Her voice sounded like she hadn’t had a sip of water in years. “You wouldn’t be teasing me like this because you’d have your cock inside me.”

  This time he was the one who hissed out a breath. She grinned triumphantly, sliding her hand over to his lap. Stroking the firm muscle of his truly impressive thighs, she finally cupped his cock with her palm. It was fully erect, thick and tempting as it pushed against the fabric of his suit pants, begging for release.

  “Nope.” With a pained groan, he shifted so that she could no longer reach between his legs to stroke, to touch. “This is about you, and the orgasm you’re about to have.”

  “Says you,” she challenged, heels drumming on the floor as every single muscle in her body tensed, straining toward release.

  “You don’t have a choice.” He sounded mildly amused, as though she were nothing but a toy he was entertained with right this moment, but she heard the strain in his voice. This whole scene—his bossy hands, the public setting—it was really doing it for both of them. “Now come for me. Try not to be too loud when you do, unless you want every single person in this club to know that you just came all over my hand.”

  “Oh God.” His words were the release valve, as though her body had needed his permission to let go. He rubbed his thumb right over the top of her clit as he spoke, providing the last bit of delicious friction that she’d needed to go over the edge. “Fred.”

  “Good girl.” He continued to work on her, pulling a second wave out of her flesh on the heels of the first. “Give me one more.”

  She shook as pleasure worked its way outward from her core like an earthquake from its epicenter. She was sweating and could feel that her skin had flushed a deep red. Her face was probably contorted, her mouth hanging open, and in that moment she just couldn’t have cared less. The only thing that existed in her world was the release Fred had just milked from her hot, slick channel with his clever fingers.

  Spent, she melted against him, boneless. A small whimper escaped her as he removed his hand from its cozy space between her thighs, then smoothed her panties and shorts back into place. Tilting her head, she looked up at him, just in time to see him slide those fingers that had just been inside her into his mouth.

  “Good Lord, Fred.” Reaching for her beer, she took a long swallow, needing to dampen her suddenly dry mouth. “That was...wow.”

  “I know.” He smirked down at her, and she couldn’t help but laugh. Damn it. She liked him. This wasn’t news, exactly—why else would she have been so hurt by that damn letter—but right now she could no longer pretend.

  “I didn’t know you had it in you,” she admitted, finishing off her beer. “But I have to say... I liked it.”

  “Oh, Miss Marchande.” He leaned in, so close that she could feel the mist of his breath on her face. “I’ve got moves you’ve never seen.”

  “That, my friend, is a quote from Pretty Woman.” She couldn’t hold back the grin as he shrugged, caught out.

  “Made you smile, though. Definitely worth it.”

  “Let’s go somewhere.” Shifting in her seat, she ran her tongue along her lips and watched his eyes track the motion. “It seems I have a favor to repay.”

  She’d meant to ask him to come home with her. To let him see the way she lived—in the house she’d grown up in, where she still lived with Mamesie, two of her sisters and a brother-in-law. A house that was shabby and rundown and utterly unlike anything he’d likely experienced in his life.

  It would help put some distance back between them again, which would be good.

  Right now, though, she didn’t want that distance. She wanted to take him to a hotel room, strip them both naked and wring pleasure from their bodies until neither of them could see straight.

  “Nope.” Fred took a sip of his own drink as she cocked her head, certain she’d heard wrong.

  “What do you mean, nope?” Quick as a snake, she rested her palm in the juncture of his thighs to prove her point. Her artist’s fingers traced up and down the length of his cock, which was still swollen and needy. “I think your little friend here likes the idea.”

  “There’s nothing little about my friend, and you know it.” Fred arched an eyebrow, cast her a crooked grin that was so devastatingly sexy she almost straddled him in his seat, right there and then.

  “Then why not?”

  “We’ve tried doing things your way,” he reminded her, tapping a finger on her lips. “That involved you sneaking out of a hotel room in Amsterdam without telling me your name. A quickie in your shop before you threw me out. And a temper tantrum exorcised in a public tattoo clinic that violated your lease agreement and could get you thrown out.”

  “It was a publicity stunt, not a temper tantrum.” She sat up, straight and prim—her, Amy Marchande, prim—as she refuted his latter claim. She couldn’t do the same for the two former.

  “We just did a little test run, and you got wetter than you’ve ever been in your life when you let me take charge.” He tapped her on the lips again, and her tongue darted out to run over the tips. She tasted herself, salt and musk, and felt that slow burn between her legs ignite again.

  “From here on out, we’re going to do things my way. And trust me—you’re going to like it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU AND AMY looked pretty cozy last night.” Theo dropped two massive submarine sandwiches down on the small table in front of Fred before pulling out a chair and sitting down. Even though the small sandwich shop was only a five-minute drive from the plaza, Fred had never been inside. He could already tell he’d be back, and not just for the food, which his nose told him was going to be delicious. He was digging the understated décor, and by understated, he meant non-existent—a bare concrete floor, exposed studs in the walls, and a computer printout held up with masking tape pointing out the route to the washrooms.

  “Is this where you pull some big-brother crap and warn me not to touch your sister?” Fred snorted as he peeled the wrapper off his sandwich. Lobster rolls—his favorite. “I’m still not completely understanding why you call the Marchande girls your sisters. Aren’t you living with one?”

  “One question at a time.” Theo held up his index finger. “When I got back to the table last night, you and Amy looked sweaty and guilty. A year ago, I would have hauled you out of that booth and beat your ass for touching her.”

  “You could have tried.” Fred grinned before taking a big bite of his sandwich, the salty flavors exploding on his tongue. “What changed?”

  “Meg punched me in the solar plexus, if you must know.” Theo glowered. “When she was hooking up with John. Apparently women don’t like it when we tell them who they can sleep with.”

  “That’s very evolved of you,” Fred replied dryly. “I don’t know her that well yet, but something tells me that if you tried to do the same thing to Amy, you’d wake up with the word dickhead tattooed on your forehead.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Theo shuddered. “I remember once, back when we were kids. I was over at their house and we were all playing hide-and-seek. I thought it would be funny to hide all her Barbie dolls.”

  “I’m guessing that didn’t go the way you thought it would?” Fred leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his soft drink.

  “She didn’t say anything right then, just crossed her arms and looked at me. Like a child of the corn, you know?” Theo snorted out a laugh. “I thought that would be the end of it. Then a week later, I woke up to a freak show in my own damn bedroom. She’d painted all those Barbies that I’d hidden to look like zombies, then hung them all over my room. It was the freakiest shit I’ve ever seen. Wh
en I got all self-righteous about it, she just laughed and laughed. Bet me ten bucks I’d never touch her dolls again.”

  “Bet she was right.” Fred tried to hide his grin but couldn’t. “Damn, that’s...twisted. And brilliant, really.”

  “You’ve just summed up Amy Marchande perfectly.” Theo picked up a napkin and wiped his hands.

  “How did she get into your room at night, if you were all kids?” Fred swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, then eyed the deli counter, contemplating a second. “Do I want to know?”

  “We moved in next door to the Marchandes when we were all kids.” Theo crumpled his empty sandwich wrapper into a ball. “We were all friends, though I was closest to Jo. She used to climb the tree outside my room and sneak in my window. That’s what Amy did, too.”

  “And Jo is the one you’re now living with?” Fred furrowed his brow. “Isn’t that like dating your sister?”

  “I’ve never thought of Jo like my sister.” Theo grinned, then pushed himself back from the table with a groan. “Man, I haven’t had a lobster roll in years. So good.”

  “I’ll get another if you will.” Fred slurped the last of his drink.

  “Can’t.” Theo shook his head.

  “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips?” Fred smirked across the table at his friend, enjoying the conversation. He and Frank and Theo had been tight once upon a time, but they’d drifted. It was nice to catch up.

  “Hardly.” Theo flexed a bicep that was pretty impressive for someone who worked at a desk. “Nah, there’s a big family dinner tonight. Meg’s cooking—that’s what she does, she’s a caterer—and she’s like a little Ukrainian baba about it. If you don’t stuff your face with three servings, her feelings get hurt.”

  “Family dinner?” Fred sat up straight at the mention.

  “Uh-huh.” Theo eyed him warily.

  “Who will be there?” His voice was all innocence, but he pinned Theo with a charming smile.

  “Weird question, bro, but I’ll indulge you. Meg and John—you met them last night. Me and Jo. Beth is the sister closest in age to Amy, and her fiancé, Ford. Then Amy, and the girls’ mom, Mamesie.” Theo arched an eyebrow. “Shall I have Meg fax over the menu for your approval as well?”