by Serena Bell
“I don’t know.” I hesitate. “But you could buy some and try it.” Not on Brody, I add, silently, riding an unexpected wave of possessiveness.
We move on to the little rubber clit stimulator—always a crowd pleaser—then the ben wa balls. And I get a dropping sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’m about to do something outrageous, definitely nothing like picking a random scarf out of the drawer.
“So these—” I hold up the ben wa balls. “—are for strengthening your Kegel muscles, and also, if you leave them in, the effort to hold them in place can be very pleasurable. And they’re incredibly discreet. I could have two in right now, and you’d never know it.” I shrug. “I might.”
I wait a beat. Two beats. Three. Then I check. Just to see.
His eyes are a thousand degrees of heat. They’re burning through me. I’m going to go up in flames. My inner muscles clench around the (non-existent) ben wa balls.
I should’ve followed my impulse before the party. I’d thought about it a long time, holding an unopened box in my palm. I’d even taken them out—committing myself to the purchase—balancing their heavy, tantalizing weight in my palm. And then I’d chickened out of inserting them.
I pass the demo balls around.
“I’ve never been a balls girl,” one of the partiers says, both speculatively and impishly. “But these could change my mind.”
Snickers.
“Yeah, but it would be awkward if yours were bigger than his,” another guest says.
I look up and discover Brody smirking at me. He shakes his head.
My chest wings open like a bird taking off. It’s the smirk. Scowling Brody, I can deal with. Smirking, not so much.
Fight fire with fire, I think, and meet his amused eyes with a tease in my own. His expression changes—dark lust now.
I go hot all over, in waves.
“What’s next?” a partier demands, yanking me back to my task. Every group is different, I’m finding. These women are ready to roll with the harder-core toys when I bring them out. In general, they’ve been a rowdy crew, demolishing wine at an alarming speed. They’re almost all divorced, no-nonsense, and no-holds-barred.
Brody leans back against the edge of the cabin door, watching. Crosses his arms. His gaze is on me now. I don’t have to speculate about where his attention is—it’s fully mine. And the intensity of it, of that green-eyed fire, streaks hot through me, like the ghost flickers that sparklers leave behind.
The vibrators are causing so much joy in this crowd. This is a group that’ll turn every last one on, teasing their fingertips and their thighs before handing them back. I pass a thumb over the head of something hot pink and pleasingly smooth, then look up to find Brody with his eyes so languorously heavy that I almost drop the toy. Lashes practically touching his cheeks.
The buzzing toy in my hand doesn’t look like a real penis, but I wonder what those eyes would do if I slicked my thumb over his.
I raise my eyebrows at him, asking, and he narrows his eyes at me, mock anger, but I know he’s not really mad, because a corner of his mouth curls up.
The party goes from rowdy to rowdier. The stories they’re sharing are hilarious and hair-raising. Rush Creek is small enough that the divorced population is pretty incestuous. Apparently, it’s not uncommon to sleep with the parent of one of your kids’ friends. Or your kid’s pediatrician. Teacher. Basketball coach.
“Wait, basketball coach?” one of the women, Amy Pearson, asks. She has thick red hair, lots of freckles, and a curvy body shown to its best advantage by a great pair of jeans and a scoop necked top.
They’re all still laughing except her.
Then Cara Yun—dark-haired, slender, wearing a calico wrap-dress—says his name. He’s young, mid-twenties, and new as of last year, so I don’t remember him from high school. Apparently he’s also hard-bodied, raring to go 24/7, and enthusiastic about her pleasure. She’s having multiple orgasms for the first time in her life. “Benton’s the first guy who’s willing to put in the work.”
Amy’s gone pale. “Wait,” she says again. My heartrate ticks up. “Benton? Like Benton Frusk?”
Cara nods.
“You’re sleeping with Ben?”
“Wait, you’re sleeping with Ben?”
Things go off the rails then, Amy and Cara both on their feet, yelling, each saying they’d seen him first, that the other knew she liked him.
The other women are dead quiet for at least five seconds, then some dive in, some take sides, some try to soothe their yelling friends. I’m on my feet and calling for order. I’m hoping to return the group to their party spirit and open wallets, but tantrumming toddlers have nothing on this group, and as the fray escalates, the boat literally starts rocking.
“Enough.” The voice is deep, decisive, and calm.
Brody has stepped into the bow, into the middle of our group, where he stands with his arms crossed, which makes his forearms and biceps bulge. His ink flares, and so does something between my legs.
“Take your differences elsewhere. This is a party.”
Our clients have gone silent. I’m apparently not the only one impressed by Brody’s ability to take charge. They’re all staring at him, rapt, Benton Frusk temporarily forgotten.
Brody turns and goes back to the helm, depriving me of the view. The party feels like it must be over, and this isn’t the closing ceremony I’d hoped for. I’m aware I have about five seconds to rescue it. Not enough time to think. I have to improvise.
Luckily, I have some recent experience with worthless men like this two-timing coach, and there’s one super important thing I know about them.
They don’t deserve the women they mess with.
“Amy,” I say. “Cara.”
They both turn to look at me.
“He’s not worth it.”
I’m saying it about Benton Frusk, but I’m thinking it about Werner.
“He would be lucky to have either of you.”
I’m not just saying this to make them feel better. I like them both. I just met them tonight, but you’d be surprised how much of a feel you can get for someone by talking about sex with her for an hour-plus. Sex isn’t just sex, as I’m discovering. It’s wrapped up with everything. Childhood issues, current illness. Your self esteem, your friendships. Frustration. Loss. Hope.
It’s wrapped up with being human and being fragile and being strong.
So I feel like I know a little bit about Amy and Cara, just from watching them drink wine and support their friends and lose their stuff.
I cross my arms. “And if he doesn’t know that he’d be lucky to have either of you, then he definitely doesn’t deserve both of you.”
They both stare at me. Then, warily, they look at each other.
“Amy?” Cara asks.
“Mmm-hmm?” Amy says.
“Want to make Benton Frusk regret some life decisions?”
A smile creeps over Amy’s face, and the two women shake on it.
In the relative quiet, I bring out the order forms—clearly I’m not going to sell any more product after that—and Brody pilots the boat back to the marina.
12
Rachel
“Whew,” he says, when they’re all gone.
We’re standing on the dock, catching our breath, coming down from the intensity of the party. It’s dusk now, the sun’s dipped below the horizon, the sky is starting to darken. He’s close to me, the warmth streaming off his body, his leather and musk scent. I’m hyper aware of him. I’ve spent the last hour talking about sex, handling model penises, and watching Brody look at me like he wants to devour me. It’s enough to make a girl buy stock in panties.
“Is that going to happen a lot?”
I shake my head. “Pretty sure Benton Frusk is going to be more careful about his multi-tasking after the two of them are done with him.”
“That was cool.” He ducks his head, not quite looking at me. “What you said to them. You can think on your feet.
I wish I could.”
“You did,” I say.
“Yeah, but I was all brawn. You were finesse.”
I laugh at that. “I’m flattered, but—I think it was more desperation than finesse.”
“Well, you’re good at that. Keeping things from blowing up. Keeping the party on track.”
“Thanks.” I duck my head.
“And the other thing, too. Explaining the products. Selling them.”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze, green and hungry. He’s staring at me. Not looking away. It’s almost too much. I have the ridiculous thought that Brody limits his eye contact because it’s a controlled substance. And he doesn’t talk because he doesn’t need to. His body is eloquent. Green eyes, the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, his clenched fists.
All that tension sets up an answering coil of heat in my body.
“There’s something I need to know.” His voice has dropped, low and husky.
“What’s that?” My own voice is barely audible.
“Do you?”
I don’t know what he’s asking, but I feel like he’s cast a spell over me. I can’t move. I’m just—waiting. For what’s already happening. Whatever he wants to know, the question is heavy with intent.
“Do I what?” I dare.
“Have two in right now?”
I’m still puzzled.
He holds his hand out. My gaze drops to it. He rolls two invisible, imaginary ben wa balls in his palm, and the sparklers in my body give way to fireworks.
I make a small helpless sound, and his pupils flare, wide and needy.
“Brody—”
His voice is rough. “Because it’s all I can think about.”
I shake my head. “No. But—you’re making me wish I did.”
It’s his turn to utter a dark, wordless groan. Because we both know what I mean. That I need to be full. Filled.
I’m breathless. I can feel the slick of my body’s lube on the swollen lips of my sex.
He catches me as my knees sag, tugs me into his arms, and kisses me with a rough desperate sound. His hands cup my head, his mouth opens and slants over mine, and I can’t breathe or think. I clutch his head, his hair, his shoulders. His thigh slides between mine, and I can’t help myself, I move against it, hungry and helpless.
And then as fast as it started, like a summer thunderstorm, it’s over, and he steps back. I’m left panting, revved up, needy. I want to grab him and hold him—but I don’t.
“I—” Brody attempts. For a split second I’m sure he’s going to apologize and I will have to disembowel him, but he shakes his head. “Wow, Rachel.”
My voice is shaky. “Can we do that again?”
He laughs, a honey-rough, perfect sound. Then he sobers, the rare and beautiful smile falling away. “Can we talk a minute first?”
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s not your line.”
“I know. But I don’t think on my feet, like I said.”
Part of me doesn’t want to talk. It just wants to do, to keep kissing and touching.
To be filled.
But it’s starting to rain now, just a few droplets, and if our situations were reversed, I know I’d want him to hear me out. Not rush me.
I say, “Maybe in the truck?”
We climb up. He sets both his hands on the steering wheel, but doesn’t start the engine. He just sits there. The silence rolls out between us. The windows are down. I can hear us breathing, even above the shrill sound of tree frogs and crickets.
“I know this whole thing is weird. Me being your brother’s friend, and all.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“And you’re selling sex toys on my boat.”
“Relationship enhancement products,” I say, reflexively, which makes me smile.
Actually, I feel a lot like smiling. My lips—no, my whole mouth, including my tongue and teeth—are tingling, and my body’s on fire. Or melted. I can’t tell which. I just know I want to reach for him so badly, to drown my need in him.
“But all that aside. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long, long time.”
Okay, now, that’s a surprise. “You have?”
“Mmm-hmm. I’m not going to put a date on it, because I don’t want to go to jail.”
I laugh, and then grind to a halt. “Wait. You’re saying you didn’t start feeling this way just since I’ve been back in Rush Creek.”
He shakes his head. “Oh, no. Way before that.”
Way before? “So why were you always so curt with me?”
He raises his eyebrows like this might be the dumbest question anyone’s ever asked. “Self-preservation?”
“I thought you hated me,” I admit.
“Oh, Rachel,” he says helplessly. “Jesus. No.” He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the seat.
“Me too. I mean, I’ve wanted this for a long time, too.”
His eyes pop open. It’s his turn to look startled.
“What?” I say. “Did you think I was the one woman who was immune to your charms?”
“I’m not that charming.”
Oddly enough, I think he means it.
“You are. And I’m not. Immune. I’m not.”
“The point is,” he says, “I want to kiss you again.”
Ohhh. Okay, then.
“You could,” I whisper, unable to look away from his mouth. It’s full and soft and I can practically already feel it. The slide of his tongue, the taste of him.
“Don’t tempt me.”
It’s a growl.
“What if…” My breath is a hot mess, rapid and ragged. “What if I want to tempt you?”
“Rachel,” he warns. The roughness in his voice does terrible, wonderful things to my nipples, which in turn send a shot of heat to the needy place between my legs. “I think we both know it’s a bad idea. You’re just off a bad breakup—”
“Connor told you that?”
“Uh-huh. And I’m off a bad breakup.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Connor’s information stream is one-way, I guess.
He waves a hand, as if to say it doesn’t matter, but of course, I’m curious.
“And Connor has been my best friend my whole life.”
“Also fair,” I say. “But Brody?”
“Yes?” he says.
“I don’t care.”
And then I kiss him.
Brody
Rachel’s mouth is soft and lush and hungry. She kisses me like she can’t get enough, moaning her pleasure, and I kiss her right back, licking into the softness, into the wine-taste of her. Her hands come up, thrusting into my hair, and the pull on my scalp tugs a hundred other sensitive places. I was hard before her lips touched mine, but now I’m hard enough that it hurts, the best-ever ache.
She crawls over and straddles me, pressing her heat against my throbbing cock.
Holy shit, she feels good. Her weight where I want it, my hands suddenly filled with her curves. I yank her close, closer, and thrust up against her heat.
She’s frantic, tipping her hips, rubbing along my length.
I break the kiss and say, breathless, “Keep that up, and I’m going to come in my pants like a teenager.”
“I want that. I want to make you feel good.”
“You’re already making me feel good. Kiss me again.”
We kiss and kiss. I can’t get enough. It’s a good thing I didn’t know any of this about Rachel—how soft her tits feel in my hands; how hard her nipples get when she’s turned on, especially in the cool night air; that she whimpers each time she rolls her hips.
I kiss her mouth, slide my lips along her jaw to find her earlobe, soft as satin, and the patch of smooth, tender skin just behind it. I breathe against the shell of her ear, loving the jerk of her hips, her broken moan. With the tip of my tongue, I chase that sensation for her, and am rewarded with more rubbing, more moaning.
She is so fucking hot.
I cup both her breasts i
n my hands. They overflow my grasp, and it’s my turn to moan and jerk against her, involuntarily, and for a second I almost lose control. Then I find it again, and stroke her through her t-shirt, loving the softness, the way her head rolls back and another sound, one I haven’t heard before, escapes her lips. A needy little huff of breath.
I’m hungry for more. I yank her shirt up and find her bra underneath, dip my head to lick one hard peak through the thin lace of a bra whose color I can’t make out in the dim cab.
“Brody,” she pleads, so I lick again, circling, imagining that I can draw the tension there to a perfect, sweet, crisis. With my hand, I work the other nipple, and she finds a steady rhythm against me.
I grasp her hips to make her stop, and she whimpers again. “Please.”
“Not yet.”
I reach behind her and unhook her bra. The moment I release the strap, she sighs, and when I reach to touch her, both hands on those soft, perfect globes, she makes a strangled sound of pleasure and relief.
I pinch her nipples lightly, so lightly, and work them patiently while I spread my thighs a little to make it impossible for her to rub off on me.
“Stop teasing.”
“It’s too fun.”
“You’re killing me.”
She reaches between us. For the button of my jeans. Lust makes her clumsy, and she grapples unsuccessfully.
I shake my head.
“I want you,” she says. “You’ve got to have a condom in here somewhere.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. Gently. And shift her back, just a little. Using the spread of my thighs and the press of my palms to keep her at a safe distance.
“We should stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” she says breathlessly, which almost tears through my self-control.
But this is Rachel. Rachel.
I’ve had a lot of sex in trucks, and I’d bet she hasn’t had any.
“I don’t want to stop either,” I say. “I want to know if you’ll come like this. My fingers on your nipples and your pussy rubbing off on my cock. I want to know what sounds you make when you come. What you look like. How flushed you get. I want to know if you’ll beg me if I take too long.”