Joy Ride

by Lauren Blakely

  But I can’t walk around this hard. This aroused. This immensely turned on by everything she does.

  She’s killing me, and she doesn’t even know it.

  I groan as I wrap my fist tighter. I shuttle my palm up and down, rocking into it. My jeans slide down my hips, and the belt buckle smacks the door with every tug.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I jerk faster.

  Tighter.

  Rougher.

  I’m fucking my fist, like the world is on fire. My body is on fire. Unholy pleasure sizzles under my skin as I fight for some goddamn relief.

  Every muscle in me is tight. Tense. Wound the fuck up from her.

  Her sweet hair in my nose.

  Her face on my shoulder.

  Her nudges, her looks, her smile, her tits. Her majestic, wonderful tits.

  God, I want to tear off her clothes and slam her to the wall. I want to crush her lips with my mouth, taste her tongue, suck on her neck. Feast on those tits until I get down on my knees and bury my tongue in her pussy.

  I burn. Everywhere. Lust rattles through my bones as I imagine that first taste. How wet she’d be. How sweet she’d taste. How dizzy it would make me to sink my face between her legs and eat her till she came all the fuck over my jaw.

  I want to drive her to the brink of insanity, like she’s done to me. I want her crazy with desire, grabbing my hair, and moaning my name until she can’t stop.

  I groan so loudly it’s criminal. The noises I make could wake the neighbors. I don’t give a shit. Lust surges down my spine, a warning shot. I’m close, so damn close, and I’m desperate.

  I hate how I feel, but I fucking love how this feels, too. I have never needed a release more. Never.

  My mind trips back to a few minutes ago. To the flash of that perfect nipple, tipped up, begging me to suck on it. That nipple called out to me. I wanted to bite it. Wanted to see how much of her breast fits in my mouth.

  I want her to feel this same goddamn frustration.

  With my other hand, I grip my balls hard, tugging as I jack my cock more roughly. Another drop of liquid beads at the head, and I spread it down my shaft, barely coating me. Who fucking cares. I don’t need lube or lotion for this.

  Smack goes my belt buckle against the door.

  Slap goes my hand on my dick.

  Henley, Henley, Henley goes my brain.

  I grunt like an animal, a fucking desperate man.

  If there’s a God, Henley will be in her apartment any second, jamming her hand down her panties and fucking herself with her fingers.

  And that’s it.

  The flip switches as I think of her sweet, hot pussy. There’s no place I’d rather be than inside it. There’s no one I want but her.

  My quads tighten. My muscles burn, and a shock of pleasure surges down my spine.

  Seconds later, I’m there.

  I come hard in my hand. It feels fucking amazing, like silver sparks raining from the sky.

  But the pleasure ends far too quickly. It subsides in mere seconds, and I’m left with this empty, terrible want as I stand against my door, my belt undone, and my hand coated in my orgasm.

  The trouble is I’m not sure she’s out of my system.

  In fact, as I wash my hands, I peer behind me in the mirror’s reflection. The towels she used are neatly hung. The bubble bath lines the shelf. The tub is pristine.

  She did everything she said a good girlfriend would do. It’s almost like she was never here at all. And as I brush my teeth, nearly chewing through a new brush, I can’t stop thinking about her.

  I leave the bathroom and strip down to nothing, and she’s still in my head. When I get into bed, I wish she was stepping out of the bath, drying off, and wandering into my room.

  With that in mind, I try again to get her out of my system. Lying on the white sheets, I picture her climbing over me, riding my face.

  Then in the morning, as I shower, she’s on her knees taking my cock in her mouth, letting me fuck her lips.

  Maybe, just maybe, she’s out of my system now.

  21

  Henley’s To-Do List

  * * *

  —Meet John to discuss strategy.

  * * *

  —Prep for appointment with lawyer.

  * * *

  —Find new smoothie mix that makes me not give a crap about Max, that jerk.

  * * *

  —Drink it up. It isn’t getting any easier building this Lambo with him.

  * * *

  —Practice my game face.

  * * *

  —Don’t let on the ice-age treatment bothers me.

  22

  I ring the buzzer of the walk-up on 18th Street, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the third floor.

  A flower planter hangs from the window as promised—a cheery green one, bursting with tiger lilies. Fall flowers, Josie told me.

  I manage a smile, thinking of the woman my brother loves. Chase and Josie have re-moved in together. They found a new pad in Chelsea, and they’re having a mini housewarming party with the gang.

  Mia suggested I bring a bottle of wine and a kickass new Scrabble dictionary, so that’s what I’ve got in hand. As I wait, I glance behind me at the tree-lined block. A twenty-something brunette in sunglasses walks a pug down the street, and for a brief second, I imagine Henley.

  I jerk my head away.

  Somehow, I’ve managed to work with her for the last week since Bubble-Bath-Nipplegate.

  It hasn’t been easy, but we’ve pulled it off, mostly by taking turns on the Lambo. It’s been living in my shop since I have more room. In the last week of working on the car, the network shot a few promos, including one with the actor Brick Wilson, as well as Henley and me. The buffer of Brick made it easier to deal with her.

  When the buzzer sounds, I let thoughts of the show go as I head into Chase’s building. I walk up two flights of steps to a long hallway on the third floor. My little brother stands in the doorway. Growing up, he was the happiest fella in the world, and that’s even truer now that he and Josie are officially an item. His hazel eyes shine.

  “Glad you could make it. I thought I’d have to surgically remove you from a Ferrari or an Aston Martin to get you here,” he says, then claps me on the back. “You’ve been working hard?”

  “Is there any other kind of work?”

  Chase pretends to stare at the ceiling. “Nope.” He gestures me into his and Josie’s new digs. I’ve seen his place once before, and it’s perfect for them—a one-bedroom with exposed brick walls and lots of light. On the wall by the door is a framed cartoon drawing of a cat in an apron serving cupcakes to a small dog. It has Nick Hammer’s style all over it. I suspect the cartoonist drew it for his sister, and the signature in the corner confirms that. Nick is parked on the couch with his wife, Harper, next to him. They wave hello, and I say hi. On the coffee table in the living room, a huge bouquet of daisies spills over the edge of a vase, and a Scrabble board sits next to it. I spot Wyatt and Natalie in the kitchen, leaning into the fridge.

  “Max!” Josie rushes over and throws her arms around me. “So good to see you. How did the monkey bread go over?”

  “Great,” I say, then look around, eager to move to a new topic.

  She narrows her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s amazing. Who doesn’t love monkey bread?”

  Chase gives me a studious stare as he taps his head. “Monkey bread? Hmm. Wait, I’ve got it.” He snaps his fingers. “You bought monkey bread for Henley.”

  I scoff. Josie laughs.

  “Did he?” Chase asks Josie.

  She shrugs. “He didn’t tell me who he bought it for. He just said it was a gift for a girl, and I said if she liked the monkey bread, then next time he should get her cinnamon rolls.”

  “Ooh, get me cinnamon rolls, pretty please.”

  The comment comes from Spencer, who had bounded up the steps with his wife, Charlotte, to join us in the entryway. “I love cinnamon
rolls. Please say they’re for me.”

  “Are you a girl?” Nick tosses out from the couch to his best buddy.

  Spencer’s eyes drift downward. “Nope. But men can like cinnamon rolls.”

  Nick rolls his eyes from behind his glasses. “She said he was getting them for a girl, dickhead. That’s why I said it.”

  “Who is Max buying cinnamon rolls for?” Harper calls out from her spot next to Nick.

  “Yes, inquiring minds want to know,” Charlotte chimes in.

  I grit my teeth and shove past them into the kitchen, setting down the wine and the wrapped gift.

  “Ooh, Maxi-boy likes someone,” Wyatt says as he strides through the kitchen, holding a beer.

  “How about we talk about Chase and Josie’s new apartment, not who I bought fucking baked goods for,” I say.

  The women all laugh. “Max,” Josie says softly, setting her hand on my back as the others wander into the living room, “if you ever need girl advice, just ask me. Don’t worry about these wieners. I’ll help you. I adore you.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  She tugs me aside, pulling me near the fridge and as out of earshot as possible. “Seriously. Are you okay? You’re grouchy, and I know you’ve got a natural grouch in you, but you seem grouchier than usual.”

  “He hasn’t gotten laid in a while, probably,” Chase says as he walks by.

  Josie shoots him a shut up now stare.

  “What? He alluded to it on the bike ride the other day,” Chase says, and he’s right. Not that I blabber about my sex life to him, but when we were riding one morning, he made a comment about a hot woman who rode past us, saying I should chase her, and I said it had been a while.

  “Is it Henley?” Josie asks.

  I don’t say anything. My silence is my yes.

  “You like her?”

  “No, I don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t like her at all. Not one bit.”

  Josie gives me a smile then brushes a strand of pink-tipped hair off her neck. “Got it. But if you were to like her, she probably likes you, too.”

  I snap my head to stare at her. “Why would you say that?”

  “I saw one of the web promos for the car you’re building for the detective show. The one with you, Brick, and Henley. I could see it in her eyes.”

  Henley’s chocolate-brown eyes with flecks of gold. Her eyes that are like a color wheel for her emotions. They darken when she’s angry; they lighten when she’s vulnerable.

  Josie moves to take a plate of appetizers to the living room, while Chase grips my shoulder. “Dude, she’s right. You’re like Captain Grouchy Pants.”

  I look away, glancing at the thermostat on the wall. I put my hand on it, sliding up the needle. “Hey Chase, since this a housewarming party, can I just turn up the heat and call it good?”

  A slow clap sounds from the couch. Spencer applauds me with a proud shine in his eyes. “Well done. I doff my pun hat to you.”

  “Glad I could entertain you.”

  That’s how I know I’m not really affected by Henley. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to make jokes. I wouldn’t enjoy the meal. I wouldn’t have fun with my friends.

  I do all of those things, thank you very much. There’s not an ounce of grouch in me.

  I can’t say the same for Henley the next time I see her.

  23

  Henley taps the toe of her combat boot against the sidewalk as if she’s going to jackhammer a hole through the concrete. She takes an inhalation so deep it makes her shoulders rise. Breath seems to puff from her nostrils.

  Let’s play Why Does Henley Hate Me Today?

  Might it still be because I kicked her out of my house? We haven’t exactly played the what makes a good girlfriend or boyfriend game since that night. Or is there lingering animosity over the pink slip I gave her five years ago? Let’s just be safe and assume it’s both.

  The coffee I picked up for her isn’t likely to abate her disdain. I’ve got a steaming cup in each hand from the deli around the corner, the only place nearby open this early on a Sunday.

  I walk the final distance to her, crossing the small lot in front of my garage and hand her a cup. “Good morning, sunshine.”

  She doesn’t take the cup. “I don’t like coffee.”

  “Who doesn’t like coffee?”

  “People who don’t like coffee, that’s who. I’ve never liked it,” she adds with a defiant little lift of her chin.

  “Never?” I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “When did you last try it?”

  “Shortly after college. Didn’t like it then, either.”

  Shortly after college is when she worked for me. “You should try it again.”

  “Does coffee change?”

  “No. But tastes do. Maybe your tastes have changed.”

  She stares at me over the top of her sunglasses, pink with sparkles on the frame. They make me think of the unicorn shirt she wore to the meeting at Thalia’s—they’re that cute. They contrast with her eyes, so dark this morning they’re nearly black. “I highly doubt my tastes have changed in five years.”

  Five years. The subtext of this conversation isn’t lost on me.

  I raise my hands, the two blue cups I’m holding like white flags. “What do you like to drink, then?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes one of the cups, yanking it from my hand. “Do you have sugar?”

  “In my pocket,” I say, grabbing a few packs for her. “So you like it sweet?”

  She adopts a too-big smile. “Sweetness helps. We’ll see if this is enough.”

  She stuffs the sugars into her giant black purse. Something silky hangs over the edge of the purse, like she has a change of clothes in there. She jams the fabric back inside. In her other hand is a pad of paper. It looks like the kind you snag from a hotel. I check out the name. The Hudson over on 58th, not far from here. The wheels in my brain turn. The Hudson is the ultimate boutique hotel for the young and beautiful and horny. It’s the kind of hotel you check into when you want to have hot hotel sex. Maybe that’s why she arrived early. Maybe that’s why she has extra clothes in her bag. Maybe she fucking spent the night in one of those no-sleeping-allowed-only-fucking-is-permitted beds.

  I burn with jealousy. “Late night at the Hudson?”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes try to laser off my face as she waggles the note pad in her hand, like it’s a weapon she could fire off at me any second. “This is our to-do list. We have a lot to tackle today. I was hoping you would’ve been early.”

  I make a big production of looking at my watch. I tap the face. I show her the hands. “It’s nine a.m. sharp. This is when we agreed to meet.”

  “I was here at eight forty-five,” she says, straightening her shoulders.

  “Would you like a gold star for punctuality?” I ask as I slide the key into the lock and open the door. The alarm sounds its warning, and I enter a series of numbers, then another set before it turns off.

  “No, I don’t care about whatever little rewards you do or don’t feel like bestowing at your whim.”

  “You think I bestow stars at whim? There’s a detailed system in place listing qualifications for gold, silver, and bronze. No whim involved, tiger,” I say, then down some of the coffee. It’s burn-your-tongue-off hot. Somehow, this suits me fine today.

  She huffs. “My, my, aren’t you a particular one.”

  “Says the woman who’s giving me a hard time for showing up on the dot.”

  “I’m here early because I’m worried about the seat,” she says, as she follows me into the small front office. I unlock the side door into the garage. It’s like a bank vault in here some days, given what we store inside.

  “What about the seat?” I survey the garage, confirming the vehicles that slept over are still here. The Lambo is safe and sound, as well as a canary-yellow 1971 Dodge Challenger that Sam has been taking the lead on restoring. He asked me the other day for a little help on the engine to make it sing, b
ut otherwise he’s doing a great job on his own, coming in after hours and on weekends to work on it. We’ve got a Chevelle here, too.

  I inhale deeply. Ah, the scent of motor oil and leather. It’s better than freshly ground coffee.

  Henley sets her purse on a chair. She takes the lid off the coffee, tears open a few sugar packets, and pours them into the drink. “I did some research on Brick’s height,” Henley says, as she drops the empty packets into a nearby trash bin.

  “Okay,” I say, as I run a hand on the cherry-red hood of the Lambo. “Did you sleep well last night, girl?” I whisper to the car.

  Laughter booms behind me. I swivel around. Henley cackles, her mouth wide open. “Did you just talk to the car?”

  “Of course,” I say, owning my affection for this beauty. I stroke the hood, as if she’s a loyal dog and I’m petting her in the morning. “She likes a nice, tender touch when she wakes up.”

  “Don’t we all,” she mutters, and I snap up my head and meet her eyes. Her sunglasses are off now; she wears them like a headband.

  “Do we all?” I ask, turning her words around on her.

  She narrows her eyes. Bitter dark chocolate is their color. “The seat, Max. Let’s talk about the seat.”

  “What’s wrong with the seat?”

  She grabs her phone from her back pocket, stands next to me, and shows me a browser window with Brick Wilson’s IMDB info.

  “He is six foot four, right?” I take another drink of the near-boiling beverage. I pretend it’s a vitamin that fortifies me against her.

  A small smile plays on her lips as she shakes her head. “I was researching him last night. Don’t get me wrong. He’s one tall man, but he’s not six foot four.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I watched the video of the three of us, then I studied the publicity shot.”

  “And?” I ask, intrigued to see where she’s going.

  “He’s shorter than you,” she says, a hint of excitement in her tone, as if she’s uncovered a clue to buried treasure. “By about an inch.”