Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly #2)

by Lauren Layne

  “Don’t stop,” I say, tightening my legs around his waist in a plea. “Please don’t stop.”

  The anger fades from his expression, and it’s replaced by something that looks like possession. He pushes me back, lowering his mouth to my breasts as his hand slides down my body to where we’re joined.

  His tongue works over my nipple as his fingers play with my clit, all the while sliding forward, working inside me in slow, short movements until at last he’s able to ease all the way inside me.

  We both groan as he buries himself completely, and he closes his eyes for a minute, staying perfectly still, as though fighting for control.

  I lift a hand to his cheek—wanting, needing him to look at me.

  But he resists my pull, instead looking down as he withdraws all the way from me before plunging back inside.

  It’s hard, and it’s good, and I rear up, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face there as he grabs my ass, pulling me to the very edge of the table so he can slam into me again and again.

  He was gentle before, but it’s not gentle now, and I’m surprised to find I relish every bit of roughness. The scratch of his stubble on my cheek, the pressure of his fingers on my flesh, the way I’m stretched to the max around him, my legs spread wide.

  Then Noah adjusts the angle, shifting my lower body slightly so that every thrust rubs against me, sending little bursts of fireworks through my head.

  I wiggle my hips, needing it faster, more, and Noah complies. We’re both sweaty now, his shoulders slick against my palms, our bodies sliding together in delicious friction with only the sound of our breathing and the wet, sweet sound of really good sex.

  I’m so focusing on the good that I don’t see the really good coming until the orgasm is right there, ripping through me like a freight train.

  I scratch at his back as I pulse around him, and Noah lets out a harsh shout before wrapping his arms around me, nearly crushing me to him as he slams into me one more time, erupting with a quiet string of curses.

  I hear my name mingled in among the fucks, and I don’t even mind.

  Heck, I can’t even think. Or breathe. Or do anything but hold on to him for dear life.

  We stay that way for several moments, my face buried in his neck, his in mine, and the aftermath is surprisingly intimate for a coupling that was frantic and dirty and rough.

  He pulls back slowly, still avoiding my eyes, and I wince slightly, both at the uncomfortable mess between my thighs and at the slight soreness.

  “I’ll get you a cloth,” he mutters, tugging up the shorts that fell to his feet.

  “Nah,” I wave my hand, trying to play it cool, like I deal with this sort of situation all the time. “I’m going to run upstairs and rinse off.”

  He nods awkwardly. “I’ll reheat the food?”

  The question is clear, as though he’s terrified that now that we’ve screwed, I’ll read too much into the fact that we’re sharing a meal.

  “Sure, whatever,” I say with a casual shrug, as though it doesn’t make a difference to me one way or the other.

  I hop down and pull my dress back over my head, searching around for my panties, scooping them up like it’s no big thing before I head toward the stairs.

  Yup, definitely tender, I realize as I start up the steps. I smile, feeling an odd sort of feminine pride. A lifetime of practical celibacy, and here I am tying guys to beds and having sex on kitchen tables.

  But in the back of my mind, something’s bothering me.

  It’s not until I’m in the shower that it hits me, and my happy smile slips away with the slow dawn of confused dismay.

  Noah Maxwell has been in my bed, and I’ve been in his, and we’ve just gone at it in the kitchen…

  And not once, in all of those times, has he kissed me.

  Not since that first day in Home Depot, and I’m not sure we can count that since it was all for show and he was unimpressed.

  I have no idea what the lack of kissing means.

  But I’m pretty sure it can’t be good.

  Noah

  Twenty-four hours after screwing one of the most famous girls in the country—and liking it a hell of a lot—I want to do it all over again.

  And again. And again.

  Which is exactly why I need to get out of here. Away from the house, away from her before we turn this fling into something…dangerous.

  I send a quick text to the boys. Vaughn has to work late, but Finn’s up for grabbing a drink, so after feeding Ranger, I grab the keys and head toward the truck.

  Truthfully, I feel a bit like a shit avoiding Jenny like this—again. But then, she hasn’t sought me out all day either, so I have to think we’re on the same page about that. Last night wasn’t quite a mistake—it felt too fucking good for that. But it sure as hell wasn’t smart either.

  The light’s on in her bedroom window as I approach the main house, and I wince when I see the window open. Maybe I should find a place to start parking the truck other than the gravel driveway right outside her window.

  I brace myself for the familiar sight of her blond head popping out the window the second she hears the crunch of my boots on the gravel, but there’s no sign of movement upstairs.

  I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

  A moment later, I realize why she’s not in her bedroom: she’s coming out the front door.

  We both freeze when we spot the other, and though I can’t see her face in the dark, there’s no mistaking the bright orange wig or the flash of metal in her hand as the light from the inside of the house shines on the keys in her hand before she closes the front door.

  “Looks like we both had the same idea tonight,” she says in a voice that’s pitched slightly lower than usual.

  “Looks like,” I reply.

  She jingles the keys once, studying me, and I have the sense that she’s feeling as off balance as I am.

  But Jenny, being Jenny, recovers more quickly, and a smile appears on her face. God help me, I feel something expand in my chest a bit because the smile is genuine. For me.

  “Where are you off to?” she asks, walking toward me. She’s wearing a jean skirt, white cowboy boots, and a sleeveless green top that, while not revealing in the least, looks silky as hell, and my palms itch to slide my hands over it. Under it. Even with the horrid orange wig, I want her.

  “Gonna grab a beer,” I say, trying not to stare at her legs and failing. “You?”

  Jenny stops in front of me, smelling citrusy and sweet. “Same. I mean, I don’t know where, I was going to drive into town. I know there’s not much, but I need to get out of the house.”

  She’s right. There’s not much in “town.” Glory has a sad excuse for a grocery store, a gas station, a mediocre cafe that closes by seven, and a bar.

  One bar.

  If she’s looking for a drink and a change of scenery, she’s got one destination.

  It’s also my destination.

  Fuck. I do not want this. My entire reason for leaving is to get away from her, and now we’re headed to the same place.

  Except…

  That’s not entirely accurate. My goal tonight isn’t getting away from her so much as keeping my hands off of her.

  Something that’ll be a hell of a lot easier in a public place. I mean, it won’t be easy. I can’t not want to touch her. But it’ll be easier than staying here with nothing but stars and quiet nights and about a thousand places to fuck all night.

  She sighs a little at my silence. “Let me guess. There’s only one bar, it’s where you were headed, and now you’re trying to think of a way to get out of spending time with me.”

  I narrow my eyes at the resignation in her voice, and I’m struck by the need to surprise her—to be something different than what she’s come to expect.

  I jerk my head toward the truck. “Get in.”

  She blinks. “Really?”

  “You’re right, princess. There is only one bar, and yeah,
I’m headed there. But you’ve got every bit as much right to be there as me.”

  “So we’re going together?”

  Shit. When she says it that way, it sounds…important.

  “Just get in the fucking truck,” I mutter.

  Surprisingly, she does as I say without arguing. For once.

  Her fingers slip under the wig at the nape of her neck as I start the truck, and I glance over. “Do you really have to wear that thing?”

  She gives me a look. “Depends. You want your face all over the news tomorrow when you get photographed with Jenny Dawson?”

  The flinch is out there before I can stop it, and Jenny snorts. “Thought so.”

  She’s dead right, but at the same time, it bugs me that she has to hide. “It’s gotta blow over at some point, right?” I ask. “This thing with the pretty boy?”

  Jenny looks out the window. “Yeah. But the urge to be autonomous won’t.”

  “That’s what you signed up for, though, right?” I ask, trying to figure her out.

  “I’ve got the rest of my life to be recognized,” she says wearily. “Can I please just have tonight?”

  Fair enough.

  We ride the rest of the short distance in silence, and I wince a little as I pull into the divey parking lot of Gil’s Tavern, seeing it through the eyes of someone who’s spent the last three months of her life in Bel Air or wherever.

  Gil’s is one of those places that I’m pretty sure never looked new, even when it was. The outside has peeling white paint, a crooked sign, and tiny, dirty windows, half of which have neon signs advertising cheap beer. The faint smell of deep-fried food permeates the area, even inside the truck, and I risk a glance at Jenny.

  I’m surprised to find her grinning. “This is great,” she says, reaching for the door handle.

  “Wait,” I say before she can hop out, belatedly remembering Finn.

  She glances back.

  “You know that guy Finn you met that first day?” I ask. “The electrician? I’m meeting him here.”

  I’m sort of expecting her to sulk the way Yvonne always did when anyone crashed our time together—especially Finn—but Jenny just gives me a happy smile.

  “Okay!”

  That’s Jenny Dawson for you, I’m learning. Okay! and a smile pretty much sums her up. Damned if I’m not starting to like it. A lot.

  I follow her toward the front door, reaching for the door handle before she can, and automatically regret it because it makes this whole thing feel too much like a date.

  We get a couple of looks as we step inside, the guys staring at Jenny’s legs, the girls at me before sliding their eyes to Jenny, sizing her up—noting the way my hand’s on the small of her back possessively.

  Fuck.

  How did that happen? I jerk my arm back.

  Luckily, everyone’s far enough into their beer and whisky to not give Jenny a second look, not seeing the famous country star beneath the orange wig.

  I spot Finn at a corner table, flirting with a cute black-haired waitress, and I lead Jenny that way.

  Finn breaks off in the middle of a pickup line when he spots us, and I read “Fuck” on his lips a second before he smiles his usual easy Finn smile.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Ms.—”

  “Smith,” Jenny says, with a quick look at the waitress. “Jen Smith.”

  I all but roll my eyes. Smith? Really? Girl needs to step up her incognito game.

  But the waitress doesn’t give Jenny a second look—she’s too busy making sure Finn gets a good view of her little tits in the visible black push-up bra beneath her white Gil’s tank top.

  “Ms. Smith,” Finn says, with a little wink for Jenny as he slides over and pats the bench seat next to him.

  To my surprise—and pleasure—she slides into the seat across from him instead. I take the spot next to her, careful not to touch her, but all too aware of her all the same.

  Finn’s giving me a shit-eating grin, which I ignore by turning to the waitress. “Jack and Coke.”

  The waitress snaps her gum and nods. “What’s for you, red?”

  “Same,” she says.

  I glance at her in surprise. A girl who drinks Jack and Coke? Damn.

  “You good?” the waitress asks Finn.

  He lifts his mostly full beer in confirmation.

  She moves away, and Finn leans back slightly, his eyes moving between the two of us. “So. This is interesting.”

  Jenny leans toward him, her expression eager. “Right? We’re so in love. You’ll be best man at the wedding, right?!”

  Her voice is joking, cheerleader-hyper, and Finn barks out a surprised laugh at her sass, but his expression is nervous and he looks at me.

  I know why.

  Up until a few weeks ago, Finn was going to be my best man. Vaughn too.

  At my wedding to a different woman.

  I give the slightest shake of my head to indicate he should keep his mouth shut.

  For a second he looks disappointed—in me—but he doesn’t rat me out. Instead he leans toward Jenny, matching her posture. “You know I’m the better catch, right? Caretaker here might have wood, but as an electrician, I know a little something about heat.”

  She laughs. “That’s terrible. You can’t tell me that actually works on any girls.”

  “Bet you twenty bucks our waitress comes home with me,” Finn says.

  “Only if you repeat that lame line about the heat. Twenty bucks absolutely says she’s not letting you in your pants if you say that.”

  “Watch and learn, Ms. Smith. Watch and learn.”

  Our waitress reappears with our drinks, Jenny and I biting back a snicker as Finn proceeds to tell the girl that he’s an electrician and thus knows something about heat.

  It’s terrible, but I’ve seen Finn at work so many times that I’m not the least surprised when the waitress wiggles her fingers for Finn’s cellphone and enters her phone number before bending down and whispering that she gets off at two.

  After the waitress heads off, Finn gives Jenny a smug look and holds out his hand.

  “Unbelievable,” she mutters good-naturedly, pulling her wallet out of her purse and slapping a twenty in his palm. “That girl has no self-respect.”

  “Oh, come on,” Finn says. “You can’t tell me Noah here’s any better. I watched this fool get through puberty. He’s had some clunkers for lines, trust me.”

  “Yeah?” Jenny asks, turning toward me and taking a sip of her drink. “So far I’ve yet to hear more than a few grunts and grumbles.”

  “Which seems to be working quite well for you,” I shoot back, my eyes flicking over her just briefly.

  Her gaze narrows slightly, and I expect her to get pissy that I’ve just outed our sexual status in front of Finn, but instead she leads forward, running a nail down the front of my shirt. “I think we’re a little confused about who seduced whom, princess.”

  “Details,” Finn says in a loud whisper. “I want all the details.”

  Normally I’d shoot him the bird, but I can’t seem to make myself look away from Jenny. My mind is racing with the memories of our various hookups, yes, but there’s something else that holds me. A comfortableness between the two of us that’s a hell of a lot scarier than the sexual attraction.

  “Aw, look, they’re having a moment,” Finn says.

  This time I do give him the finger.

  “I’ll be right back,” I mutter, turning away from Jenny and getting up to head toward the bathroom. I don’t really need to, but I do need a minute to get my head out of my ass before I do something idiotic like kiss a girl I have no business kissing.

  As I walk away, I hear Jenny laugh at one of Finn’s lame jokes, but it’s a genuine laugh, and I realize that’s another point of danger for me. Jenny seems to like Finn. Finn definitely likes Jenny. It’s a far cry from every time I tried to put Yvonne and Finn in the same room and they’d both descend into disdainful silence.

  For once
there’s no line for the tiny, one-person bathroom, and I brace my hands on the sides of the sink, taking a deep breath and looking in the mirror.

  “Get it the fuck together,” I mutter at my reflection.

  It’s got to stop.

  Too often in the past couple of days, I’ve been dangerously close to wishing it could be like this all the time. That I could be with a girl who likes my best friend, doesn’t flinch at dirty dive bars, drinks Jack and Coke, and wears cowboy boots on long, sexy-as-hell legs.

  A girl I’m starting to like out of bed as much as I do in it.

  When I come back out of the bathroom, Jenny and Finn are no longer at our table, and a quick scan of the room finds them in the far corner at a pool table.

  I smile a little as I make my way to them, because they’re doing that clichéd thing that men and women do at the pool table where one stands behind the other, giving a “lesson” that involves lots of touching.

  Only they’ve turned the cliché upside down. Jenny is standing behind Finn, arms around him, as she laughingly tries to show him how to hold the cue stick.

  “You should just give up now,” I say as I approach.

  Jenny glances at me as she tries to line up Finn’s cue with the ball. “Has he always been this bad?”

  “Always.”

  Finn confirms this by taking the shot, which misses by a mile. Jenny shakes her head and drops her arms. “Well, I tried.”

  “You play pool?” I ask, nodding in thanks when she retrieves our drinks from a nearby table and hands me mine.

  She shrugs. “I didn’t think I played very well, but compared to this guy…I’m not terrible.”

  Finn is lining up to take another shot. “Hey, Reed,” I say. “You just had your turn.”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “Does it really matter?”

  Good point.

  He shoots. Misses again.

  “Bullshit game,” he says good-naturedly as he straightens and hands me the stick. “I’m gonna get another beer. You guys want?”

  “I’m good,” I say.

  Jenny nods in agreement, not looking away from my eyes.

  Finn looks between the two of us before wandering away with a muttered “Gross.”