by Mika Jolie
“My girl?” I glance over where Cori is still talking.
“Son, wipe your mouth.” My grandmother elbows my side. “You’re drooling.”
I laugh. No point denying that part. My grandparents have always been keen on what’s happening in our lives. For example, the minute they met Kate’s ex, they labeled him a dud. They were right.
“What are we drinking?” My grandmother’s Christmas eggnog is always overly spiked, but indescribably delicious. She also has a passion for a nice port once in a while. God bless her, she can still enjoy a nice port.
“My usual.”
“So, forty-year-old Tawny port?”
“Don’t get my mother drunk, Dean,” my mother chides. “And I need grandbabies. You’re thirty now.”
I glance over at Cori again. She’s the quiet and confusion of my heart. My brain and dick are still at war with each other. The one south of my waist says fuck it, go for it and risk our friendship. The logical side of me repeats over and over to stick with the status quo.
My gaze lowers to the neat scotch in my hand breathing in a fragrance that only years in an oak barrel can achieve before meeting my mother’s gaze. “Does that mean it’s time for me to get married and grow a belly?”
“Hey, I still have a six pack,” my dad says behind me as he comes to stand next to my mother, he runs a hand over his flat stomach with pride. “Okay, maybe a four pack.”
“Three,” my mother corrects him, “You’re still the sexiest man in the room.” She leans over and kisses him. Side note—no matter how old I am, I don’t like seeing my parents making out.
Grandma smiles and hooks her arm in the crook of mine. “Do you have the girl, yet?”
“Trying to tie me down too, Gram?” I ask, not one bit irritated by this endless barrage of nosy family.
“Not as much as your mother. She’s ready to play grandma, and I’m ready to play great-grandma. My days are numbered, you know.”
Right. She’s been saying this every week, every month, every year for the last fifteen years. “You know, I’m not the only child.” I wave a hand where my sister is introducing some chick to Cam. This is a rarity. She never introduces one of her friends to my friends or me for that matter. Her reason? We are too dirty for her friends.
Ouch.
Although, in my eyes, dirty is good. Relationships always need a little kink, whether it is already spicy or requires a little nudge.
“We already had this discussion,” my mother says in a solemn tone. “What’s wrong with you Dean? We raised you both to be grounded.”
“I am grounded.” I take a sip of my drink for the first time and let the amber fluid sit in my mouth a while before swallowing. “That’s exactly why I don’t feel the need to be married.” I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead. “See, you all did an excellent job. Maybe too good of a job.”
“How’s the office?” my dad asks.
“Great. We’re holding down the fort.”
“Donner called.”
“He’s a dick.”
“Imbecile,” my mother gently corrects me. She’s never liked cursing.
“What’s going on with his account?” my father continues.
“Nothing. He suffered a momentary lapse of old age and convinced himself he was in love with a twenty-something with fake boobs.”
“Oomph.” My grandmother snorts.
“Exactly, Grandma.” I smile at her. “He’s a dickhead.”
“Dean!” My mother shakes her head.
“Oh, Ana.” My grandmother narrows her eyes on my mom. “Your son is thirty-three years old. The boy can curse.”
“Thirty, Grandma.” And I haven’t been a boy since Tina Bennett gave me my first blowjob when I was fifteen. But no need to go there.
“Thirty, thirty-three . . . whatever.” My grandmother waves her dainty wrinkled seventy-year-old arm. “You can say dickhead if you want.”
“Mom!” My mother’s face is now as red as a tomato.
“Fine, no more cursing,” I agree. See, I love my mom. From my peripheral, I catch one of the assholes guiding Cori toward the terrace. A bolt of possessiveness slams through me. “It’s time for me to mingle.”
“With Cori,” my mother says, hope in her voice. She always had this thing, where the two of us would eventually fall in love and live happily ever after.
“Friends, Mom,” I gently remind her. Although lately, my dick would say otherwise.
“Men and women can’t be friends,” my father points out. “Your mother and I started as friends.”
Oh, boy. Here we go. Another trip down memory lane about how they went from friends to lovers. I’ve heard this story a million times. They met in college, became friends, got drunk one night, got naked (vomit) and the rest is history. Their version is a little different. The naked part is always zapped, but we all know that’s how their happily ever after happened.
“The two of you would make very cute babies,” my mom continues.
I shake my head, turn on my heels until my grandmother grabs my wrist, leans forward and whispers. “Kiss the girl, let her know you want her. Otherwise, you’ll lose her to someone else.”
“You’re a wise woman.” I wink at her and head to where Cori is now talking to Kate. Her eyes meet mine and hold for a few seconds. I stare, willing myself not to look away, willing the connection to hold.
Let’s pause here for a second. Eye contact is a dangerous, dangerous thing, but oh, so lovely when a discovery is made. Do you see the hint of desire in her eyes? The way her lips part the slightest bit? They are screaming, kiss the hell out of me, please.
This is the moment it hits me. Cori is just as intrigued about the fire the kiss has ignited as I am, the possibility of us. She may be more reluctant to pursue it, you know, our friendship and all, but the attraction is not one-sided and is worth exploring.
My pulse races with excitement as the focus on our friendship falls to the wayside. There’s that moment between action and consequence, eternal and fleeting. Good judgment tries to seize control and loses.
I can’t let this realization slip through my fingers.
Thinking fuck it, I finish my drink, place the empty glass on the nearby table, then maneuver my way across the room through the mingling party guests, stopping here and there for a quick greeting. As I close the space between us, I catch my sister’s gaze shooting daggers at me from all the way across the room. Her jaw is set in that you’re a dickhead way. Her eyes are spitting fire at me, a reminder that Cori is completely off-limits. Pursuing anything can easily ruin our dynamic. My heart knows that. My dick knows that. She’s my best friend, my human diary. She means the world to me.
And I want her.
“More than friends, less than lovers.”
BY THE TIME THE TIME I reach Cori and my sister, hipster guy, AKA Brian, has managed to finagle his way exactly between the two women.
“In art our spirits rise, in stories, we are enthralled and elevated,” Cori is saying as I position myself across from her. Our eyes meet, and her lips curve into a smile that matches mine. “With creativity, we make connections between disparate people, we learn that, through our many lenses, we are seeing the same whole, only the path before our feet is still blurred. Life should never be art versus science, but a beautiful marriage of the two.”
Cori is naturally gorgeous, but in her element, she shines and is sexy as fuck. Pride fills my chest. That’s my girl. I’m so turned on.
“What are we talking about?” I’m interested to know what brought so much passion out of Cori.
“Brian was telling us about the Maquoketa caves. And somehow, the conversation shifted to art and science,” Cori says, her gaze going from Brian’s to mine.
“I’m planning on going there again this spring,” Brian says with enthusiasm. The guy is practically begging Cori to come along.
Did I mention the poor guy has no game? Let’s put it this way, if the dude falls into a barrel full of t
its, he’ll come up sucking his thumb. Cool guy though.
“Sounds great, man,” I say encouragingly. Truthfully, I don’t give two cents where Brian travels, but I’ve never been a rude guy. Everyone deserves at least one second of the day. I turn my attention on Cori. “Can I talk to you for minute?”
“Sure,” Cori answers rather quickly. She turns to Brian, who is still vying for her attention. “Thanks for the information. I’ll be sure to look up everything. See you in a bit, Kate.”
Oh, yeah, this whole time my sister is glaring at me. Unconcerned, I tilt my chin towards the bar, and say, “Lucas and Cam are flirting with two of your friends.”
Kate spins around. True enough, Cam and Lucas are doing shots with two gorgeous brunettes. She shakes her head then places a hand on Cori’s arm. “Don’t leave until we finalize our plans for next weekend.”
“Sure,” Cori answers.
“Be back,” Kate says, then disappears into the crowd. Poor girl and her need to keep us away from her friends.
“Cori.” Brian clears his throat. “You should join us on the next trip.”
Yeah, over my dead fucking body. This is one of those moments when I quickly pull deep and find my center; otherwise, I might apply some pressure to his face . . . by means of my fist.
“It’s worth thinking about,” Cori responds.
Is she kidding me? Why is she entertaining this guy? She should have said hell fucking no, I’m not going away with you. Because you see, I’ll be busy getting naked with Dean.
Zen. Center. Breathe.
Cori tilts her head in my direction. “You want to ask me something?”
I want to do more, and I intend to tell her as much, but not here. Instead, I say, “Come with me.” And I swear, her eyes darken at my words.
As we wedge our way through the crowd and out of the room, my brain is only aware of my hand on Cori’s lower back. The material covering her skin is soft and clings to her curves. My mind, once again, bolts to that place where I watch her undo her zipper, let the one-shoulder dress slide down her hips and onto the floor. Then she’s in my arms naked, and we are kissing.
My dick twitches, anxious to be buried balls deep inside Cori’s most guarded place. At the rate I’m going, I swear, I’m on the verge of setting a world record for the most frequent boners in a day.
“What’s on your mind, big guy?” she asks, snapping me back to reality.
You. Lately day and night. “You have something for me.”
“Oh. Right. The library.”
Once we are out of the room, I remove my hand from her back as we head down the hall. “Are you going on a date with Brian?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
We make a right, our footsteps clacking in perfect harmony. “He’s interested, and you’re looking for a baby daddy.”
“A baby daddy doesn’t marry the woman.” Her mouth twists in a teasing smile. “You do know that, right?”
“Oh, yeah, you’re looking for a husband. Brian is a decent catch.”
She laughs. “I’m not fishing.”
“I thought you were looking for your lobster.”
“True,” she says after a long pause. “But I don’t think he’s the one.”
“Why not?” I mean, he’s a little weird, but one of the good ones. I push open the heavy-arched door and let her enter the room before me. My eyes follow her slender frame as she heads over to the desk I’ve often used when I need somewhere to bury myself in my work.
“This is for you.” She picks up something wrapped in a simple brown paper and hands it to me. “It’s a book.”
With a few quick strides, I close the space between us, take the book, and unwrap it. It’s one of my favorite books, 1984 by George Orwell. A few months ago, I lent her my copy. After she told me how much she enjoyed the novel, I insisted she keep it. “I would have picked up another copy.”
“Now you don’t have to.” A smile spreads across her face. “Besides, I owe you for coming to my rescue the other night.”
A feeling heats up my chest. This is my window of opportunity. “There’s other ways to repay me.”
“Oh.” Her gaze appraises my chest, then roams down my narrow waist, to the front of my pants, before moving back to my face.
I place the book on the mahogany desk. Leaning on the desk, I cross my arms over my chest, my eyes on her the whole time. What I see in her face—a hint of desire, a subtle hesitation. A blush.
“What do you have in mind?” she asks in a whisper. “Monetary?”
My heart stops for one beat, then lurches to my throat. Hunger rips through me, pulling every muscle in my body.
I peel away from the desk to my full height, obliterating any space between us. Cupping her cheeks, I gently tip her face toward mine. My gaze falls on her lips and stays there for a long moment, before I say, “Definitely not monetary.”
A heavy silence surrounds us. Not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that makes the air crackle and snap with sexual tension.
Cori licks her lips. “Then how would you like to be paid?”
From invisible speakers, the lyrics of “Sway” softly play in the room. I let my hands fall to her shoulders, down to her bare arms, where goosebumps rise under my touch. “Let’s start with a dance.” I had every intention of letting her know how I feel, but shit, Dean Martin is crooning in the speakers. The desire to hold her in my arms overwhelms me.
A nervous chuckle slips from of her mouth. “Here?”
No better place, in my eyes. “Right here, Coriander.”
She catches her lower lip between her teeth, seeming to ponder whether or not it’s a good idea for us to dance, before she shrugs and says, “Okay.”
Slipping my hands around her waist, I draw her into me, moving closer, until every inch of our bodies—from foreheads to toes—are touching. Our free hands instantly meet, each of our fingers lacing together.
“You smell so fucking good.” I inhale the familiar scent of berries and vanilla, letting it flood my senses. “Good enough to eat.”
“Eat.” The word slips from her mouth.
“Every inch,” I confirm in a gravel voice. One of her feet rolls over mine at the same time her fingers dig into the cotton fabric of my shirt. Holy fuck . . . I think she likes the idea of my tongue in and around her pussy.
Well, she’s not alone. I want to feast on her for a long time with varying speeds, pressures, and tongue patterns until she begs for me to stop. Unable to resist, I lower my lips to her bare shoulder and graze her skin with my lips.
She sucks in a breath.
“Delicious,” I mutter.
“You think I’m delicious?”
“Just like salted caramel.”
A low laugh escapes her throat. The music spins around us, lifting away gravity. Together, we dance in silent harmony, our feet in perfect sync to the beating of my heart.
Cori leans a little more against me, her hand moves from my chest to the nape of my neck. “I can’t believe I stepped on your foot.”
“It’s fine.” My lips, the ones that are aching to kiss her tonight, creep into a grin. The music continues to vibrate around us. We move to the rhythm, chest to chest, thighs to thighs . . . and everything in between mashed up against each other.
Lowering my mouth close enough that my lips are brushing her ear, I sing along with Dean Martin. I’m holding her so tight, I can feel the shiver wracking her body before she steps on my foot again.
She laughs lightly, then leans her head on my chest, right where my heart is banging away like a mad man. “That’s very amateur.”
“Considering we’ve danced a million times before,” I tease. But there is nothing friendly about the way we are moving. This is fucking sexy as hell. “Unless—” I step back enough to spin her in a circle, then pull her back to me— “You’re still thinking about the kiss.” I gauge her reaction before diving in.
“I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
<
br /> Her admission sends a heated charge through me. My arms encircle her waist. Our steps slow to barely moving, no longer dancing, our bodies glued together.
Our eyes lock before hers slide to my mouth. As far as signs go, this is a positive one. She’s ruminating about my mouth on hers. Which seems only fair, since I’ve given a lot of thought to the same thing and more.
“Dean,” her voice is tiny, filled with lust that burns into my bones.
“Hold that thought.” Releasing my grip on her, I head over to the door and lock it. My feet move swiftly across the floor, closing the space between us. Cori meets me halfway, and my heart does that little kick which has become associated with this woman standing in front of me. “You were saying.”
“I keep telling myself, we’re friends.”
I nod. We’ve lightly brushed on the fact that we’ve kissed, but this is the first time we’re really talking about this shift in our friendship or the possibility of … whatever that’s developing between us.
“I shouldn’t want . . . you.”
Wait. What? Cori wants me? My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I will myself to stay calm. “Tell me that’s not what you want, and I’ll never bring it up again.” A heavy silence falls between us. I run my palms over her arms, up the nape of her neck, sending electricity straight to my heart. “Cori?”
The tip of her tongue runs over her lower lip, drawing my attention to her mouth, tempting me with erotic suggestions. When she meets my gaze, her eyes are smoldering with lust.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you again,” she confesses.
My heart gallops. Need courses through my veins. I cup her face and gently tilt her chin, until we are staring at each other. Our breaths mingle. And then we’re kissing again. Tongues sliding, lips melding, as though we can’t get enough of each other. Her hands move over me—my face, shoulders, melting me away.
She grips the front of my shirt, her fingertips curling around a button, until I hear the faint ping as it hits the wood floor. Then her hand is on my skin, heating me everywhere, and it feels good.
I touch her too. Everywhere and with hunger. I cup her breast over the material and squeeze. When a soft mewling sound escapes her throat, I swear in frustration. Desperation. “I need to feel all of you,” I say against her lips.