CLAM JAM

by RC Boldt

  This much is apparent in her silent demeanor and the crease between her eyebrows as we ride down the elevator.

  I follow her out of the elevator as we exit through the side doors of the lobby leading to the patio. Luckily, no one is gathered at the fire.

  Maggie takes a seat on one of the cushioned patio chairs, and I slide into one beside her.

  “I know you think I’m crazy. Doing this. But it’s just … Something just clicked tonight …” Her words trail off as she turns back to face the fire.

  “I don’t think you’re crazy, Mags.” I shake my head, my tone fierce. “Not even remotely.” Reaching out, I gently turn her face to me. “I think you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. Kind, funny, sweet, and beautiful.” I swallow past the emotion lodged in my throat at the heartfelt truth in my words. “You’re the whole package.”

  You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.

  Her attention falls to the box, carefully pulling the cardboard flaps apart. With a weak smile, she asks, “Ready to help?”

  “Always.”

  Grabbing a stack of photos, she hands them to me. It makes me smile because Maggie’s one of the few people who still takes the time to have digital photos printed. Because she wants to keep the memories so vivid and on display. Our apartment is scattered with numerous framed photos of her and Sarah, of Maggie and me from various outings, along with some of the girls out with Jack and me. I love it because it shows that we’re important to her.

  Gazing down at the top photo on the stack she’s given me, something pinches in my chest. It must have been taken when she and Shane had first started dating. They look like a couple so much in love.

  Inhaling deeply, I have to say the words. As painful as they might be, I have to say it. “Mags, if you’re not ready—”

  “I am.” Her voice is soft yet firm. When she jumps up from her seat, she sets the box down with one thick stack of photos in her hand. She gives them a hefty toss into the flames, and we watch as the fire rapidly eats away at them.

  Destroying memories.

  Damn, this is hard for me. God only knows how it must be for her right now.

  “Mags—”

  In an instant, she heaves another handful into the flames. Then another, repeating the process until the only remaining stack of photographs is the one in my hand.

  Turning, she eyes me. “Are you going to toss them in?”

  “I, uh, don’t know that I should be the one doing this. They’re yours.”

  “Fine.” She huffs out a breath, grabbing the photos from me and quickly tossing them in with the others. Or what might remain of the others, more aptly.

  We stand side by side, watching the flames flicker, burning the memories until they’re nothing but ashes that float away with the cool, night breeze.

  I’m at a loss for words. Because I know she has to be hurting, regardless of the fact that she says she’s over him.

  Turning to her, I open my arms, and she steps into my embrace, wrapping her arms around me. Eyes falling closed, I run my hands up and down her back in what I hope is a soothing manner.

  “Love you, Ry.” Her words, spoke against my chest, are barely audible, so softly spoken.

  “I love you, too.” I press a kiss to her hair, resting my cheek against it.

  More than you know.

  * * *

  I heave myself onto Jack’s couch with a tired groan, slumping down onto the soft leather. “God, I’m exhausted.”

  Sitting in the oversized chair, he looks over at me, one eyebrow raised, tipping his beer to his lips. “I don’t doubt it. I mean”—he takes a swig before gesturing to me with his beer—“what, with clam jamming poor Maggie all the time.”

  “The one dude actually tried to kiss me.”

  Jack chokes on the swig of beer he’s just taken. Fist covering his mouth, he coughs into it before finally regaining composure. “You’re serious.”

  Leaning my head back against the couch, my eyes fall shut. “Dead serious.”

  “Did he get far?” There’s a pause. “Did he get a little handsy?”

  My eyes fly open to glare at him, and I see Jack grinning. “You think this is funny?”

  “I think it’s hilarious as shit.” He tips his head to the side with a wide smirk on his face. “Tell me the truth. Did you play hard to get?” When I hurl a pillow at him, he swats it away without batting an eye, expression turning serious. “You know she’s getting pretty fed up with you, right? Especially since some of the guys ended up leaving with you at the end of the night.”

  Abruptly standing, I start to pace the living room. “I know. Hell,” I run a hand through my hair, “I’d get frustrated with me, too.”

  “Well, I’ve got to tell you. Her game plan is to try and thwart you from pulling any more of your stunts.”

  He has my attention now. “What are you talking about?”

  Jack lifts his beer bottle to his lips and takes a leisurely swig, wearing a smug grin on his face. “What’s it worth?”

  Glaring, I clench my jaw. “Just spit it out.”

  “Jesus.” He makes a face. “Surely, you don’t get all growly and mean with your other lovers, do you?”

  Grinding my palms into my eyes, I let out a groan of frustration. “Why do I put up with this shit?”

  “Don’t be like that, pookie bear,” Jack admonishes with mock sternness. “That kind of attitude will make you lose the best damn thing to ever happen to you: me.”

  Some days. Some days, I really want to dropkick him.

  Today would be definitely one of those days.

  He holds my death glare for who the hell knows how long—seems like an eternity—before letting a long sigh loose. “She’s thinking about maiming you or”—he holds up a finger to stop me when I’m about to protest—“or trying to be sneakier about when she goes out and not letting you know about it.”

  Something pinches in my chest. “So basically, she’s planning on trying to avoid me. Great.”

  Jack’s shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “Can’t really blame her.” When I flash him a dirty look, it doesn’t faze him. “You know what that means, right?”

  Eyeing him warily, I draw out the word, “What?”

  “It means you need to upgrade things from the Basic Clam Jam package to the Deluxe one.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Mags?” I call to the closed door of her bedroom, knocking softly. I know she’s awake because I heard her shower running a few minutes earlier.

  “What, Ry?” she calls out, not opening the door for me. Which isn’t good. At all. Normally, she’d tell me to come in, and I’d sprawl on her bed, and we’d chat while she put her laundry away or while she was in her adjoining bathroom, applying her makeup. And if she was getting dressed, she’d tell me to wait a moment before telling me to enter.

  “Mags, can I come in for a moment?” I pause. “Please?”

  There’s silence for so long that I think she’s planning to ignore me. Until the handle of the door turns slowly, only opening a few inches. And I know I’m up shit creek by the way she’s looking at me.

  “Hey.” She looks irritated and maybe a bit tired. Her boss has been riding her harder than usual about some big project, but the knowledge that I’m contributing to some of that irritation and possibly some stress, as well, doesn’t sit well with me.

  “I know it’s Friday night, and you probably have plans but, on the off-chance that you don’t, I brought home some salads from Putnam Market …” I trail off, hoping she’ll take my offer as what it is: an olive branch, of sorts.

  She doesn’t speak, her eyes drilling into me, the silence nearly deafening. Then I see it. That tiny flicker in her eyes.

  “Which salads did you get?”

  I can’t help the relieved smile that spreads across my face at her question. “A pear, walnut, and goat cheese one for you, of course.” With my hands bracing the doorframe, I lean in. “Your favorite salad to go along with your
favorite … guy?”

  “Now, you’re pushing it.” She’s trying hard not to smile; that sparkle in her eyes obvious now.

  Pushing back off the doorframe, I wink as I turn to head to the kitchen. “Get your fine ass out here, so we can eat, drink, and be merry.”

  “Drink?” Maggie says this with a groan. “I really want to drink more than I should tonight, after this week, especially.” Her footfalls behind me tell me she’s following me to the kitchen.

  “Well, lucky for you, I also stopped by Saratoga Winery and brought home some Bloodroot for dessert.” Reaching into the refrigerator for our salads—mine, which is loaded down with grilled chicken, of course—I turn to see her pulling the bottle of wine from the bag on the counter. Bloodroot is one of her favorites, and it’s an unusual wine, to say the least, since it’s a Melomel wine made with honey and aged in a Kentucky bourbon barrel. It’s also fourteen percent alcohol, so it packs a hell of a punch.

  It turns out that I had no idea just how much of a punch that Melomel would end up serving.

  In more ways than one.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Maggie

  I’ve indulged in this particular wine before. However, let it be said that I haven’t indulged as much as tonight. Between my boss driving me to drink—literally—and Ry snagging pretty much every guy I come into contact with, I’m feeling the urge to drown my problems in some Bloodroot.

  And I do. Ohhh, do I ever.

  You know the point when your words start slurring, and you notice it? So then you try harder to not slur your words but only end up talking slower and sounding even more intoxicated?

  That’s me right now. I’m one glass of Melomel past caring, though.

  Ry and I are sprawled on the couch. I’m leaning against pillows with my legs draped over his thighs, his palm resting on my bare knee. I’m dressed in a pair of comfortable cotton sleep shorts, a tank top, and a zip-up hoodie over it. The worst part right now is, for some reason, the way Ry’s hand feels on my bare skin makes me recall exactly how long it’s been since I’ve been touched by a guy. You know, like that.

  Way. Too. Long. Not to mention, the last guy to touch me was Ry. And the memories of what happened between us in his parents’ house …

  Shifting my legs slightly, I turn my head to look at his profile as he watches the movie. His straight nose, strong jawline, and lips all mesmerize me. My fingers itch to trace his face, to touch him.

  “Ry?” My voice comes out soft, tentative.

  He turns his head to look at me, and I suddenly wish the lights were on instead of only having the television to illuminate his face; the other part of it shadowed in the dark living room.

  “Mags?”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask me anything.” His response is immediate, and I can hear the sincerity in his tone, which makes me feel bad for being angry with him over everything.

  “You’ve been with a girl, right? I mean, Stacy and you …”

  Oh, crap. Drunk Maggie has officially taken over, people. Because that? That question. Uh-uh. Noooo. Sober Maggie would not go there.

  He hesitates so long that I’m on the verge of blurting an apology when he surprises me.

  “Yeah, I have.”

  And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what we refer to as opening Pandora’s Box. Because no way in hell am I going to leave it at that.

  “So … was it not good? Is that why you…” I trail off, unsure of how to ask him.

  His chuckle is brief. “You’re asking if it was terrible and if that’s why I’m with Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  Ry turns his attention back to the television. “No, it wasn’t terrible.” There’s a brief pause. “I always enjoyed it.”

  “What was your favorite part?” That’s it. I’m cutting myself off. Except that the damage is already done, and I … really want to know his answer.

  When he turns his attention back to me, the heavy weight of his gaze focuses on me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was heat behind it, too.

  “My favorite part?”

  Does he realize that his hand has begun to graze my knee and lower thigh? That I have zero desire to stop him?

  “My favorite part might be touching the woman’s nipples and sucking on them, flicking them with my tongue until they’re hard and she’s arching into my touch.”

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus. My breathing stutters, my nipples hardening just listening to him say that. And not wearing a bra, I wonder if he can see them trying their best to poke through the thin material of my hoodie.

  To make matters worse, he continues, his voice gravelly and deep. “Another favorite part would have to be sliding my finger inside her pussy, feeling how wet she is, feeling her clench around me. Or,” he pauses, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for him to continue, “tasting her for the first time, sliding my tongue inside her. Or sucking on her clit and making her come, riding my face.”

  Oh, God. I’m so turned on right now, just by him talking to me—telling me his favorite things to do to a woman. Mesmerized by his words, my eyes fall closed, and I don’t realize that his fingers are grazing over the hem of my shorts, which have ridden up. I’m soaking wet right now, aching, my body yearning for release from something other than my vibrator.

  “Or the moment when I’m fucking her with my tongue.”

  I try to stifle the moan his words elicit, but I can’t be sure I’ve succeeded. I’m too busy imagining that I can feel his fingers sliding beneath my shorts, drifting to where I’m bare beneath them, his fingertips grazing over my center.

  “The moment I feel how wet she gets for me … How fucking delicious she smells.” It sounds like his breathing has become ragged, like my own, as if he knows how naughty my thoughts have become. I’m far too lost in my fantasy to pay much mind as I can almost feel his fingertips tease me, sliding over me and gathering my wetness, my legs falling apart farther.

  “The moment I feel how hot and wet she is for me.” Two of his thick fingers slide inside me, and I can’t resist arching into his touch.

  “Ry,” I breathe out, feeling myself get wetter with the in and out motions of his fingers thrusting.

  “You like that?” His voice is harsh, breathing ragged, as if he’s exerting himself.

  Gasping when he curves his fingers, hooking them inside me, I can barely form a breathless, “Yes.”

  “But you want more, don’t you?”

  I can feel the tingling and know that I’m getting close, but not close enough. I need more. And it’s as if he knows this when he whispers, “You want me to put my mouth on you, Maggie? For me to suck on your clit and make you come?”

  “God, yes.” I barely register the movement of my shorts, mindless to only ensuring the sinful torture continues, as they are pulled down my legs. Feeling the cooler air hit my bare center and hearing a muted curse from Ry, it startles me slightly. Just as I’m on the verge of opening my eyes, his mouth is on me, his tongue taking the place of his fingers, thrusting inside me and tasting me deeply. There’s no way I can restrain from pushing against him, as if trying to get his tongue to slide deeper.

  His fingers tweak my clit before his thumb presses down, circling it while his tongue darts in and out of me. When I feel myself get tighter, my entire body growing taut in anticipation of my impending orgasm, he whispers to me, “Come for me, Mags.” His tongue and mouth devour me as his thumb increases its pressure, the pace of its circular motions becoming more rapid. My body arches as my inner muscles clench and release, rapid fire, and his tongue continues to drive me wild.

  “Ry … I’m coming,” I gasp, brokenly, as I ride out my orgasm, tremors wracking my body. When the waves finally subside, my breathing beginning to calm, my haze starts to subside.

  And that’s when it hits me. When awareness sets in; some sort of alert that not all is what it seems—that not everything happened in my thoughts, alone.

&nb
sp; My eyes fly open as if I’m daring myself to be wrong. Daring myself to believe that what just happened was a figment of my imagination.

  The moment I focus on Ry’s face, still barely inches away from where my legs are still spread on the couch … The moment I focus on Ry’s face—the one that’s still between my spread legs—I know the truth.

  “Oh, crap.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Ry

  I’m a bastard.

  I took advantage of my roommate and best friend while she was under the influence. It’s so fucking wrong. Yet a part of me is undeniably pleased that I just managed to make her orgasm with my fingers and tongue.

  That it was my name she cried out when she found her release.

  But before I can say anything, her eyes open, and instead of the sated afterglow upon her beautiful face, all I see is horror.

  And regret.

  “Mags,” I say calmly, slowly rising from my position between her legs. God, I can still taste her on my lips, on my tongue, and it wouldn’t take much to have me coming in my shorts right now. Maybe one more taste of her. Never before have I been in fear of shooting my load in my damn shorts just by going down on—or even making out with—a woman.

  Until Maggie.

  “It’s okay, Mags.”

  “Oh, my God, Ry,” she cries out. “What the hell did I just do?”

  Sliding up her body so that we’re eye to eye, I brace myself on my forearms. I speak calmly, trying to soothe her before she gets too hysterical. “It’s okay.”

  Her face twists, wearing a tormented expression. “How is it okay? How is what we just did okay?” Her hands cover her eyes, her head giving a brief, tiny shake. “I basically just used you to get off. Again. How is that okay?”

  “Because you know me, and you know that I won’t do anything to hurt you. That it’s safe.”

  “But what about Jack,” she whispers.

  “Jack’s been …” I hesitate, attempting to steer toward more truths than outright lies. “Out of town. A lot, lately.” I let the insinuation hang there. And it’s true; he has been out of town a whole hell of a lot lately. For work.