Sleeping with Her Enemy

by Jenny Holiday

He shrugged.

  “So you’ve never had a real relationship? One you were emotionally invested in?”

  He looked down at his hands and was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, though, he said, “Once. In college.”

  “What happened?”

  He looked up. His eyes were empty. All of his usual spark was gone. “I tried to break up with her, and she killed herself.”

  She gasped. “I’m so sorry.” When he didn’t say anything more, she asked, “What was her name?”

  “Allison.”

  “You have to know it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I do. Or I came to understand that—my parents forced me to see a shrink. Allison was…not well.” He cleared his throat. “The relevant point is that it made me see that relationships aren’t worth it. The brutal truth is that I was never that into her. She asked me out initially, and we just sort of stayed together through inertia.”

  Amy wanted to cry to think of young Dax with all that on his shoulders.

  “Not to sound cold,” he went on, “but it made me ask, where’s the payoff? Relationships are a lot of responsibility.”

  “But your parents seem to have such a good one.” Don’t you want that? she wanted to ask. She wanted that. Even though she was embarking on a mission to have a fling or two, she knew that someday she’d be on the hunt for lasting love again.

  She sat up straighter, jarred by suddenly seeing his earlier point. They weren’t operating from the same assumptions. She did want love—someday. He did not.

  Unfortunately, that knowledge didn’t make her lust after him any less.

  He hopped off his stool. “Enough philosophy. Come to the island tomorrow. We’ll go canoeing.”

  She stood, too, disoriented.

  “It’s late,” he added.

  Apparently she was being dismissed.

  “Then we can head to my parents’ place together.” He nodded at the cheese. “You want a portion to go?”

  All right. She could take a hint. She slung her purse over her shoulder. “No, but thanks. For the snacks and for…everything.” She stopped for a moment, considering what to say next, and surprised herself by deciding on the truth. “You pretty much salvaged my night.”

  He grinned. “Well, right back at you. You saved me from The Godfather Part III.”

  “Well.” She summoned a smile she feared appeared as weak and half-assed as it felt. “I may be a loser at both meaningful relationships and casual sex, but at least I’m good for something.”

  There was that evil, slow grin again. It was as if they had never had the whole serious discussion about love and relationships and his college girlfriend.

  He winked. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  …

  Dax had pretty well decided to stop fighting himself by the time Amy knocked on his door the next morning. Last night, after she left, he’d started to allow himself to imagine the possibility. To envision trying again. She had said a million times she wasn’t looking for anything serious and, to his astonishment, had outright asked him for advice on how to do hookups. He, in turn, had made it abundantly clear that he was not relationship material. It felt like they’d laid all their cards on the table. Short of making her sign a waiver, he didn’t know how much more he could disaster-proof the situation.

  So why continue to torture himself when it would be so easy for them both to get what they wanted?

  When she stripped off a hoodie and threw it on his couch and he got a load of her red tank top—which matched her red lips—and her jean shorts, which managed to be both ratty and sexy simultaneously, that pretty much sealed the deal.

  But first, canoeing.

  “What I really want to do is go kayaking,” she said, slathering sunscreen on her arms. “You make it sound like the best.”

  “I know. I just have to get my hands on a double kayak. I really think it’s better, your first time, not to go out on your own. There are some people I can borrow one from—not close neighbors, but people on the island. I promise I’ll track one down for next time.”

  “So conscientious,” she teased.

  “I’ve learned the hard way.” He smiled, thinking back to the disaster that had been Kat’s inaugural kayaking adventure. “The first time I took my sister out, she tipped over and then panicked because she couldn’t wiggle her way out. It was all fine, but I’m more careful now.”

  “So, about Kat.” She took the life jacket he handed her and stepped outside. “In terms of her moving. I know what she says she wants, but…”

  “But you want to know if what she says wants is really what she wants.” He nodded down the street, signaling the direction they should go. “Yeah, Kat can be so intense that it’s sometimes hard to know if she’s being reasonable or stubborn.”

  “I don’t mean it as a criticism. She seems like a real go-getter, and that’s great, but sometimes people like that can be kind of…”

  “Single-minded to a fault?” It was amazing how quickly and accurately she’d taken stock of his sister. “You’re not wrong. You should have seen the family dinner where she announced she was doing in vitro fertilization on her own.”

  Amy laughed. “Oh my gosh. It’s like your mother’s fondest wish and her worst nightmare at the same time.”

  “Exactly.” Damn, she had the Harrises completely figured out. “But once she calmed down and realized that this was probably her only hope for a grandchild, she mellowed. Anyway, in this case, I think her instincts are on. I see her in a small bungalow or something. I don’t think she’s going to have another kid, so probably she only needs two bedrooms. But who knows where to start in the crazy Toronto housing market?” He grinned, realizing what he’d just said. “Well, you do, obviously. So whatever help you can give her, I appreciate.”

  “Roger. Bungalow for Kat.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask.” He winked. They’d reached the shore where his canoe was stored in a rack. He slid it out. “Now I need you to grab one end, and we’re going to launch it over there.”

  …

  Amy sighed, feeling the tension from the past day start to ebb. It was amazing how therapeutic the water was. They had paddled in silence for ten minutes or so, slipping through a channel to the east of the island and making for the outer harbor, which was surrounded by the industrial port on one side and the end of the Leslie Street Spit on the other. She remembered going to the spit, which was a wildlife sanctuary, once on a class trip in middle school. Funny how when you’re a kid, everyone arranges things so you can get doses of nature—field trips, summer camp, and all that. But then when you grow up, you sort of forget about taking time to immerse yourself in the natural world. It was sad.

  “That’s Cherry Beach,” Dax said from behind her, where he was steering the canoe, interrupting her little Walden Pond moment. She twisted around to see him pointing at the shoreline.

  “Your company’s namesake? I always wondered where the name had come from.”

  “When I was in my early twenties, I was working at Microsoft, and I was miserable. I used to paddle out here after work and just float. I’d stare at the beach and think about how much better everything would be if I were in charge. You know, as only the hubris of youth can make you think.”

  She laughed. “Well, obviously, you were right.”

  “I don’t want to minimize it. It really was an existential crisis of sorts. I was trying to decide if I had what it took to start my own company.” There was a moment of silence before he added, “My parents re-mortgaged their house to help me get started.”

  It was almost impossible to imagine Dax as a young person unsure of his path. He always seemed so invincible to her. So self-assured. Like he was born a CEO. She wasn’t sure what to say. It felt like he had revealed something profound about himself. Regardless, she understood now, even more, why it bugged him that his parents wouldn’t let him help them financially.

  He cleared his throat. �
�How’s it going on Tinder? Anyone else I should know about?”

  She sighed. Apparently his moment of vulnerability was over. “There was this one guy. We were messaging. Things were going okay.”

  “What’s his deal? Another lawyer?”

  “No. He’s a sculptor, if you can believe it. I didn’t realize that was an actual job. You know, other than in the movie Ghost.”

  “Things were going okay? But not anymore?”

  “Yeah, he seemed great. Cute, flirty, really complimentary. He even said he’d sculpted me something. He was saving it for our date.”

  “So what happened?”

  God. Why did these conversations with Dax always have to end up making her feel like she was thirteen years old at sex ed class? “He, ah, said he wanted to make love to me.”

  She could feel Dax pull his oar out of the water because the forward momentum of the boat slowed. “I thought that’s exactly what you wanted.”

  “Well, yeah. See, I was…ah, thinking about what you said the other night at Edward’s.”

  The oar made a whishing sound when he dipped it back in the water, and the boat picked up speed. “Remind me what I said.”

  The bastard. He knew very well what she was talking about. Well, fine. She could play his potty-mouth shock game. She pulled her own oar out of the water and twisted as far as she could in her seat, far enough to make eye contact with him. “You said you don’t make love, you fuck. I believe your exact words were that you could fuck the living daylights out of me.”

  He didn’t blink. But he did stop paddling. “And you liked that. You preferred my terminology.”

  Without breaking eye contact, and praying he couldn’t see her pulse thundering in her throat, she nodded. Then she turned so she was facing forward again, but she could feel his eyes burning the back of her head. She wasn’t sure where this was headed, but if it was going where she hoped it was, she wanted to make totally clear that she understood his terms and accepted them. “I may not be able to say I never want a real relationship, but I don’t want one right now.”

  She strained her ears, trying to hear anything. A response. A guffaw. A change in his breathing. But there was nothing.

  Until suddenly, the boat was moving backward, and then they were pivoting in place. He was turning them around. By the time the canoe had made a 180-degree turn, her cheeks were on fire.

  “Paddle,” he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  They didn’t speak all the way back. The only sound was the slicing of their oars through the water and the occasional birdcall. The air was thick, suddenly. Though it was a clear, sunny day, Amy felt like a storm might roll in. When the tip of the boat bumped up against the shore, Dax hopped out of his perch in the back, waded around, lifted her up and swung her onto the shore like she was made of feathers. Then he dragged the canoe onto the grass and over to the rack that housed it. She followed and, obeying his silent cue in the form of a nod, grabbed the other end and helped him lift the boat into its slot.

  Then his hand was on her lower back, pressing her forward. She jumped from the contact. He walked quickly, propelling her ahead of him. There was still that odd, pre-storm quality to the air, like there was a field of hidden electricity wrapped around them. Her skin began to prickle, feel tight. She had to keep her nerves under control. If they were on their way to do what she thought they were, it would be her last chance with him. She couldn’t afford to mess this up again.

  On the final approach to Dax’s house, Gary popped out from around the back of his. “Hey! Oh, hi Amy.” She waved. “You guys want to see the latest?”

  Dax didn’t break stride, didn’t stop resting his hand against her lower back. Didn’t even make eye contact with Gary as he said, “Not now.”

  And then they were inside, and he was backing her toward the sofa. She hadn’t realized they weren’t going to talk at all. It was probably better this way, but she did need to make sure he understood that they were on the same page. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said as her legs hit the back of the sofa and he guided her into a seating position and knelt between her legs.

  “I know.” He grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled.

  She lifted her arms up to help. Her whole body was thrumming. When he lowered his mouth to her neck, she hissed at the contact. “I’m not looking for anything serious,” she gasped as his hands snaked around and unfastened her bra.

  “I know.”

  “Oh my God.” As his hands came around to cup her breasts, she issued one final disclaimer, even as a rush of moisture gathered between her legs. “This can’t make work weird. We still have to be friends. Or—oh!” He had lowered his mouth to one nipple and sucked, hard. “Or frenemies, or whatever we are.”

  Once more, he answered with his refrain. “I know.” But it was an all-out growl this time, and after the words left his mouth, he crashed it down on hers. She couldn’t talk anymore. Couldn’t think. Could only focus on the impossible, all-consuming heat between them. On getting more of it. More of him.

  So she pressed her hands against his chest, keeping her lips on his as she stood up and shimmied out of her shorts and underwear.

  “Oh, God,” he said, standing with her and pausing for a moment to let his eyes rake down her body.

  Standing there naked while he was fully clothed was strangely erotic. But also a little intimidating because he just kept staring at her, his green eyes glittering. Her blood roared in her ears, and her skin still felt like it was alive with pinpricks of heat. If he didn’t touch her again soon, she was going to die. Or lose her nerve. “I assume you have condoms somewhere in this house?”

  The question seemed to puncture his trance. “In the bedroom.” He grabbed her hand and used his other arm to work his shirt up over his shoulder. He nodded her ahead of him, and as they reached the door, he dropped her hand and finished the job of dispensing with his shirt.

  As they entered the bedroom, she glanced at the bulge his board shorts were doing nothing to hide. When he didn’t immediately get the hint, she grabbed the waistband herself, pushed them down, and let her hand brush lightly against his penis on the way back up.

  His head lolled back on a groan as she did so.

  So she did it again. Last time, at the Ritz, he’d been so focused on her, and she’d just lain there limp, overwhelmed with sensations—first pleasure, and then panic as he’d pushed her to the brink of an orgasm in record time. This time, she wanted to show him that his pleasure mattered, too. So she pushed him back to sit on the bed and sank to her knees.

  The groan that ripped from his throat was pure sex, and it thrilled her. “Oh, fuck me,” he rasped as she closed her mouth over him, taking him as deep as she could.

  “I think that’s the idea,” she teased as she released him at the top of a stroke and then took him into her mouth again. He practically roared then, and clenched his hands into fists that he lifted above his head as if he were trying not to hit something.

  She had just closed her eyes, the better to revel in the delicious hardness of him, to marvel over how beautiful and powerful she felt at this moment, when his hands hitched under her armpits and he tossed her back on the bed. “I can’t allow that to continue.” When she mock-pouted, he climbed on top of her and whispered in her ear, “If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to deliver what was advertised.” A thrill shot through her, but she didn’t know if it was from his wicked words or from his hand, which had begun roaming through the curls between her legs. Propping himself above her with one elbow, his other hand and his mouth worked for a minute in torturous synchronicity, drawing circles around her clit and one nipple respectively.

  “Oh my God,” she moaned, sparing a thought for whether she should be embarrassed at how wet she was. But when he entered her with a finger, she abandoned any self-consciousness, rocking her hips in time with the thrusting rhythm he was establishing with his finger. “What was advertised?” she gasped, with her last rational t
hought.

  “Fucking,” he said without hesitation. Never letting up with his hand, he moved his head to nestle in her neck and dropped a kiss on her collarbone before whispering, “Everything okay?”

  Tears gathered behind her eyes because the answer was yes. Everything was okay. There was no panic, no uncertainty, no overthinking. Just this galloping need that felt like it was going to run her off a cliff. She swallowed hard. Maybe another reason for this rush of emotion was that he was so thoughtful as to pause and check on her. Whatever image Dax liked to project, he was a good man. So she grabbed his head, one hand on either cheek, and brought him up so they were eye to eye. Then she smiled and said, simply, “Yes.”

  The hand between her legs stilled as he smiled back. A genuine one, not one of his wicked grins, though she liked those, too. “I’m trying to go slow,” he breathed, dropping his forehead to touch hers.

  “Why?” She arched her hips against his hand, trying to incite him to get back to doing those wonderful, terrible things to her.

  He kissed her, on the lips, and then on the forehead. “It seems the polite thing to do.”

  No. She didn’t want that. “I don’t think polite is in the spirit of what you said we were going to do.”

  His eyes darkened. “Remind me again what I said we were going to do?” When she didn’t answer right away, he levered himself fully off her, kneeling between her legs on the bed and not touching her. She wanted to scream at the injustice of the lost sensation. “Remind me,” he commanded. “I want to hear you say it.”

  He looked like a god, some kind of water god on land, towering over her with his chiseled chest and his dark presence.

  “Fucking,” she said, without hesitation.

  Maybe he was a god because the speed with which he found and donned a condom suggested some sort of supernatural power. Then he was—“Oh!” she cried—inside her. Dax was finally inside her. Once he was fully seated, filling her completely, he stilled and pressed the base of his palm against her mound.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.” He ground his hips, and though it should have been impossible, seemed to work himself even deeper inside her.