I mean, that’s cool. She wants to know about me? Totally expected.
“My turn!” she exclaims, practically bouncing in her seat. “Hmm. Let’s see. Oh, I have one. I’ve never been skiing. Or I’ve never been to the beach.”
“Never been skiing,” I answer quickly. “You’ve surely been to the beach.”
“Bzz. Strike one. Take something off! Take something off!”
“You’ve never been to the beach? How is that possible?” That will be corrected today if I have anything to say about it.
“I’m pale, and I burn. And I’m not into sand in all my private places. The only interest I have in a beach is a stormy broody, northern England kind of landscape. The kind of scene you can admire from the window with a good book and a warm fire.”
Huh. Maybe we won’t be beaching today after all.
“Now take something off!”
She doesn’t need to ask again. I start off big and take off my shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to the backseat. None of this take-off-something-little-like-my-watch-first bullshit. I like to raise the stakes from the very beginning. Makes it more likely for her to take off her shirt next.
Have I mentioned lately how good I am at gambling?
I glance at her ogling my bare chest, and I have to say, I like it.
“That’s brilliant,” she says, admirably. “I’m quite pleased with this game, I must say.” She switches gears quickly, but I can still feel her eyes on me when she proclaims, “Your turn. Make it a good one. I’m warm sitting over here in all my clothes.”
Seriously, god bless Alayna. This was the Best. Idea. Ever.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel as I think. I really should have planned some of these beforehand, but what would be the fun in that? “I’m the only Pierce child who wasn’t baptized. Or I was the president of our math club.”
She considers briefly. “President of the math club. I think you’re really brainy behind all that goofy exterior.”
I whip my head in her direction. “Goofy?”
She laughs. “Let it slide. I’m here, aren’t I? No need to get offended.”
“That isn’t comforting.”
“Too bad. I’m very distracted by your lack of clothing, though. Is that better? You have a nice body.” She reaches over to glide a hand over my pec. “Very, very nice.”
Very, very nice indeed.
Obviously, I forgive her. “That is better. Now I get to be distracted by your lack of clothing because I wasn’t the president of the math club. I was treasurer. But thank you for the compliment.”
Her mouth turns down. “Only child not baptized? That’s odd, isn’t it? What’s that about?” She reaches behind herself to unzip her skirt. See? Told you she’d follow suit in the high stakes clothing removal. It’s also definitely distracting. “I, uh, think my mother was bored with god by the time I got around. I don’t know. It’s random.”
The next time I look over, her long bare legs are draped on the seat next to me. “Speaking of god, holy shit you’re hot.”
I can’t help myself—I reach over and run my hand over the creamy skin of her thigh. So hot.
“Actually, I’m feeling quite chilled,” she says. “Mind if I turn down the air?”
At this point, a bucket of ice thrown over my lap will be the only thing that could calm me down so I tell her, “Whatever you need. Just take your turn.” I might even lose on purpose to speed this along.
“I took piano lessons for years. Or I took cello lessons.”
“I’m hoping it’s cello. Because I’m dying over here thinking about you putting that big instrument between your legs.” I’m glad we’re on the highway, and I don’t need to shift because I don’t think I can stop touching her any time soon.
“You’re right. It’s cello, you wanker.”
I grin. “That too. Wanking means jerk off, right? Because, yes.”
“I meant you were a git. An idiot. But figures you’re really a wanker too.” She opens her legs slightly and runs two fingers across the flimsy crotch panel of her panties. “Sometime I’d like to watch,” she says, and I have to think about my high school gym teacher Mr. Al so that I don’t cream myself.
All of a sudden, she crosses her legs and folds her arms over her chest. “Or I’m just putting you on.”
I groan. “I was enjoying the show. And it wasn’t your turn. But you’d definitely like to watch. I can arrange that for you, you know.” I move to work on my belt—not that I’m actually planning to give myself a handjob, but I would like her to notice how stiff I am at the moment.
“Not right now!” She half giggles, half screeches. “You’re driving!”
“All right, all right.” Reluctantly, I rest my hand back on the steering wheel—like she said, I am driving. “I’m really itching to get you naked though. So this one’s going to be a really hard one. Let’s see…” I trail off in thought. “I’m a big Marvel fan. Or I’ve never asked a woman to marry me before.”
Whoa, Chandler. That’s a little too much info for a girl you’re just sexing.
Luckily she glosses over it. “Marvel? What’s Marvel? I pick that one as the lie.”
“Oh my god, you did not.” I pretend she’s shot me in the heart—which isn’t far from the truth.
Her eyes widen as it clicks. “Oh, you mean those superhero movies? The ones with The Hulk and Superman?”
“Superman is not in the…” I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t even believe I’m with a girl who doesn’t know the difference between Marvel and DC Comics. You know what? You take something extra off just for that.”
She’s giggling again. Have I mentioned how much I love the sound? So much that I’d embarrass myself purposefully just to hear it. “Obviously I got the answer wrong,” she says. “I’m not taking off two items. That’s not how the rules go. But tell you what—I’ll take off something good.”
“Your panties?” I might sound eager. I’m not a proud man.
“I’ll take off my shirt.”
“That will do.”
She looks around. There are other cars on the highway, and it’s broad daylight. She’s going to be seen by someone. I’m betting she’s about to chicken out.
But she surprises me when she whips off her tank and tosses it behind her, leaving her in nothing but a matching white bra and panties.
The exclamations of gratitude that are running through my mind aren’t even words. They’re more like sounds. Grunts. Random syllables. I’m so turned on right now, it’s not even funny.
“Don’t get pulled over, okay?”
“Um, all right.” I immediately ease my foot onto the brakes. “This game is going to get out of hand real soon.” If it’s not already. I adjust myself again, but it doesn’t help. At all.
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think I’m going to win! What do I get if I do?”
“A spanking.” Which is also what she’ll get if I win, but I don’t tell her that.
“Hey, I didn’t agree to touching.”
“You already opened that door when you rubbed your hand all over my chest. Now take your turn.”
“I did do that, didn’t I? Hmm. Let’s see.” She strokes her hand up and down the strap of her seatbelt while she thinks. “I love live theater. But do I prefer musicals? Or plays?”
I answer without hesitation. “Plays.”
“Take off the belt, buddy.”
“Hang on.” I hold up one finger to scold her. “First of all, you don’t get to choose what comes off.”
She pouts her full lips dramatically. “Come on. I should at least have a say. It’s my reward, after all. Besides, the belt is easy when you’re driving. I can even help you.” She reaches over and why am I even arguing?
“Well. Okay.” I let her work on my belt, let her brush my dick “accidentally”—spoiler: it’s not an accident. We both know that she’s fooling no one. “But, really? Musicals? I thought you’d be all into that serious boring shit. You know,
Agatha Christie. Shakespeare. Downton Abbey.”
“Downton Abbey is a television show. Not a play.”
I sit forward so she can pull the belt from its loops without snagging. “But it’s BBC and boring. Isn’t that what you Brits like? Boring things? Musicals seem so…not boring.” I’m teasing her. Hard.
“You’re a bit of an ignorant clod, aren’t you? Brits like boring things,” she scoffs. “Who makes misinformed generalizations like that?”
“I think we already know the answer to that question. And now I’ve been schooled. Go on, tell me about your love of musicals.”
Let me pause to say that I don’t mind musicals. I’ve seen all of one in my entire life—Wicked, for Mirabelle’s birthday a few years ago. It was fine. Entertaining. I could see more of the same for Genevieve’s sake. You know, for the sake of a really good roll in the sheets after.
She wraps my belt around her shoulders, wearing it like a trophy scarf, her hands gripping both ends. “I will not. I’m afraid that you’ll ruin one of my favorite things.”
“I won’t! I promise.”
She turns and narrows her eyes in my direction. “How about your next ‘this or that’ be play or musical and think carefully before you answer. I’m guessing you’ll say musical.”
I’m putty. Complete putty. “Musical. All the way. Musical.”
She beams and it’s like a fresh breeze cutting through downtown Manhattan. “Awesome. We should see Hamilton together some time. Tickets are sold out for the next year, but Hagan has a friend.”
“Seeing Hamilton together? You mean, like a date?”
“No. I mean like two people who work together—hopefully—that go out with a bunch of friends. It will not be a date.”
“Fine. Whatever you say.” Not that I care if it’s a date. But I am ready to take this game to the next level—speed round. “I love anchovies,” I say. “Or I love olives.”
“You must love anchovies, because I heard you ask if there were olives in your lasagna at dinner the other night, and people don’t ask unless they don’t want them.”
“Yeah. That’s right.” I love how she knows things about me.
Or I hate how much she pays attention.
I refuse to answer that. But why does she pay so much attention?
I refuse to care about that answer as well.
Anyway, it’s her turn. “I want children. Or I want to run the New York marathon.”
“You want kids. Not now, but someday.”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
I want kids too. Now I’m imagining tiny people with my eyes and her cheekbones, and dammit, am I imagining having kids with her?
That realization punches me in the gut, but then it moves outward, shooting warmth through my entire body. It feels…right.
Our eyes meet, and it’s like drinking champagne how sweet and light and bubbly I feel as I drown in the pools of her eyes.
And she doesn’t even have a clue what’s going on in my head.
Which is a good thing. Because nothing’s going on. “I’m allergic to penicillin. Or I’m allergic to dogs,” I say next, trying to get a grip. Trying not to feel like I’m drowning in quicksand.
“You seem to be the type who likes dogs, so I’m hoping for your sake it’s penicillin.” She doesn’t look at me when she adds, “For the record, I love dogs.”
“I love dogs too. And I’m not allergic.” From the outside, it could look like we are subtly planning a life together. Kids—check. Dog—check.
“I detest mayonnaise. Or I want to have sex without a condom.”
Good sex—check.
I can’t tell you how fast my head twists toward her. “Please say it’s the latter.”
Her skin gets redder, and her eyes widen to the size of small saucers. “I don’t know!” she gasps. “I really detest mayo, and I said the other off-the-cuff, but I am on the pill and when I think about it, think about going bare—it kind of makes me squirm in my seat, and I don’t think it’s just because I’m only sitting in my knickers.”
I don’t even bother adjusting anything down below—there’s no point. “I’d like to try that out,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Or I’m not into that.”
“You’d definitely like to try it out.”
I put on my signal, peeking at traffic over my shoulder, then head to park the car at the side of the road. “I’m pulling over because we need gas,” I say. “Or I’m pulling over because I want to kiss you.”
She’s quick in her response. “Neither. You’re pulling over because you want a blowjob.” She’s already undoing her seatbelt. Already bending over in my direction.
The game seems to have worked—she’s practically naked, and I’d say she knows me pretty damn well.
11
“I have hair on my arms and my legs,” Mina says as she fills her coloring sheet with red scribbles. “But that doesn’t make me a boy.”
Genevieve bites her lip, stifling a giggle.
“That’s right,” I say, adding purple hair to the princess Mina’s insisted I color. “Doesn’t make you a boy.”
When we’d arrived, the party was in full swing. I’d dropped our bags off in our room, changed into my suit, then instead of searching out my parents, I brought Genny to the designated children’s area to meet the other most important girl in my life—my niece.
Not that it really mattered if they liked each other or not. If I were really interested in Genny, it would, though. Mina and I are tight. A girl wants to be in my world, she has to get that Mina and I are a package deal. I couldn’t spend any real time with a woman who didn’t understand that.
But Genny and I are only here for Hudson. So whatever.
Still, I’m quite happy when the two of them hit it off instantly. Really happy.
Which is why I’m hanging out in a tent in our garden at Mabel Shores, crammed onto a kid-sized folding chair, coloring from a Frozen activity book at a kid-sized round craft table while grinning ear to ear. Behind us, my other niece, Arin, is digging dirt out of the ground with a plastic spoon and singing to herself, as she frequently does. A handful of other children run between the tables, throwing grass at each other. And the most beautiful woman in the world is smiling at my side.
I’m telling you—this might be heaven.
Mina pauses her coloring and looks inquisitively at my date. “Do you have hair on your arms and legs too?”
“I do. Though I take it off of my legs.”
“Why?”
Mina’s three. Why is her favorite word in her vocabulary.
Genevieve frowns. “That’s a good question. I guess I like the way it feels to have smooth skin.” She absentmindedly runs her hand up and down her shin.
Mina notices. “Can I feel?” She doesn’t wait for permission before reaching out her tiny hand to smooth it over Genny’s skin. “Ooh. Soft.”
It’s only been an hour since our side-of-the-road sexcapade, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to touch her. “Can I feel, too? Please?”
I’m met with a stern look, but how can she resist me?
“Go ahead,” she says with chagrin.
I stroke up her calf, delighting at the path of goose bumps that arise at my touch. “You were right, Mina. Super soft.”
She twirls a lock of dark hair around her finger and thinks for a minute. “Does it hurt to take your hair off?”
Genevieve shakes her head. “Not usually.”
I study my niece as she tilts her head, her small features furrowed. “You’ve given her a lot to think about,” I tell my date.
“I hope it’s not anything that gets me in trouble with her parents.”
Like me, I’m sure Genny’s imagining Mina sneaking into her mother’s bathroom and taking a razor to her own legs because a second later she says, “Taking your hair off your legs is only for grown-ups, though.”
I lean toward Genny and whisper, “I’m pretty sure Laynie’s had hers lasered off. No razor for the
kids to get into.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
I shrug, watching as Mina returns to her coloring. “I guessed based on my own experience. I borrowed my father’s razor one morning when I was about six or seven. Wanted to be all manly like my dad.”
“What on earth did you shave? Do I want to know?”
“One side of my head.”
Genny lets out a boisterous laugh. “Oh, god. I bet you were adorable. And I bet you were also in a decent amount of trouble.”
“My father didn’t think it was a big deal, but my mother was furious. She didn’t let me go to school until she could get me into a salon to get it all buzzed off.”
“Then you got a holiday.”
“I think she meant to take me in later, but she got a little hammered at lunch and we ended up going to the movies instead while she sobered up.” I stretch my leg out under the table—a relief after having both my knees up to my chest—and turn my purple crayon in for a blue one.
Genevieve grabs the yellow and leans over to help me color. “Your mother likes to—” She mimes throwing back a drink.
I respect both how she’s brave enough to inquire and how she isn’t making a big deal about it. “She used to. Been clean for over five years now.” We’d actually had an intervention for her, but it was my sister, Mirabelle, who’d been the driving force behind my mother’s decision to go to rehab. Mirabelle had been pregnant with the first grandchild, and she’d declared that my mother wouldn’t be allowed around her baby if she didn’t sober up.
“Oh. That’s fabulous.”
“Well, except we’d all always assumed that my mother was mean because she was an alcoholic. Turns out she’s just kind of mean normally.”
“Who’s mean, Uncle Chandler?”
Whoops. I somehow forgot there were small ears listening. Now I’m the one who’s going to get in trouble with her parents, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “I was just saying some not very nice things about Grandma Sophia.”
Mina’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh. Grandma Sophia is mean.”
“See? Even Mina thinks so.”
“You’re terrible.” Genny swats my thigh playfully, and I have to concentrate to keep my dick in line.
Chandler: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Page 11