Easy Love

by Piper Lawson

  I look frantically between his gaze and his mouth as if one of them holds the answer I’m looking for.

  Maybe they both do.

  I want him to kiss me the way he did at the party but with no one watching. I want to pour all of myself into him.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  His fingers brush me through the thin fabric. I’m wet, I know it without hearing his tight curse.

  His touch slips under the fabric, and I hiccup a breath as my fingers find his biceps, digging in.

  I tilt my face up, needing him, needing his lips on mine, but he evades me.

  I’d expected to find comfort in his touch, but it’s the opposite. His fingers slide up over my clit, tracing maddening circles.

  Then he presses a finger inside me.

  My lips find his neck, and I moan against the hot skin of his throat, the heavy beat of his pulse.

  “It’s not enough,” I murmur.

  I want him harder, faster.

  His fingers stop. I pray for their return, but it doesn’t come.

  Instead, Wes yanks up the hem of my skirt with an impatience that steals my breath.

  I’d meant that I needed release, but he read it as something else. And now…

  He bends down, pressing his lips to the inside of my thigh.

  Oh my God.

  All I can feel is the brush of Wes’s blunt fingers, tracing a path toward where I’m dying a slow death.

  I’m hot all over, and when he shifts, pulling my panties aside and grazing me with his thumb, the buzzing inside me is replaced by a roaring fire.

  I arch against his touch, panting encouragement. His hair glints in the lights.

  Like Wes himself, each touch contains a thousand subtle variations I’d need to stay perfectly quiet, perfectly still to experience. But my hips snap toward him. He doesn’t seem to mind as his fingers work in slow circles, every few strokes dipping down for more of the wetness between my thighs.

  An hour ago, I was hurt and humiliated. Now, I’m twisting my fingers in his thick hair as his mouth traces a slow, scorching path up my skin.

  I let out a frustrated moan as my eyes fall closed.

  My name on his lips has me blinking them open again.

  Wes is looking up at me, those eyes the blackest blue I’ve ever seen in the light from the living room at my back. His brows are drawn together, his hair a mess from my fingers.

  I didn’t know Wes had a dark mode. I would’ve flipped the switch days ago.

  When his tongue swipes over my clit, I lose everything.

  I pull on his hair until he groans, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my system.

  But Wes doesn’t retreat. He grabs my ass, pulling me closer to the edge.

  My elbows hit the counter but the pain barely registers.

  If you’d told me an hour ago I’d be in my kitchen getting tongue-fucked by Wes Robinson, I’d have called you crazy.

  Now, though, I’m hanging on as though my life depends on it.

  It’s so fucking good.

  Not because he does this all the time.

  Because he doesn’t.

  Guilt streaks through me, and I squeeze my eyes tighter, ignoring the burning at the backs of them.

  You’re useless. You take things, and you debase them. You make them less than they are.

  I shove the voice away.

  Each stroke of Wes’s tongue is sweet torture.

  But despite the slow strokes, there’s a race to the finish happening inside me. I’m close, and I can’t stop.

  He dials up the pressure, relentless. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but they’re not from frustration or humiliation. There’s no room for it.

  As if he knows I need it, Wes presses two fingers inside me.

  The feel of him, any part of him, inside me is so fucking real I can’t stand it.

  My hands go limp in his hair as shockwaves rack my body, starting with my core and not stopping until every part of me trembles.

  My toes.

  My lips.

  My fingers on the smooth counter.

  I open my eyes to see Wes roll his shirtsleeves down.

  Then he reaches past me for the cupboard door, closing it almost immediately and trying another.

  He pulls out a glass, fills it with water, and sets it next to me.

  Then with an unreadable look, he starts towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” My voice is level, as if he didn’t just take me apart.

  “I’m meeting some people for drinks.”

  I shift off the counter, nearly taking the water glass with me in the process. “Now? Don’t you want me to return the favor?” I have to swallow to get the words out.

  He turns back, straightening his tie. For the briefest moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. “No.”

  The word hits me like a velvet hammer. The impact is barely lessened by his soft tone.

  But clearly, I’m a glutton for punishment today because I stammer, “You don’t want me.”

  “On your counter, when all you want is to forget? No, I don’t.”

  He looks angry for a moment, but then he’s Wes again, and Wes doesn’t get angry. Conflicted because he’s probably thinking way too many things right now.

  But as if he sees something in my expression that elicits compassion, he steps into me, threading his fingers in my hair and brushing his thumb over my unscarred cheek before bringing his face so close I can feel his light breath on my skin.

  “Blowjobs aren’t favors,” he murmurs against my ear. “Not to me.” He crosses to the door, shouldering his bag and reaching for the handle before pausing. “Feel better. You and the skunk. I’ll send you the transcript from the interview.”

  Then he’s gone, and as I collapse against the wall, my heart hammering in my ears, I don’t feel better at all.

  It’s noon Saturday when the knock comes on my door.

  “Who is it?”

  “The biggest nerd you know.”

  The girl on the other side is my age, her hair as dark as mine is light, with glittering hazel eyes and lip gloss. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a leather jacket, but she’s the honest kind of pretty you can’t fake.

  Me, on the other hand…

  One glance in the mirror on the way out of the bedroom this morning said I look like I feel: disturbed and underslept. My phone had been buzzing this morning, and I lifted it.

  There were two messages from my brother and one from a guy I used to see.

  I’d dropped the phone back on the nightstand and tried to go back to sleep.

  Which was impossible after what happened last night.

  So I got up, showered, and covered the scratches with makeup.

  Now I am in desperate need of girl time, and I grab my friend in a hug. “It feels like forever since I saw you.”

  “You visited in August.” Haley sounds perplexed, and I nod as I pull back.

  “I know. I’m amazed Jax let you out of his sight for a few days.”

  Haley snorts. “I didn’t give him an option.”

  My friend is one of the most independent people I know. After losing her mom, she put herself through school, during which she ended up doing an internship that put her on a rock tour.

  The rest, as they say, is history.

  “Where’s the Scrunchmuffin today?” my friend asks.

  “He had a big day yesterday. He’s feeling introspective.”

  There’s another knock on the door, and I frown.

  “Who’s that?” Haley asks.

  “No idea.” I look through the peephole and groan as I open the door. My brother’s standing in the frame, looking between us.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand.

  “I’m grounded.”

  “That in no way answers my question.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mom’s working, and dad’s traveling. So, they sent me to you.”

  This is my real punishment for forging my dad’s sig
nature. Keeping my brother out of harm’s way during my precious downtime.

  “Hey, Beck,” Haley says.

  I grab my things. “We’re going wedding dress shopping.” I shoot a look at Beck, expecting him to run the other direction. But he looks intrigued.

  “Can I come? I can drive.”

  I turn back to Haley. “Don’t you want a day without teenagers?”

  She shrugs as if she’s genuinely indifferent. “It can’t make looking at giant, overpriced lace garments I’ll only wear once any weirder.”

  I look between them. “Fine. You’re carrying any bags.”

  True to his word, Beck drives us and finds his own parking, leaving me and Haley some personal time.

  “How’s Jax?” I ask as we make our way to the first boutique. “Can you drag him into wedding stuff?”

  “Are you kidding? He’s obsessed. Grace and Annie aren’t helping.”

  I picture Jax’s sister, his closest family, and the now-fourteen-year-old who endeared Haley to Jax from the beginning.

  “We’ve decided on a venue. We’re doing it in Dallas.”

  “Is the band standing up for Jax?”

  “Yep. Mace, Kyle, and Brick are all going to be there. Annie’s going to be my flower girl. She and Tyler are singing at the ceremony.”

  My chest aches. “God, that’ll be one cute couple. Are they doing that high-school-dating thing?”

  Haley shakes her head as we walk the block to the shop. “No. But the second they do, they’re both getting The Talk from Grace, Jax, and everyone else who’ll tell them.”

  At the first boutique, the clerk pulls some dresses. Haley checks one tag, and her eyes bulge.

  I glance at it. “Jax’s broken guitar strings would cost more.”

  “And I stab myself with those every day,” she mumbles, but she goes to try one on.

  My friend comes out, and I shake my head.

  We go oh-for-three at the first boutique.

  Oh-for-six at the second.

  By the third boutique, Beck’s declared he’s bored of waiting in the car. “I didn’t know you’d be, like, an hour.”

  All three of us go inside, and the clerk at the desk asks for our names. “I’m sorry. I don’t have your appointment listed.”

  “Don’t do it,” Haley warns.

  “I have to do it.”

  “Serena—”

  “She’s marrying Jax Jamieson,” I say smoothly.

  The attendant’s eyes go wide. “I’m sorry. Let me get you a private room.”

  After Haley slips into the dressing room to change, Beck drops onto the seat next to me and pulls out his phone.

  I think he’s going to sit in silence, but he says, “Sorry Dad found out about the permission form. I didn’t know he’d be at school that day.” His gaze lingers on my cheek as if he’s remembering the confrontation. “You didn’t need to cover for me.”

  I straighten, crossing to the closest rack of gowns a few feet away. “I know it’s not easy living with them. And you’re family. I only have one brother.”

  He drags a heel along the cream carpet as I flip through the other dresses. “I want to be an actor,” he says.

  My hand stills on an off-the-shoulder gown. “Like do commercials or something?”

  “No. Movies, maybe. But stage, definitely.” I turn on my heel, taking in his wary expression. “NYU has a summer program. Auditions are next month—I already have the schedule.”

  I stare at him, surprised. “I know Mom and Dad can be pretty extra, but if you play along through college, everything will be easier.”

  “Maybe I don’t want it to be easier.” He looks at me. “I want to explore and not have to meet anyone’s expectations. There’s so many fucking rules.”

  Beck shifts off to wander the store, and I turn his words over in my mind.

  A text has my phone buzzing.

  It’s not the person I was hoping to hear from, but it’s not bad.

  * * *

  Jax: How’s shopping?

  * * *

  Rena: Excellent. If I let her outside the way she looks right now, yours will be one of many marriage proposals.

  * * *

  My phone rings, and I pick it up. “It was a joke.”

  His voice, half smooth and half rough, comes down the line. “Some things you don’t joke about.”

  I’m about to respond when a flash of white catches my attention, and I look up. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Jax demands.

  “Nothing. You’re going to name your firstborn after me. Which, if he or she’s not conceived the night of your wedding? Means you’re officially crazy. Later, Jax.” I hang up before he can protest. “You look gorgeous!”

  “I love it.” Haley grins. And it’s just her style. Simple straps, a straight neckline, lace on the bottom.

  “What do you think?” the saleswoman asks.

  “I think I might wear it every day,” Haley admits, turning in front of the mirror.

  “Let me get the champagne.” The woman bustles toward the other room.

  “Where’s Beck?” Haley asks.

  I glance back and double-take.

  Beck’s standing on a pouf in a wedding dress. He smooths his hair back off his face.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Seeing what all the hype is about.” He sticks his hands on his hips. “I don’t get it.”

  “Thanks for driving us around,” I say to Beck when he drops us off. “You don’t have to go home. You can stay at my place for a while.”

  “It’s okay. I’m studying for debate anyway. It’s hard to improv if you don’t know anything about the topic. Besides, it’ll surprise the hell out of Dr. R. Did you know Adam Sandler and William H. Macy both did debate?”

  “No. When’s your first debate?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “I want to go,” I say, surprising us both.

  He looks up. “I guess that’s all right. See you, Haley.” He waves as we slide out.

  “Wow,” my friend says as we go up to my apartment. “Who’s this magical Dr. R?”

  “The same guy I’m helping with the program.”

  Her expression shifts. “You slept with him.”

  “Yes. But no.” I unlock the door and we go inside. “He wasn’t even in it, Haley. And after I just felt... awful.” I don’t usually overthink hookups, but my brain keeps going back to the expression when he walked out. “He doesn’t want to date me, he wants to study me. I think he feels sorry for me.”

  Haley steps out of her shoes. “What do you want?”

  “Not that.” I scoop up Scrunchie, whose cuddle whore tendencies are on full display as he sniffs up at us, and cross to the couch. “I want to laugh with him and hang out with him and know him and maybe lick his abs. I want him to talk to me, and I want to talk to him. About everything.”

  I realize how strange and serious that probably sounds coming from me, but my friend doesn’t judge.

  “When I got on Jax’s tour,” Haley ventures, sinking onto the couch next to me and reaching over to scratch Scrunchie’s head, “you told me I should jump in headfirst. Just because you’ve always done something one way doesn’t mean it has to be that way. Maybe you should just go with it. See where it takes you.”

  “See where it takes me.” I turn that over. “When’d you get so smart?”

  “I was always smart,” she teases, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Now you listen to me because I have sex with a rock star.”

  16

  Wes

  “You thinking about eating?” a voice chirps on Monday from the door of the kitchen.

  I straighten so fast I hit the coffee next to my arm. “Carly. Hey.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “School holiday. I’m making revisions to a paper.”

  Carly crosses to the fridge, pulls on the handle, and takes out a brown bag. “We could eat together.”

  I glance past her into the
fridge, scanning the shelves before I realize… “I forgot to bring lunch.”

  “I’ll come with you,” she offers before I can invite her.

  Carly babbles a steady stream of work stuff as we go down to the deli.

  Despite my best intentions, I zone out.

  In addition to the paper revisions, I’ve been figuring out how to land that interview. I’m sick of waiting around.

  For starters, I reviewed every appointment to top schools in the past three years. Parsed the profiles of each of them.

  And though I think the associate dean’s argument’s is bullshit, I see what he’s saying. Most of the new hires are… well-rounded, for lack of a better word. I’ve never had much interest in raising my head from my work. I just want to be the best at what I do. But I’m putting together an opinion piece about healthcare policy, and I’ve assembled some other practical elements to forward him.

  There’s no way I’m leaving this to chance.

  As we take the elevator back up, Carly prods, “So, it was fun seeing you at drinks on Friday. We should do it again sometime.”

  The doors open and we step out onto our floor.

  I’m no social expert, but that’s a generous assessment of my company.

  I’m pretty sure I managed empty greetings and two-word replies to everything.

  Because no conversation could make me forget where I’d come from, and no beer could make me stop tasting her on my tongue.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Her face falls. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?” I curse in my head, but she just smiles. “Don’t feel bad. I’m glad there’s someone for you. I hope she knows how amazing you are.”

  Back in my office, I open the email I’ve read half a dozen times this morning.

  * * *

  Sent: Monday, 8:43 a.m.

  * * *

  Wes,

  * * *

  I’m sorry again for missing the meeting. Thanks for sending your recording of your conversation with the couple.