It Takes Two

by Jenny Holiday

  Stop. She wasn’t playing this right. She wasn’t playing this right at all, because her aborted mission to pass him meant she’d ended up even closer to him than when she emerged from the bathroom. His chest was a mere six inches from her face.

  No, it was even closer. Because he puffed it up like he was a cartoon character preparing for a confrontation. “You hired a prostitute? What the hell, Wendy?”

  She gasped, but then bit her lip to make herself stop mid-inhale. Gasping, like retreating, was not a good look for her right now.

  “Oh, don’t act so surprised. I heard you ordering the deluxe package. And later, getting all giggly with him on the phone.”

  She had to get away from him. She couldn’t stand here with their torsos practically touching. So she took a big step back. It wasn’t a retreat if you planned it, right? She was just taking a moment to run through her options.

  She considered telling him the truth, that in keeping with the literary theme of the bachelorette weekend, she’d actually hired Gunnar to talk about books with Jane after the stripping portion of the evening. But why? What the hell business of his was it if she wanted to sleep with a rentboy?

  “Huh, Wendy?” he taunted, taking a step toward her, as if rejecting her previous attempt to put some distance between them. “What are you doing over here by yourself when your ‘deluxe package’ is over there?”

  “I told you. I’m taking a bath,” she said haughtily.

  “And why are you taking a bath?” he needled.

  “Why don’t you just say what you really mean?” she snapped. “Ask what you really want to ask.” She wanted to make him say it. Make him hear how unreasonable he was being. God, the thought that he truly believed she would hire a prostitute…

  Worse, that she would need to.

  But she had been the only girl at the prom without a date, hadn’t she? Maybe he still thought of her as that girl. The one he’d been able to leave behind without a second thought.

  “What do I really want to ask?” he prodded.

  “You want to know if I’m going to fuck the stripper,” she snapped, hoping enough anger would smother her mortification.

  “No, I don’t,” he said, suddenly, strangely calm. “Because you’re not fucking the stripper.”

  “Jesus Christ, Noah. Of course I’m not. Give me some credit. I ordered the deluxe package as a joke. Gunnar and Jane were supposed to talk about books.”

  Something happened to Noah then. On the surface of things, it looked like he deflated a bit: the exaggerated cartoon chest underwent a slow de-puffing. But the impression it gave wasn’t one of defeat. It seemed more like…relief?

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” she added, even though the snarky postscript made her sound like a petulant child. She retucked the top of her towel to tighten it, which drew his attention to the…top-of-the-towel area.

  “In some ways, that’s kind of a waste.” His voice had completely shed its confrontational quality and gone a little gravelly. “All that anticipation. All those pheromones zinging around. A few drinks.”

  “I’m completely sober.” Though suddenly, inexplicably, she wished she wasn’t. The looseness, the confidence that alcohol could bring would not be unwelcome right now. Because then she could kick him out. Or…something.

  No, not “something.” Because when she’d asked him at the bar in New York, when he’d been getting all pissy and aggressive, if he was propositioning her, he’d said no. Had walked away from everything he’d been implying. And no matter how much she was lusting after him, she was done letting Noah Denning hurt her.

  She lifted her chin and pushed past him, leaving the comforting steam of the bathroom and marching into the center of the cool, too bright room.

  He followed her. “Completely sober, huh? Good. Sober is better.”

  “Better for what?” Now that she was out here, she didn’t know what to do. She hitched her towel up higher. “Better for kicking your ass out of this room?” Because, there, that’s what she should do.

  “Better because tomorrow you’ll remember everything.”

  “Remember what? What a presumptuous prick you are?”

  “Remember everything I’m going to do to you. Because remember how I’m your best prospect when it comes to meaningless fucking? I was better than those assholes in New York, and I’m better than Gunnar.”

  She gasped again—goddammit. Gasped like a stupid naive girl, which was not what she was. Fuck him and his mind games. Fuck his ability to get her all riled up with a single sentence.

  Wendy was not a girl who gasped. Not someone who stood by while a man said suggestive things to her that he had no intention of acting on—especially the only man she’d ever allowed to hurt her. He was just being mean now, taunting her like this. So, once again, fuck him. She was calling his bluff. She’d show Mr. I Don’t Do Casual Sex what he was missing.

  She dropped her towel.

  And he gasped.

  She laughed, a surge of triumph making her bold. Well, bolder. She was already standing naked in front of Noah Denning. She thought suddenly about how people sometimes talk about feeling, in moments of stress or confrontation, like other people could see through their clothing, see them naked and exposed. Wendy felt the reverse. Like even though it was totally illogical, that underneath her skin, there was a sparkly silver dress, and that Noah could see it. And that by seeing it, he was seeing something much more intimate and private than her naked body. She had to protect that dress, and the girl who had worn it.

  So she had to keep mouthing off. “I don’t need a stripper to get off. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I can take care of myself.”

  And hell, she just might, once he finally left. She was horny, which only made her madder. She hated the power he had over her, all these years later, even after she’d done everything she could think of to take some for herself.

  But, whatever. This was only lust. An animalistic response. She was bigger than her desire.

  She started to turn away, but he touched her arm as she moved past him. “I know you don’t need anyone, Wendy. But don’t you ever want anyone?”

  She shivered, and he rubbed his hand up and down on her arm, like he was trying to warm her up. She looked down at her bare feet next to his big Chelsea boots. He didn’t know that she wasn’t cold. That she was, in fact, on fire. If she was shaking, it was rage. Or that stupid ever-present lust. Or some goddamned combination of the two—opposing forces that kept her pinned in place.

  The hand that had been rubbing vigorously up and down her arm slowed. Came to a full stop on her shoulder. Then slowly, slowly, it started to make its way up along the side of her neck until it came to rest on her cheek. She wanted to look away, but she would not allow herself. No, she forced herself to put away the memory of that silver dress and to meet his gaze, strong and unashamed.

  His eyes burned, but it didn’t seem like there was any anger remaining behind the heat she saw in them. And his hand, in contrast to all their fighting words, was so gentle on her cheek.

  His hand on her cheek. It was happening again.

  Except it wasn’t. She was an adult this time, an adult who knew what she wanted. Who knew how to take what she wanted without getting her heart mixed up in things.

  So she leaned into his touch. Just a little.

  It was enough to shift everything.

  He leaned down, not slow, not fast, but with even, clear intent. She lifted her mouth to meet his, but she’d miscalculated apparently because— Oh! He was going for her neck. No, her collarbones. He pressed an open mouth against the right side and groaned a bit as he did so. The moment his lips made contact with her skin, she surrendered.

  The only regret she had left niggling at her was the idea that he was going to end up regretting what was about to happen. Noah Denning didn’t sleep around. This was not who he was.

  But right now, logic was not strong enough to penetrate the fog of desire that had overt
aken her. So she stood on her tiptoes to give him better access. The one hand remained on her cheek, but the other snaked around her, pulling her flush against his chest. She wanted to press even harder against him, to rub herself shamelessly against him like a cat, to use his body to hitch herself up and around him the way she had in New York. But every part of her felt tender, too soft, against his fully clothed body. His crisp white button-down was stiff against her oversensitive nipples. His belt buckle pressed into the vulnerable flesh of her belly.

  So she reached for the buckle and started undoing it. He jerked a little, startled, but recovered quickly and, catching up to what she was doing, let go of her with both hands—she had to bite her lip so as not to howl in protest—and yanked his shirt from his jeans. She worked on the belt while he undid his shirt buttons. It should have been awkward, but all it did was make her burn hotter, make her more desperate to get his skin against hers.

  He stumbled trying to get his shoes off, and by the time he righted himself and managed to get his pants and boxers off she was shaking even harder than before.

  He was magnificent. Not that she was surprised, but…my God. There were the muscles she’d seen glimpses of during costume changes after their various wardrobe malfunctions, but they were everywhere. Not enormous, but there. Making themselves known in a cascade that went from sculpted shoulders to defined abs to…well, the man had a marvelous cock. Of course he did. Pink and symmetrical and pleasingly though not intimidatingly large, it bobbed between them like an upside-down divining rod.

  He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Talking was a bad idea. It had the potential to derail everything. So she reached up and clamped one of her hands over his mouth and said, preemptively, “Shut up.”

  And, hallelujah, it worked. He peeled the hand off his mouth and sat on the bed, pulling her along with him, grabbing one of her thighs as she came and arranging her on his lap so she was straddling him. It was the perfect position for them, going a ways toward ameliorating their height difference.

  And they kissed. Oh, they kissed. She wasn’t sure if minutes passed or hours as they feasted on each other, battling with their tongues as surely as they had earlier with their words. He stroked deep into her mouth, wringing low moans from her that came from somewhere way down in her core. Hell, they felt like they came directly from her clit, like it was commanding her to vocalize what he was doing to her body.

  And she was humping him like a goddamned teenager in heat, rocking her hips back and forth. But she couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough pressure, enough friction, enough Noah.

  And then he touched her breasts, and she lost her mind. How was it possible he hadn’t touched her breasts before now? They’d been glued to his chest as she ground on him, his arms banded around her torso like he was afraid she’d escape, so that was why, but, oh God, when he did…the rush of sensation, of electricity to her nipples nearly undid her.

  “Wendy,” he whisper-moaned, and it startled her. He so rarely called her just “Wendy” without the “Lou Who” attached to it.

  She had to get him inside her. “Do you have any condoms?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She wrenched herself off his lap, relishing the wordless, growly protest he made, stalked over to Gia’s bag, and started rummaging through it. Clothes, makeup, magazines—everything she would expect Gia to have except…“She must have some condoms.”

  She ran to the bathroom and tried both girls’ toiletries bags, even though she knew Elise, with her endometriosis, didn’t bother with birth control.

  “Wendy,” he said again. “Wendy.” He was getting closer—his voice was louder on the second incantation of her name. He appeared in the dim bathroom—she hadn’t turned on the overhead light and had been conducting her rummaging by the ambient light from the main room—and he looked so…carnal. Like she was made of dust and wishes, and he was all flesh and muscle and man. Like she was a shadow of a person, and he was an actual person. “We don’t need condoms.”

  “Yes, we do!” she protested. “I’m not on birth control, and…” Shit. They couldn’t detour here to have the whole STI conversation, because that would be it. Noah would be reminded that he didn’t do casual sex, much less with her, and that would be the end.

  “That’s not what I mean.” He took her hand and led her back into the dark, into the corporeal world, grounding her with his heat. Gently, he pushed her to sit on the bed and kept pushing until she was flat on her back. Then he covered her with his body and kissed her again, deeply. She was about to protest that they couldn’t just roll around naked and make out indefinitely or surely her head would explode, but then his hand brushed lightly between her legs, and he moved his lips to her neck, nuzzling there for a minute. Then, as he whispered, “No guy is going to go down on you the first time you fuck him, huh?” he moved down her body, fast, before she even had time to process what he’d said.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed as he licked her clit, firmly and decisively.

  And it was like that lick had been an initial claim staked, a declaration of intent, because he backed right off. Her hands flew to his hair. She wanted to keep him there. Well, she wanted to actively shove his face back between her legs, but she wasn’t that bold. So she rested her hands gently on his scalp, loving the feel of his hair. How was it possible that she’d grown up with Noah Denning but never touched his hair?

  He licked his lips and shot her a wicked grin before gently dropping kisses all along her seam. They were light, teasing kisses, and they were wonderful. And terrible, because she wanted so much more. She squirmed, trying to maneuver herself into a better position, but he clamped his hands on her thighs, immobilizing her against the bed. She cried out, half in protest, half in encouragement, because as he did so, he licked deeper into her, humming his pleasure.

  “Oh my God, Noah,” she panted, both reveling in and resisting the state of arousal she was trapped in. She wasn’t going to be able to come like this—she needed more direct pressure on her clit for that—but the torture, the limbo, was so unbearably, exquisitely delicious.

  “What?” He lifted his face off her body. “I’m just trying to meet your expectations.” He tried to affect a casual expression but could not hide his grin. “And no condoms, so…”

  “Uhhhh,” she moaned. And, once again, it was half frustration, half pleasure. That was the way it was with him, she was learning.

  “Oh, but am I not meeting them?” he teased. “You’d better tell me what you want. Do you want to talk about craft beer?”

  She pressed on the back of his head. God help her, she pressed on the back of his head.

  “What?” He lowered his head and licked her lazily, but way too low. “I’m not sure I got that.” Another leisurely lick, higher, but still not quite where she wanted him. Where she needed him. “Didn’t your friends say that grown-up Wendy has a potty mouth? I think I’d like to hear from grown-up Wendy.” Then, damn him, he pulled away entirely and sat back on his haunches, regarding her like he was a sculptor and she his creation.

  “I want you to lick my clit,” she said, her voice all scratchy. “Like you did at the beginning. I want you to lick it and suck it until I come.”

  A slow smile blossomed. “That,” he drawled, “will be my pleasure.”

  And then he did exactly what she asked, followed her instructions to the letter, licking her like an ice cream cone he was afraid was going to melt if he didn’t work fast enough. And when she was moaning and writhing, he seemed to know just when to fasten his mouth around her and suck. It was only a second before she was shuddering and shaking, rocked by the most intense orgasm she’d had in a long time. Maybe ever.

  He’d knocked her out. Nothing was working quite as it should. Her vision was hazy, her ears were full of the sound of her own heartbeat, and her brain…well, her brain had gotten off the train a few stations ago.

  Which was why it took her a few minutes to catch up to t
he fact that while she’d been leveled by a shattering orgasm, he was still hard. Of course he was—he’d been single-mindedly focusing on her, implementing his peculiar mix of torture and pleasure.

  While she was blissed out, he’d sat up on his knees and he was jacking himself with one hand, staring at her the whole time. “Let me,” she said, resting her hand over his. When he let go, she started sliding her hand up and down, trying to mimic his pace. Her hands were smaller than his, and the tips of her fingers didn’t reach the tip of her thumb as she pumped. She wondered if the smaller surface area of her grip versus his would be a disappointment.

  “Oh my God, Wendy,” he said, as if he had heard her unarticulated insecurities and was discarding them, and that was followed by a series of noises she could only describe as a cross between a grunt and a moan. They were the sexiest noises she had ever heard. So she tightened her grip a little and increased her pace slightly. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and he closed them for a moment.

  When he opened them, they focused immediately on her face, and he started coming, painting her chest with ribbons of come.

  She wanted to writhe around and rub it into her skin like a stupid cliché of a porn star, as if that would somehow amount to a claim staked: this jizz is mine.

  What the hell?

  He flopped down next to her, so they were lying side by side on their backs.

  She was lying naked with Noah Denning in a hotel room in Las Vegas.

  And they were on Gia’s bed, which was…Well, having gotten it on with Noah was bad enough, but somehow, the idea that she’d done it in her friend’s bed made everything seem extra weird.

  “How did you even get in here?” As soon as it was out of her mouth, she regretted it. “How did you even get in here?” was probably not high on the list of things a woman should say to a man who had just rocked her world with his face between her legs.

  Thankfully, he chuckled. “You girls need to learn to be a little more vigilant about your keys.”