The Test

by Fenske, Tawna

  Dax shakes his head, a bemused glint in his eye. There’s a sexiness in his smile that wasn’t there five seconds ago, and my pulse ticks up a notch. “People don’t generally say that,” he confirms. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t hot as hell, though.”

  I take a shaky breath and wonder what happened to my bravado. It seems to be evaporating now that I’m here in my home revealing how very uncool I am. “Um, look—could we maybe sit and…uh, talk first, or something?”

  He laughs and pushes himself off the wall. He moves closer to me, close enough to brush the tips of my fingers with his knuckles. He takes my right hand in his, then the left, making goose bumps prickle all the way up my arms.

  “For the record,” he says, “it’s not my MO to pounce on a woman the second I walk through the door. Not unless she asks me to.”

  The fact that he phrased it that way sends a funny shudder of relief through me. I’m not sure if it’s because I like knowing one of us has some experience here, or that I appreciate the acknowledgment that I’m calling the shots. That I have the right to say no at any time.

  But “no” is the last thing on my mind as he strokes my knuckles with the pad of one oversized thumb. It’s gentle and warm, and I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. The gesture is almost as soothing as the earthy, sagebrush scent of his cologne or aftershave or deodorant or whatever the hell it is. Maybe it’s just Dax. In any case, my shoulders start to unclench.

  “I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I clear my throat and take a half-step toward the kitchen. “Let me just pour us some wine—”

  “Nope,” he says, tightening his hold on my hands. He looks deep into my eyes, and I suppress a shiver. “That’s my one rule,” he says. “If you need a buzz to go through with this, I’m not the guy for the job.”

  I nod, thrilled by his take-charge approach. Gary was never like that. Dax is right, of course. If I’m going to do this, I should be fully aware of what I’m choosing. Fully committed to this act of debauchery.

  Do wanton women use words like debauchery? Or wanton?

  “How about Perrier?” I offer, determined to be a good hostess. “I also have Evian or La Croix if you prefer.”

  Dax frowns. “Can I just get some water?”

  I start to point out that those were all different types of water, but maybe he knows this. Maybe he wants to see if I’m the sort of spontaneous girl who can be wild and crazy and drink straight-up tap water.

  Oh my God, shut up.

  I swallow hard and try my best to appear cool and composed.

  “Lisa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is there a reason you’re gripping my hand like you’re trying to squeeze juice out of a grapefruit?”

  I look down to see he’s right. I’m like a freaking anaconda. I drop his hand like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”

  He smiles and takes my hand back, then reaches for the other. Now we’re standing here in the middle of my living room holding hands like two four-year-olds playing ring-around-the-rosie.

  This is so not how I imagined my first no-strings hookup.

  “Close your eyes.” His voice is low and soothing, and I obey without hesitation. I don’t even ask why.

  “Very good.” Something about his gentle baritone makes my heart slow from a gallop to a canter.

  “Breathe in through your nose,” he says softly. “Inhale for a count of one…two…three…four…five…six.” His voice is steady, unhurried, and his hands are warm around mine.

  I do exactly what he says. I swear I’d jump off my roof right now as long as he ordered me to do it in this velvet-edged, milk-chocolaty voice.

  “Now exhale for a count of eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Good girl.”

  He’s breathing with me, I can tell. My eyes are still closed, but he’s so close I can sense the rise and fall of his chest. Is this foreplay? I have no idea. Gary’s idea of foreplay was muting the ten o’clock news and patting the mattress beside him. Don’t think I didn’t notice how he’d peer at the stock market crawl over my shoulder.

  “You’re breathing fast again,” Dax says, jarring me back to the moment. “Focus on breathing in slowly through your nose for six breaths. Then out for eight. Always more breaths going out than in.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  My eyes are still closed, but I feel his hands tense in mine. “Practiced a lot of self-soothing as a kid.”

  There’s a gruffness to his voice that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and I start to open my eyes. But Dax gives my fingers a gentle squeeze and keeps counting.

  “In for one…two…three…four…five…six,” he murmurs.

  How many minutes pass? Maybe only a few seconds. I could stand here forever, holding hands with this man, breathing in and out and feeling my own heartbeat slow.

  Finally, I open my eyes and look at him. His blue eyes are watchful, curious.

  “Answer me this,” I say. “Is this the lamest entrée to casual sex you’ve ever had in your life?”

  He grins and lets go of my hands.

  “Grab the water,” he says. “I’ll meet you on the sofa.”

  Then he turns and walks through the living room, leaving me to wonder what the hell just happened.

  Chapter Four

  Dax

  Lisa returns to the living room with two lemon-sliced glasses of ice water on a sterling silver tray, and as I watch her hips sway, I replay her last question in my mind.

  Is this the lamest entrée to casual sex you’ve ever had in your life?

  “For the record, you’re not lame,” I tell her as she sits down beside me and hands me a glass of water. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

  “Cute,” she repeats, spitting out the word like a piece of gristle. “I’m not trying to be cute. I’m aiming for sexy, wild, and sophisticated.”

  I grin and take a sip of water. “And you’re nailing two out of three.”

  She doesn’t ask which one she’s missing. I’m guessing she knows, but I’m also guessing there’s something she doesn’t.

  It wouldn’t take much to bring out Lisa Michaels’s wild side.

  I can see it in her eyes. There’s a lust-fueled superheroine behind that pearl choker and silk blouse. The thought of uncovering her sends my dick throbbing.

  But first things first.

  “So, your sister said you’re going through a tough time,” I begin. “And you mentioned a grudge fuck,” I add. “Tell me more.”

  She stares at me for a moment, then folds her hands primly on her lap. “Gary and I dated for four years, got engaged at the three-year mark, and had planned a perfect June wedding.”

  “I take it that didn’t happen?”

  She shakes her head, and I watch her eyes for signs that she’s not over the guy. I’m not seeing them, but it isn’t like I know her that well.

  “He pulled a no-show at the wedding,” she says, pressing her lips together in a thin line before continuing. “On the bright side, it left me with six cases of Dom Pérignon to enjoy by myself.”

  “Not all in one sitting, I hope?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “No, of course not. And I really am over him. I promise. It’s just—”

  Her brow furrows as she searches for the right conclusion to that sentence. I find I really want to know, really want to hear what she’s thinking. It’s been a long time since I hung on a woman’s words like this.

  “Any guy who’d pull a stunt like that is a loser,” I tell her. “You deserve better.”

  “I suppose so,” she says, scratching at a nonexistent spot on her skirt with one perfectly manicured nail. “But then again, I’m the loser who thought I wanted to marry him.”

  I start to say something comforting, but Lisa stops scratching and looks up at me. “You know what Gary said to me after his friend, Preston, caught his girlfriend cheating with the woman she and Preston
had a threesome with?”

  It takes me a moment to digest that, both the logistics of what she’s saying and the fact that Lisa just uttered the word “threesome.”

  “What did Gary say?” I ask.

  “He said, ‘I’m glad I never have to worry about craziness like that with you, Lisa.’”

  I nod, though I’m not entirely sure what the correct response is here. “I’m sure he meant it as a compliment.” I’m not actually trying to defend the guy, just trying to make Lisa feel less shitty. “He knew you were loyal and trustworthy.”

  She gives me a withering look and picks up her own glass of water. “That’s also how you’d describe a Labrador retriever.”

  I start to argue, but she waves a hand.

  “It’s not that I’m mad about that. I mean, he probably had a point.” She doesn’t break eye contact, but seems to hesitate. I wait for her to finish, to form whatever thought is on her mind.

  “Have you ever woken up one day and realized that maybe your gut has been steering you wrong all along?” she asks. “Like you thought you wanted one thing, and you made all these decisions to get there, but it turns out that’s not what you wanted at all?”

  A big ball of iron coils up in the pit of my stomach, but I push it aside and nod. “Yeah. I think I know what you’re saying.”

  “I want something different. Something that’s the total opposite of what I’m used to.”

  “And that’s me?”

  “Maybe. For tonight anyway.” She gives a nervous little laugh and tosses her hair. “I guess I just feel like maybe I’ve missed out on doing a few things. And maybe guys like you are one of them.”

  “Guys like me,” I repeat, forcing myself to keep an even voice. “How do you mean that?”

  I watch her face, braced for the words.

  Dumb. Low-class. Unsophisticated.

  “Hot.” She blinks like she’s surprised herself with the word, then grins. “Big. Strong. A little rough around the edges, but in a sexy way.”

  It’s my turn to be surprised, and I buy myself a few seconds by reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I let my hand linger by her ear, admiring the perfect shell of it. Pearl studs glisten on her lobes, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my tongue from there to the base of her throat.

  “For what it’s worth,” I murmur. “Gary doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re smokin’ hot.”

  She smiles, but it’s a little uncertain. “Thank you.”

  “Like, seriously hot. Hotter than a non-consumable tungsten electrode used in gas-tungsten arc welding.”

  “What?” She bursts out laughing, throwing her whole body forward and bumping my forearm with her breast. Every nerve in my body flickers to life.

  I expect her to pull back, but instead, she leans into me. Her thigh moves against mine, and my breath catches in my throat as her skirt hikes up three inches.

  “Welding,” I say, almost forgetting what we were talking about. “That’s a type of high temperature welding used for things like motorcycle or bike repair.”

  “You’re a welder?”

  I can’t tell if there’s judgment or intrigue in the question, so I decide not to answer for now. I like having her this close, feeling the weight of her thigh on mine. Her breast still brushes my bicep, and I resist the urge to press against it.

  “You’re also hotter than a molten weld puddle shielded by an argon/carbon dioxide mix in flux-cored arc welding,” I murmur.

  “Molten weld puddle and—what?”

  The question comes out a little breathless, and I notice the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. She’s staring at me like she can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.

  Neither can I.

  “It’s another type of welding used for thicker materials or steel erections,” I say and watch her lips part. “Also, very hot,” I add.

  “I—oh.” She shifts on the sofa, a funny little squirm that brings her even closer. Her thigh rests on top of mine now, and I wonder if she’s noticed. I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose, or just pulling toward me like a magnet to steel.

  My water glass is sweating in my palm, and I set it on a coaster, not trusting myself to hold it steady anymore. Is this dorky talk about welding actually turning her on?

  Is it turning me on?

  You’re an idiot. A babbling, worthless, grease-monkey idiot.

  True, but I keep going. “Did you know that when you weld two dissimilar metals together, you have to be careful about coefficient thermal expansion at the joint of the two?”

  I’m reciting from memory from the first welding guidebook I ever got my hands on. I was ten, and someone had left it behind in a junk car at my dad’s scrapyard. For years, I lugged that thing with me everywhere, thumbing the rust-spotted pages with a flashlight under the covers, committing the words to memory until I no longer needed to crack that duct-taped spine to remember the precise steps for welding nickel-based alloys to steel.

  It’s how I got where I am today, in a way.

  I swallow hard and focus on Lisa. Her face is flushed, and she looks like she just bit into a juicy, ripe strawberry. Those green eyes flash with heat, and she lifts her fingers and touches the pearl necklace at her throat.

  “Wow,” she murmurs. “That does sound very hot.”

  I swear to God I didn’t set out to turn her on with this. I was just trying to make her laugh, maybe build up her confidence a bit by telling her how hot she is.

  I don’t know if it’s the multi-syllable words or the grease monkey thing that’s getting to her. Does it matter?

  Her bare knee rests on my leg, and I swear her skirt has hitched another three inches up that glorious, creamy thigh. I ache to touch it. It’s like she reads my thoughts, shifting so her leg brushes the tips of my fingers.

  I hesitate, then lift my hand. Her knee fits perfectly in my cupped palm, and I hold my breath, waiting for a reaction.

  “More,” Lisa whispers.

  “More what?” I’m honestly not sure.

  She licks her lips and darts a glance at my hand. When her eyes lift to mine again, I feel my cock throb.

  “Tell me more about what’s hot,” she says. “The welding, I mean.”

  Good God, I can’t believe my luck. Of all the dumbass lines I’ve used to seduce women, welding terminology never made the list. My heart hammers like a goddamn piston, and I scroll through my brain for more lingo. I lean closer, almost close enough to brush my lips against her ear.

  “You want to hear about stick-shielded metal arc welding?” I murmur. “That’s when you touch the electrode tip to the workpiece, then withdraw it really, really slowly.”

  “Oh,” she murmurs, not quite a gasp and not quite a groan. “That sounds really hot.”

  “It is,” I tell her. “Usually about sixty-five-hundred degrees Fahrenheit.”

  Jesus. I’ve been welding my whole adult life, and I never knew it could sound sexy. Lisa shifts again, and I don’t know how it happens. One second she’s squirming beside me, and the next second she’s on my lap, lips parted, legs parted, her whole body pressed against mine.

  Did I do that, or did she?

  We’re face-to-face now with Lisa on my lap, and she peers at me with uncertainty in her expression.

  “Hello,” I murmur.

  It’s a dumb thing to say with her lips scant inches from mine, begging to be kissed, but she smiles anyway. “Hello.”

  Her brow furrows with self-consciousness, but I don’t give her time to go there. I close the distance between us, brushing my lips to hers as I slide my hands to her hips.

  Then I’m kissing her hard and deep, groaning as she moves against me. Her body is like a coiled wire, tense with energy. I skim my hands up her sides, brushing the edges of her breasts to hear her whimper, then back down, cur
ving over her hips and around. I clutch her ass and give a gentle squeeze.

  “God, Dax.” She breaks the kiss to groan, then arches against me. The movement hitches her skirt up around her hips, and I can feel the heat at her core pressing against the fly of my jeans.

  “That’s it,” I whisper, conscious of the way she’s grinding against me. I haven’t been dry-humped since I was sixteen, and I can’t believe how fucking good this feels. I wonder if I should slow things down, maybe be more tender with her. This can’t be what she’s used to.

  But her words echo in my head.

  I want something different. Something that’s the total opposite of what I’m used to.

  My hands move roughly up her sides, yanking her blouse from her skirt. I stifle a growl as my palms graze bare skin. I’ve never felt anything this soft in my life, and I draw in a slow breath to clear my head. I kiss her again, needing to taste her. My hands keep moving, savoring her smooth flesh until my fingertips graze the lace at the edges of her breasts.

  She gasps as I flick open her bra clasp with one hand, and I worry I’ve gone too far when she draws back.

  Her lashes flutter as she blinks at me and tries to focus on my eyes. “I should take off my skirt so it doesn’t wrinkle.”

  I skim my palms under her bra cups and test the weight of her breasts in my hands. She gives a soft moan, and I swear we both lose our train of thought.

  My thumbs skim her nipples, and her eyes go wide again. I hold her gaze with mine, willing myself to form a coherent thought.

  “Do you always take off your clothes for sex?” I ask.

  She bites her lip. “I guess—I never thought about it.”

  “Then leave them on. Everything. Even your shoes.”

  Lisa blinks then glances down at her red-soled stilettos. Her fingers trace the pearl choker at her neck, and she nods slowly. “Yes,” she whispers. “Clothes on. I want it like that.”

  “You want what?”

  I’m pretty sure I know, but I want to hear her say it. Want her to be clear about what she’s asking for, what she needs.

  “I want you inside me.” She blinks, startled by her own words. That makes two of us.