The Test

by Fenske, Tawna

  Remember The Test…

  “Okay,” I gasp, and draw my fingers up between my legs.

  The effect is electric. I gasp as my index and middle finger glide slick over the sensitive bud. Missiles of pleasure launch through me, and I buck against Dax as he pounds into me again.

  “Oh!” I cry out, closing my eyes to absorb the pleasure.

  Holy hell, this feels amazing.

  “That’s it, baby,” he urges. “Open your eyes and watch yourself.”

  I do as he says and see myself with tousled hair, bee-stung lips, and a hulking, sexy-as-hell tattooed god pounding me from behind.

  Who is that woman in the mirror?

  My face is scant inches from the glass, fogging it with sharp breaths of pleasure. I look blissed out. I look sexy. I look like a woman who’s about to come her brains out.

  “Dax—” My voice is unfamiliar and primal.

  “That’s it,” he growls.

  His words, and one more stroke, are all it takes. Then he’s driving into me as the orgasm grabs hold of my whole body and throws me into a spinning centrifuge of pleasure.

  Sensation pulses through me with each thrust, with every slick stroke from the pads of my fingers. My breasts smoosh into the counter, giving me the delicious contrast of cool porcelain and raw heat and explosions of pleasure everywhere around me.

  Dax slams into me again, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize he’s coming, too. The spasms inside me give way to more, and I realize my own body is responding, yanking me back onto the rollercoaster of pleasure.

  Holy shit, is this what they mean by multiple orgasms?

  We’re both breathless by the time the sensation stops. I lie there spread across the counter, this panting, grinning, unrecognizable version of me.

  Dax meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles. “You okay?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just pulls me up against him where I bury my face against his chest and nod and grin and giggle without meaning to.

  “I’m amazing,” I breathe. “Was it good for you, too?” I do a mental face-palm at the sound of those words. “That was dorky, wasn’t it?”

  Dax just shakes his head and strokes a hand down my back. “That was fucking phenomenal.”

  I smile. “Agreed.”

  He turns me so I’m leaning against the shower wall. It’s a good thing, too, since my legs were about to give out. “Was that a little outside your comfort zone?” he asks. “The dirty talk, touching yourself—all of that?”

  I nod as heat creeps into my cheeks. “A little, but isn’t that the point?”

  “Definitely,” he says. “But I hope you know you can tell me if you don’t want to do something.”

  “I know.”

  I may not know Dax well, but I can trust him with this. My body, my safety, my heart—

  No. Not my heart. That’s not what this is about.

  I smile and try to think of something witty to say. Something breezy and flirtatious so he understands we’re on the same page with this casual sex thing.

  I’m still thinking when there’s a gurgle from above, followed by a blast of icy water.

  “Aaaagh!” I shriek as Dax spins me around so he’s shielding me with his body. We’re both laughing as he fumbles for the taps, twisting off the icy blast of water. “Fuck!” he gasps as he cranks the knob, tattooed forearms wet and flexing.

  When he turns to face me, we’re both dripping and laughing like idiots. “Well,” he says. “Looks like the water’s working.”

  I dissolve into giggles again, certain I haven’t laughed so hard in years.

  Certain that the potent stew of emotion simmering in my gut is way more intense than I’d bargained for. I expected fondness, not passion. Pleasure, not joyful delirium. Insert tab B into slot A and all that jazz, but this—this—whatever it is with Dax… It’s not like anything I’ve known before.

  Dammit.

  Dax grins, and I wonder if he’s read my mind. “Ready for that shower now?”

  I shoot a nervous glance at the showerhead. “Does it have a setting besides frigid?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  I take a step back, and Dax turns the knobs again. Water burbles from the showerhead with a little less intensity than before, and he takes a few seconds to adjust the taps. “There,” he says, running a hand under the water. “That should do it.”

  He holds out his slippery hand, and I take it, letting him pull me under the spray with him. Warm water sluices down my body, and I sigh as he glides his hands down my arms and back up again, palms fitting perfectly over the curves of my shoulders.

  “That feels good,” I murmur.

  I’m not sure if I’m talking about the water or his touch. Steam billows around us, and I glance down at my pink-tipped toes looking small and fragile with Dax’s feet on either side of them. I tip my face up again and let the warm droplets patter across my forehead.

  Dax smiles and brushes a damp hank of hair off my forehead. “You okay with sharing the shower, or would you rather take turns?”

  Something about experiencing this with Dax seems right. It’s not just The Test, either. It’s a closeness that has nothing to do with my experiment and everything to do with being utterly overwhelmed by what just happened between us.

  “I’m not used to sharing,” I admit. “But I want to with you.”

  God, that sounded cheesy. But Dax doesn’t laugh.

  “Turn around,” he says.

  I must look startled, because he smiles and shakes his head. “Not for that,” he says. “Turn around, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

  “What?”

  He grins and grabs a green bottle from the rack hanging around the showerhead. “That’s assuming you can handle generic Dollar Store shampoo touching your perfect hair.”

  There’s a challenge in his voice, but also something soothing, warm and gentle like bathwater. I pivot on the slippery shower floor, conscious of Dax moving behind me. There’s a click of the bottle top opening, followed by a billow of cedar-scented steam filling the small space.

  “That’s it,” he murmurs as his hands close over my scalp. His fingertips start to move, massaging soft, languid circles along my skull. He lifts my hair off my shoulders and works his way down, massive fingertips kneading the spot where my head meets the top of my neck. I groan as his thumbs work that spot for several heavenly moments, loosening something inside me.

  My shoulders go limp with bliss.

  “There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s the spot.”

  God, it’s like a massage and a hair appointment all in one, with the bonus of a hot, naked tattooed guy in charge of it all. I didn’t know that was a thing.

  I close my eyes as he works his way down, gentle as he lathers the shampoo into a fragrant cloud around my head. He takes his time, careful to swipe the suds from my brow. He’s murmuring something low and soothing, but I can’t make out the words. It could be a lullaby or a recitation from a welding manual for all I know. Whatever it is, it sounds as good as this feels.

  I lean back against his chest, letting Dax tip me back to rinse the froth from my hair. The shower nozzle must be handheld, because he’s guiding the spray along the back of my head. My eyes are still closed, but his fingertips feel like a dream threading through my hair, kneading my scalp until I’m on the brink of purring like a housecat.

  “That feels delicious,” I murmur.

  “That’s the idea.”

  I sigh and let him keep massaging. The suds are probably long gone, but he hasn’t stopped touching me. Hasn’t stopped threading his fingers through my hair, skimming his palm over my shoulder to brush away bubbles.

  What is it about this that’s so much more intimate than what we were doing fifteen minutes ago?

  Bent over the bathroom counter, I was sure I’d reached maximum pleasure. I thought that was the best I could possibly feel.

  I was wrong. So damn wrong about everything.
>
  Why can’t I stop smiling?

  Chapter Ten

  Dax

  “Okay, we’re coming up on another corner,” I shout. “Hold on tight!”

  There’s a hoot of delight from behind me, and I glance across the parking lot to see Lisa standing on the curb, beaming in a yellow sundress. At her request, I’ve offered to fulfill her sister-in-law’s lifelong dream of riding a motorcycle.

  Junie is the first person I’ve known with Down Syndrome, and I’ll admit I was nervous at first. I didn’t know what to say or how to act.

  But five seconds in Junie’s company made it clear why Lisa adores her. It’s not a pitying “let’s be nice to the developmentally disabled person” kind of affection, either. Junie’s zest for life is contagious, and her enthusiasm for the motorcycle ride has me grinning like an overgrown kid on a Ducati. I’ve had plenty of women on the back of my bike, but none have made me laugh like Junie.

  “Woohoo!” she shouts. “Hey, Lisa! Take a picture, okay?”

  Lisa obeys, snapping furiously. I take another lap through the parking lot of the warehouse, slowing down so Lisa can get a good shot of her sister-in-law.

  “Here we are,” I say as I ease to a stop near the mailboxes. I park the bike and help Junie off as Lisa hustles over to assist with the helmet.

  “How’d you like it?” I ask.

  “It was awesome!” Junie beams and gives me a hug so fierce, I stagger with the force of it. I hug back and smile at Lisa over Junie’s shoulder.

  “Think you’re ready to join a motorcycle gang now?” I ask.

  Junie steps back and seems to mull it over, then shakes her head. “Maybe not yet. You should probably take me for more rides so I get practice.”

  “I like how you think.”

  Lisa smiles and hands me the helmet, then turns back to Junie. “You ready for our lunch date?”

  “Yeah. Can I wash my hands first?”

  “Sure thing,” Lisa says. “I’ll show you where bathroom is.”

  As Lisa leads her to it, I try not to think illicit thoughts about the last time I was in that bathroom with Lisa. It’s been almost a week, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Haven’t stopped feeling my fingers in her hair or remembering the way water sluiced off her bare shoulders as I washed her back.

  See? It’s not just about the sex.

  The hell it isn’t. And it damn sure needs to stay that way.

  Lisa emerges from the workshop with sunlight sparking off her blond hair and breasts rounding out the front of that yellow dress, and it’s all I can do not to drool as she approaches.

  “When can I see you next?” I blurt before I have a chance to think of something cooler to say.

  She smiles and tucks her hair behind one ear, giving me a view of a tender swath of neck I’d like to be kissing. “I wasn’t sure we were doing that,” she says.

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs and glances away, her gaze flitting over the bike, the mailboxes—anything but me. “Making dates. Acting like we’re in a relationship or something. We both said we didn’t want that.”

  I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question, but I nod anyway. “Of course.”

  “So, we’re still on the same page?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Excellent.”

  She sounds so relieved that it’s hard not to take it personally. But her words underscore exactly what we both want, so there’s no fucking reason it should bother me. “The no strings thing is great,” I assure her, or maybe I’m assuring myself. “Glad it’s working out.”

  And it’s true. Come on, the last thing I need is to date someone seriously. Especially with someone whose idea of a date involves a six-course meal or tickets to some Shakespeare play or—

  “The damn opera.”

  “What?” I yank my attention back to Lisa, surprised to see she’s pulled out her phone and is studying the screen with a frown.

  “The opera,” she mutters as she shoves the phone back in her purse. “I forgot I have to go to this fancy opera thing tomorrow night. I don’t suppose you’d want to go with me?”

  “To the opera?”

  She nods and laughs. “The fact that you just said ‘opera’ the same way you’d say ‘circumcision’ is enough of an answer. It’s okay; I don’t want to go either.”

  “Why are you?”

  She shrugs and fingers the pearl necklace at her throat, making my mouth water unexpectedly. “A client gave me the tickets. It’s one of those things I have to do every now and then to rub shoulders with the wealthy, influential crowd. The kind of people who need an interior designer.”

  I nod, even though the words send a ripple of unease through me. Social climbing was one of Kaitlyn’s favorite forms of exercise.

  “You sure you don’t want to go?” Lisa asks. “I could use a hot guy on my arm.”

  Her words are teasing, and I should be flattered. Besides, who am I to get annoyed that she wants to use me when this whole damn arrangement is about using each other?

  Still, I can’t help feeling like the grungy kid from the wrong side of the tracks whose high school prom date laughed when he showed up in a thrift store suit. I didn’t have enough money to rent a tux or to buy her a damn wrist corsage.

  It’s one of many reasons I hate dressy events.

  I clear my throat now and focus on Lisa’s invitation. “Do you even like the opera?”

  “Not especially.”

  “How many times have you been?”

  She considers that for a moment. “In the last year? Five, maybe six times. I used to have a season pass when—” She stops there, but I can hear the end of the sentence in my head.

  When I was with Gary.

  I’m really starting to hate Gary.

  “So right now, are your instincts telling you to go to the opera?” I ask her. “Are you saying to yourself, ‘I really should do that,’ or do you genuinely want to be there?”

  She sighs. “I suppose it’s more of an obligation. For my career, for my clients—”

  “Will your clients fire you if you don’t show?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs and gives me a sheepish shrug. “Probably not. Honestly, I’m not even sure they’ll be there tonight.”

  “What would the opposite be?” I ask. “The opposite of a ritzy night at the opera?”

  Lisa’s brow furrows, and she scuffs her sandal on the curb. “I have no idea.” She gives a self-deprecating little laugh. “Maybe it’s my lack of imagination that’s been holding me back all this time.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, leaning close enough to brush my lips against her earlobe. “You didn’t lack imagination in my bathroom the other day.”

  I edge back in time to see her blush bright pink from her cheeks to her forearms. She’s picturing it in her mind, and I’m glad. Visions of our bathroom hookup have been playing in an endless loop in my brain since last Saturday.

  “The opposite of getting dressed up and going to the opera.” I pretend to mull it over, even though I know exactly what that would look like. “Going to a biker bar wearing a leather miniskirt and a Mötley Crüe T-shirt with no bra. Eating hot wings, drinking beer, and maybe playing a round of darts.”

  “Wow.” Lisa blinks at me. “That’s pretty specific.”

  I grin back at her, noticing she didn’t say no. “That’s my specialty. When it comes to The Test, it’s good to have friends in low places.”

  “I guess that’s what I signed on for.” I can’t tell from her tone if she’s intrigued or leery. Maybe a bit of both.

  “Are you game?” I ask.

  There’s a challenge in my voice, and I wonder if I’m expecting her to say no. If part of me wants her to confirm she’s not willing to try something new, to set foot on the seedier side of town.

  After a few seconds of hesitation, Lisa shrugs and gives a small smile. “Sure. Why not?”

  Huh. I’ll admit the words surpris
e me, as does the pang of elation rippling through my gut.

  “Besides,” Lisa continues, unaware of the emotional yo-yo that’s bonking around in my brain. “The opera tickets are good through the end of winter. I can hit next month’s show as soon as The Test is over in a few weeks.”

  And just like that, I’m annoyed again. It’s stupid, really. This is what we agreed, isn’t it? A temporary fling, a temporary experiment. Nothing more than that.

  So why do the words feel thick as I force them out of my throat? “Absolutely,” I tell her. “You can do it next month when your life is back to normal.”

  “Thanks, Dax,” Lisa says as Junie steps out of the workshop and heads toward us with her face lit by a smile. “You know how to show a girl a good time.”

  The words echo in my head, hollow and taunting.

  A good time. A dumb lug who’s good for a fuck. That’s all you’ll ever be.

  I grit my teeth and remind myself that’s what I agreed to. Nothing more, nothing less.

  …

  “Nice shirt.”

  It’s the first time in my life I’ve uttered this phase while admiring an actual shirt and not its contents.

  Okay, I’m also admiring the contents.

  Lisa plucks the fabric away from her chest and studies her handiwork with a critical eye. “You can’t tell where I singed the edge with the iron?”

  I shake my head and skim a finger over the iron-on Mötley Crüe patch she’s affixed to a navy silk polo shirt. “You covered it up with the fancy stitching around the edges,” I tell her. “Bonus points for the umlauts over the O and the U.”

  “Thank you.” She smooths her hands down her skirt, which I’ve already been informed is Rebecca Taylor luxe faux leather in cognac with an angled, knee-length ruffle designed to ripple when you walk.

  It’s part of their new spring line.

  Lisa catches me staring and gives me a fretful look. “Is this not what you had in mind?”

  It isn’t. Not even close. I pictured a ripped black muscle tee and a miniskirt so short it could double as a placemat. Lisa looks like something out of a Better Homes and Gardens spread.