“What do you think of this one?”
The photo shows a shaggy gray wolf staring down a smaller brownish wolf with wideset yellow eyes. It’s a stunning image, and it might be two males squaring off to brawl. But I’m pretty sure it’s not.
“Is it just me, or is that a smoldering look?” I ask.
“Definitely,” she agrees. “I’m guessing that one’s the lady wolf?”
“He looks like he wants to jump her bones,” I whisper low in Lisa’s ear.
She giggles and tilts her head up so her lips brush my ear. “And she looks like she wouldn’t mind at all.”
I’m about to suggest we skip the rest of the show and go back to my place when a skinny man in a black tie comes rushing toward us with tiny spectacles perched on his nose. “Isn’t it spectacular?” he asks.
His expression is friendly enough, and he’s so damn earnest I find myself nodding. “Absolutely,” I agree, hoping he didn’t hear me make that crack about the wolves humping. “Very…uh, artistic.”
“I agree,” he says. “It’s mesmerizing to see two creatures engaged in the most primal, magnificent display of nature and instinct.” He sticks out a hand, which I shake firmly before he grabs Lisa’s hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles.
“Sullivan Wainright, editor of Oregon Art Experience magazine,” he says.
“Lisa Michaels of LM Interior Design,” she says. “And this is Dax Kensington.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I shoot a glance at Lisa, not sure if I’m supposed to rattle off my business as well, or say something meaningful about the wolves who may or may not be preparing to bump uglies. I settle for gazing thoughtfully at an image of two cinnamon-colored canines curled around each other in a cozy snuggle.
“Don’t you just love the raw energy and recognizable emotion in this one?” Sullivan adjusts his glasses. “I love what it says about the circular nature of instinct and survival.”
Beside me, Lisa licks her lips and nods. “It’s sure something.”
“Phenomenal,” Sullivan says, swinging his attention back to the first image with the wolves exchanging the heated look. “Such an exquisite display of might and instinct. I love what he’s done with the composition here. The statement Kahn is making with his choice in aperture—no other artist could make such a bold critique of societal norms and the way humanity relates to them.”
“Uh, yes,” Lisa says, biting her lip in a way that tells me she’s stifling laughter at the memory of our shared joke. “It’s very…um…sensuous.”
“Exactly.” Sullivan beams like she’s gotten an answer right on a test question, and Lisa clears her throat.
“I think I need to visit the ladies’ room,” she says. “It was wonderful meeting you, Sullivan.”
“Likewise,” the man says, and steps toward the next image.
Lisa grabs my arm and hurries toward the far side of the room, but stops short to whisper in my ear. I lean down to listen, and to enjoy the tantalizing view down the front of her dress.
“Oh my God,” she says, half whispering, half giggling. “We’re surrounded by creepers and snobs and wolves making lusty eyes at each other.”
Her words make me snort-laugh, and I love that she sounds so delighted. “What a striking artistic observation you’ve made, Miss Michaels. Would you care to elaborate?”
She smiles up at me, green eyes sparkling with laughter. “Why, yes,” she murmurs in a prim little art critic voice. “I’m deeply moved by the saturation and symmetry in that piece next to the fern.” She points to an impressively large photo of two Arctic wolves.
It’s a damn fine image, and I love that she brought me here to see it. I also love that she’s not taking this whole thing too seriously. That she isn’t afraid to have fun with it.
“Yes, it’s quite exquisite,” I agree, adjusting my imaginary monocle as we step in front of an image showing a wolf belly-crawling through the mud. “Don’t you find this one here makes a bold statement about focal point and negative space while demonstrating the wolf’s underlying need for a good bath and brush?”
She laughs so hard she nearly spills her cocktail. When her gaze meets mine, she bites her lip. “Did I ever tell you I used to volunteer at this museum?”
I shake my head, wondering what that sexy smirk is all about. “You never mentioned it.”
“There’s an exhibit on the third floor called Oregon Adventure,” she says. “It’s laid out to look like different cabins so you can get a glimpse of how fur trappers and gold miners and other early Oregon settlers used to live.”
“That sounds interesting,” I say, not sure how to reconcile this little history lesson with the suggestive gleam in Lisa’s eye.
“My first month here, I caught a couple going at it on one of the bunks in the Lewis and Clark exhibit,” she says. “They were buck naked, right there between the bearskin rug and the display of nineteenth-century muskets.”
Her voice is scandalized, but there’s intrigue there, too. Desire. I hold her gaze, pretty sure I get where she’s going with this. “Did you say anything to them?”
She nods, cheeks flushed. “Of course. I lectured them for twenty minutes about lewd behavior and the importance of being respectful of culture and public spaces.”
I can picture it in my head, and I try not to laugh. “And were they embarrassed?”
“Not at all.” There’s an awe in her voice that makes me picture it perfectly. Lisa in her heels and pearls, scolding the disheveled couple for their scandalous behavior while deep down, wanting it for herself.
I lean closer, cocktails and wolves and art critics all but forgotten now. “I don’t suppose you still have a key to the room?”
She grins, her expression equal parts nervous and excited. “No key necessary. I even know a shortcut.”
“Well then,” I murmur. “How’d you like to take me on an Oregon Adventure?”
Chapter Thirteen
Lisa
“What exactly did you used to do here?”
Dax’s question makes me giggle, or maybe it’s the way his hair tickles the underside of my breast as he kisses his way up my naked torso.
“Definitely not this,” I say, then gasp as he shifts his hips to rock deeper inside me. His movements are slow and deliberate, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to tease, or trying to avoid jostling the collection of antique frying pans on the wall above the log bed.
“I helped them stage exhibits,” I tell him, conscious of the breathiness in my voice. It’s not easy carrying on a conversation while having illicit sex in a replica of a cot slept on by members of the Corps of Discovery at Fort Clatsop in 1805. “That, and I gave tours for schoolchildren.”
“As a volunteer?”
“Yes,” I say, though it comes out more like a hiss. Good Lord, Dax knows how to move. Does he know how freaking good he is at this?
The smug look on his face tells me he does, and also that he plans to torture me for a good long while. He slides in slowly, smiling down into my eyes as he takes his time easing back again.
“And you were also a board member?” he asks like it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss my career history mid-coitus.
I nod and try to recall what he asked me. “Definitely not—bored. What?”
He laughs, and I close my eyes, wanting to contain the sensation of Dax driving deep inside me. Then I open them again, because I really need to see this to get the full effect.
I reach up and tug the tail on his coonskin cap. “I promise this isn’t a priceless artifact. I bought it at a thrift store in the Pearl District when I helped stage this exhibit.”
“You’re so fucking smart,” he murmurs. “Why is that such a turn-on?”
“Beats me. But I’m glad it is.”
Dax shifts again, taking his time sliding in and out of me. It’s a delicious tease, though probably ill-advised since there are a hundred art connoisseurs milling around two floors below us. The only reason I’m no
t freaking out is that I know this floor is closed to the public tonight.
“Oh,” I gasp as he flicks his tongue over my nipple again. “That’s nice.”
“Careful,” he warns as I grip the log bedpost. “If you knock that bearskin rug off the wall, I’ll have nightmares for years about being attacked by a grizzly.”
“It’s a black bear,” I murmur and grip his shoulder instead of the bedpost. “One of a hundred and twenty-two animals catalogued during the Lewis and Clark Expedition between eighteen-oh-four and eighteen-oh-sex.”
“Sex?” He grins down at me as he moves his hips to hit something really deep inside me. I arch up, forgetting about bears and muskets and history and pretty much everything else but the way Dax feels inside me.
But he’s there to remind me. “Tell me more about Lewis and Clark.”
I open my eyes and study him. “Is this your idea of dirty talk?”
“Kind of.” He grins down at me as he slides out and back in again, deliciously hard and slick. “Let’s just say I’m developing a fetish for hot brainy babes.”
“Plural?” I give him a teasing, haughty look, but he breaks my concentration as he moves again. His mouth dips into the hollow between my ear and shoulder, and the warmth of his breath sends an army of goose bumps marching down my arm.
Or maybe that’s the wall of mounted animal heads on the wall across from us. I glance away and focus on answering Dax’s question. “The leaders of the expedition were Captain Meriwether Lewis and Second Lieutenant William Clark,” I tell him.
“Meriwether? I’ll bet his wife had a helluva time screaming that in bed.”
I giggle and arch up against him, a moan escaping my lips. “He wasn’t married, but Toussaint Charbonneau was. He was one of their interpreters, and his wife was Sacagawea.”
“Ah, Sacagawea. I’ve heard of her.”
“She taught the explorers about which berries and roots they could eat so they didn’t all die of scurvy.”
“Scurvy,” Dax murmurs, kissing my throat as he eases deeper, distracting me once more with delicious sensation. “Pretty sure that’s the first time anyone’s said scurvy to me during sex.”
“How about blunderbuss?”
That stops him short, which is a pity. I liked the way he was moving. Reading my mind, he starts again, driving up with aching deliberateness. “Blunderbuss?”
I stifle a giggle and a moan at the same time, which is damn hard to do. “It’s a kind of rifle the explorers carried. Named for the Dutch words ‘thunder gun.’ It had a heavy stock, short barrel, and wide-mouthed muzzle.”
“Mmm,” Dax says, brushing a kiss across my lips as he presses deeper into me. “Speaking of mouths, yours is delicious.”
My giggle turns into a moan as he tilts his pelvis just a little, hitting something really good. Pulses of pleasure race through my core, and I know I’m getting closer. There’s a delicious buzz building slowly in the center of my body, and I struggle to form coherent thoughts. “Did you know Lewis and Clark had a sextant on their journey?”
“Is that like a threesome, or a special teepee for fucking?”
“Neither,” I gasp, recognizing the first tingle of orgasm building inside me. The rest of my explanation comes out in a tangled rush. “It’s a special instrument used to make astronomical observations to help calculate distances.”
All the words run together, and I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I just said. For that matter, neither do I. All I care about right now is that Dax keeps moving like that, hips thrusting, body creating dizzying friction at the place where we’re joined. I arch up against him, so close I can hear my pulse fluttering in my ears.
“Want to hear a Lewis and Clark joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rumbly in my ear.
“Wha—what?” I think he said something about a joke, but for all I know he asked me to rub off my eyebrows with sandpaper. I’ll agree, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing.
“A Lewis and Clark joke,” he repeats, his breath warm against my throat. “I learned it in grade school.”
“Yes!” I gasp and tighten my legs around Dax, wondering if he knows I’m right on the brink. That if he moves even a little, he’ll tip me right over the edge.
“What did Lewis and Clark say when they finally reached the Pacific Ocean?” he asks.
I’m so far gone I can’t form words, but I choke out something that sounds like “what?”
Or maybe “don’t stop fucking me,” I’m not sure. I bite my arm to keep from crying out as the first wave hits me.
“Long time, no sea.”
I burst out laughing, right as the orgasm grabs hold. The result is a dizzying combination of gasping and giggling and thrusting and breathless, giddy hysterics.
Holy mother of hell, who knew a laughing orgasm was a thing?
By the time I come down, I’m practically hyperventilating. Tears are running down my face and Dax reaches down to wipe one from my lashes. He grins down at me, a little breathless from his own release. “I knew that would come in handy someday.”
“Oh God,” I gasp, still struggling to catch my breath. “I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard in bed.”
“Most guys would take offense to that.”
But he isn’t most guys. In every way possible, in all the best ways, Dax Kensington is not most guys.
And somewhere deep down, I know that will make it harder to say goodbye when The Test is done.
…
Later that week, my sisters come over for wine, gossip, and friendship salad.
“Please stop calling it that,” Cassie groans as she plunks down a limp-looking carrot, a head of broccoli, and something that looks suspiciously like a baggie of Cheetos. “Friendship salad makes it sound like we’re going to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ over a plate of arugula.”
“Well, we might if someone had thought to bring arugula,” Missy huffs as she eyes Cassie’s offerings with disdain before arranging herself on one of my leather barstools at the edge of my granite island. “Luckily, I brought kohlrabi, shredded beets, green onion, and a half-pound of Brussel sprouts that I slow-roasted with pancetta and Medjool dates to lend a sweet-smoky flavor.”
“Lucky us,” Cassie mutters, though she’s smiling as she reaches over and steals a piece of pancetta out of Missy’s Tupperware container. Missy smacks her hand, and Cassie yelps with indignation.
“Sorry I’m late!” Sarah Keating bursts through the front door, her long caramel hair flying behind her and a phallic object in her hand. “Does anyone else feel self-conscious shopping for cucumbers? Like you’re standing there squeezing them and checking out the length and girth to make sure you get the best one, and you look over to see every creepy guy in the produce section is staring at you.”
Cassie snort-laughs, while Missy tries—and fails—to look appalled. “That has never in a million years crossed my mind,” Missy says. “But that’s a very nice-looking cucumber. English, right?”
“Beats me.” Sarah arranges herself on the barstool next to Cassie, while Missy reaches over to pour her a glass of Pinot Noir.
“Where’s Junie?” Cassie asks.
Sarah is a case manager at the group home where Junie lives, which is how we all know her. In the year-and-a-half since Cassie and Simon met, we’ve become quite tight.
“Simon called and said they got stuck in traffic coming back from the Mariners game.” Sarah takes a sip of wine. “He’ll bring her straight here.”
“Poll time,” Cassie says, reaching out to pluck one of my smoked salmon canapes off the platter in front of Sarah. “Is the name ‘friendship salad’ the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, or the second stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Missy frowns. “What would the first be?”
Sarah rolls her eyes and grabs a canape of her own. “‘I think we’re better off as good friends, don’t you?’” she quips.
“Ouch.” Cassie grimaces and gives me a look I recognize as
my cue to open another bottle of wine.
I hesitate, wanting to hear the rest of the story. “I take it that’s the big talk Keith wanted to have last night?”
Sarah nods and says around a mouthful of canape, “Yep.”
“Oh, honey.” Missy reaches out and pats her hand. “I know you were hoping he was going to ask you to move in.”
Sarah shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before I can pass her one of my hand-embroidered linen napkins. “Another one bites the dust.” She picks up her wineglass and takes a fortifying sip. “You guys are sick of hearing about my stupid breakups, and I don’t feel like talking about it anyway.” She pastes on a shaky smile and turns to Cassie. “What were you saying about friendship salad?”
When Cassie hesitates, Sarah gives her a good-natured nudge with her elbow. “I’m serious, I’m fine,” she says. “I don’t want to be that girl who’s always talking about her lousy breakups at girls’ night. So, friendship salad?”
I grab the conversational baton and run with it. “Cassie thinks it’s a dumb name, but I happen to like the idea.”
“I like the idea,” Cassie says. “Just not the name.”
“Spoken by the woman whose contributions look like something pillaged from the crisper drawer in a frat house,” Missy retorts.
Cassie shrugs and bites into a crudité. “What can I say? I’ve been in Baker City all week testing soil pH levels at a former landfill site, and then I spent two days catching up with Simon.”
“I’m not sure we need to know what ‘catching up’ is code for,” Sarah says with a grin. “That’s my boss we’re talking about.”
Cassie flushes with pleasure while I set to work chopping the artichoke hearts I’ve marinated all week in a special blend of lemon, bay leaves, olive oil, and juniper berries. “Anyway, I happen to love friendship salad,” I say. “I adore the idea of all of us contributing something to make a great big salad filled with a little love from everyone.”
Cassie pretends to gag, but I know she doesn’t mean it. Her pores practically ooze love. I’ve seen the way she and Simon make goo-goo eyes at each other when no one’s looking. There’s lust, sure, but also a mix of respect and love and affection that takes my breath away sometimes.
The Test (The List series) Page 10