Under Wraps

by Louisa Keller

  “Fair enough.”

  I strode up to the bar and caught the bartender’s attention.

  “Hi sweetie,” she said, nodding at Ainsley. “Just the two of you now. Anything I can do to make sure you have a good night with your lover?”

  “Jesus,” I muttered, blushing furiously. “Don’t say lover, for starters. Can I get a bottle of liquor and a couple of glasses? I have a feeling Mr. Irons His Jeans over there has never played Never Have I Ever, and that’s about to change.”

  She looked delighted.

  “Not a problem, hun. Pick your poison.”

  “Let’s go with whiskey. Well is fine.”

  I headed back to the table with a bottle of Seagram’s Seven, and found Ainsley sitting up straight with his hands clasped on the sticky tabletop. He looked vaguely apprehensive. It was almost cute, how he was so willing to go along with my whims, even when they fell far outside of his comfort zone.

  “Dear lord, you bought a whole bottle?” he asked, his eyes widening as I clunked the whiskey down between us and twisted off the cap. “I hope you put it on my tab.”

  I snorted at that, sloshing liquor into our glasses.

  “You bought dinner the other night, so I’m buying the whiskey—it’s non-negotiable. You know how to play Never Have I Ever?”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “Never Have I…?”

  “Yeah, I figured,” I smirked. “Boarding school kids probably do more exciting stupid shit than the general public.”

  “So, this game harkens back to high school?”

  “Yep,” I said. “What did you and your friends do when you wanted to get hammered?”

  He cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.

  “We drank imported absinthe and played William Tell with flaming arrows.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “Are you fucking serious right now?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately,” he said with a grimace. “It was ill-advised and regrettable…but you asked, and I answered honestly.”

  “Jesus, Ainsley, you’re more hardcore than I thought,” I said through my laughter.

  “Hardcore or not, I still don’t know how to play this drinking game you mentioned.”

  “Right. So, there are kind of two points to playing Never Have I Ever,” I explained. “First, you want to get drunk, obviously. And second, you want to learn about things the other person has or hasn’t done.”

  He nodded, and asked, “How, pray tell, do we learn these things?”

  I leaned across the table, getting right into his space and grinning as his breath hitched.

  “We list things we haven’t done. If I say something that you have done, you have to drink. And vice versa.”

  Ainsley moved to kiss me, and I pulled back before our lips could make contact.

  God, it was heady to tease him.

  I wanted, so fucking badly.

  And it was obvious that he felt the same way.

  “Carson,” he breathed out, all shaky in a way that sent sparks tingling down my spine.

  “I’ll go first,” I said, handing him his glass. “Never have I ever been to Africa.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “So…if I’ve been to Africa, I have to drink?”

  “Yep.”

  He took a tiny sip, and I kicked him gently under the table. Ainsley rolled his eyes, but took a large gulp before setting his glass back down.

  “Alright, I’ve never—”

  “No,” I interrupted, “you have to start with the phrase ‘never have I ever.’”

  “Why?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Because that’s how the game goes. Just humor me, okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, wrapping both hands around his glass. “Never have I ever…er…lived in Washington.”

  I raised my glass in a mock-cheer and took a big drink of whiskey. It burned the way cheap liquor always did, and I savored it.

  “You’re getting the hang of this. Sabotaging someone based on things you know about them is totally allowed. Although it doesn’t really help with the whole getting to know each other thing.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” he said primly.

  I wracked my brain, trying to think of something I wanted to learn about Ainsley.

  There were a million things, of course.

  His sexual proclivities.

  The little things that made him smile.

  His hopes and dreams.

  What he liked about me.

  At last I said, “Never have I ever had sex with a woman.”

  Might as well ease into the sexual ones with a question I know the answer to, I thought.

  Ainsley flushed bright red, but resolutely gulped at his drink.

  “You already knew that,” he accused once he had swallowed.

  “Just wanted to show you that you can get a little intimate with this game,” I said, playing at casual and probably failing miserably.

  He raised his eyebrows, clearly thinking hard.

  “Never have I ever had sex with a man.”

  I threw back the rest of my drink and immediately poured more into the glass.

  A rush of excitement spread through my limbs as I thought of all the firsts that Ainsley and I could have together, all the experiences I could introduce him to. The ways I could make his body light up.

  My cock stirred in my pants, and I shifted around, trying not to draw too much attention to it.

  “Okay,” I said, thinking hard, “never have I ever been skydiving.”

  Ainsley didn’t reach for his drink.

  “What happens if I haven’t been sky diving?” he asked, looking slightly nervous.

  I smiled at him, brushing the fingers of my right hand over his left wrist for a split second.

  “Nothing. We just move on to the next one.”

  “Do you mind if I ask more about your…sex life?” he asked, fumbling the words and—if possible—flushing even brighter.

  I squirmed in my seat, pleased.

  “Go for it.”

  “Well then…never have I ever had anal sex.”

  Fuck, I wasn’t gonna make it through this game without losing my mind.

  Or leaping across the table to ravish Ainsley.

  I took the obligatory sip and then said, “Never have I ever had a threesome.”

  Before that moment, I hadn’t realized that it was possible for someone to blush so deeply. But he managed it as he sipped at his whiskey and refused to meet my eye.

  “Christ, that’s hot,” I muttered, and his head jerked up sharply.

  “You don’t mind?” he asked.

  “What, that you had a sex life before you met me?” I asked. “Of course I don’t mind. The fact that you got a little adventurous really turns me on.”

  “It was decades ago,” he rasped out. “Back in college, with a couple of women from the dorm across the quad.”

  “Rock on, man,” I said, knocking my glass against his and throwing back another gulp just for the hell of it.

  “I thought—since they weren’t men—”

  “I mean, it’s not the women making me hard over the idea of you fucking two people at once,” I admitted. “It’s the fact that you were open to something a little bit outside of the heteronormative, one man, one woman, missionary sex that we’re told should satisfy us.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a couple of deep breaths.

  When he opened them again, his gaze was intense, and completely focused on me.

  “Never have I ever been attracted to anyone the way I’m attracted to you,” he murmured.

  Flashback

  I went to stay with Sydney and Dom when I was released from the hospital.

  For a while, my days at the brownstone were just a haze of scrambled time muffled by pain medication.

  Eventually, I got to the point where I wasn’t using oxy on a daily basis, and relied instead on the high-dose ibuprofen to keep my pain to a modera
te level. I was in physical therapy, attempting to irradiate my obvious limp, and seeing a therapist twice a week to deal with my grief.

  That was when I started retreating into weed and alcohol.

  Dom and I spent many a long afternoon getting stoned and talking about everything except for the loss of my family.

  We stayed up late at night, sipping wine and watching crass comedies that distracted me for a few hours at a time.

  I associated weed and alcohol with that grieving process for a long time. Not just the grieving process, but the healing.

  Then there were a couple of years where I stayed away from recreational substances altogether, using meditation instead. I wanted to be okay without the help of anything mind-altering…and I found that I was. My friends, my family of choice, they were there to support me. More than that, I was strong enough to support myself.

  By the time I got to Ponderosa, my relationship was alcohol was a happy one—it wasn’t a crutch, it didn’t bring up bad memories, it just allowed me to unwind for an evening like everyone else in the world.

  12

  Ainsley

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I began to second guess them.

  Why on earth did you say something so forward? I berated myself. Carson is going to run for the nearest exit—and he will be right to do so.

  Surely, he would be horrified by my declaration. We were playing a game, something that was supposed to be light-hearted and fun, and I had ruined it with my deep, inappropriate feelings for Carson. The last thing he needed in his life was an emotionally-stunted older man putting him in an uncomfortable position.

  But Carson, patient, sweet Carson, took me by surprise. He looked me right in the eye, and a soft smile slid across his features. He took one of my hands in his own, and whispered, “I’ve never felt this way either.”

  I had no idea how to process this. Had my misstep actually been a step in the right direction? Had I somehow fumbled may way into being romantic?

  “Carson,” I breathed, taking comfort in the shape of his name on my lips.

  “I know,” he whined, “I know. This is…so much. In such a good way.”

  My eyes flicked to his lips, and all at once I wanted to kiss him so badly that I felt my entire body would combust if I didn’t do it. But before I could reel him in, he was speaking again.

  “Never have I ever had a secret tryst on a family vacation before this.”

  I laughed at that, and refrained from drinking. This was a first for both of us—this scenario, this level of desire, this absurd need to be together despite circumstances that practically forbade it.

  “Never have I ever been on my knees for a lover,” I rasped out, thinking of sinking to the floor before him and worshipping his body. I wanted it so deeply, the desperation was seeded in my very bones.

  Carson took a long draw of his drink, and shot back, “Never have I ever topped.”

  All the air evaporated from my lungs. I was suddenly inundated with images of Carson, legs spread and head thrown back, being fucked by a faceless, nameless man. He was no longer trying to learn things about me—he was sharing information that he wanted me to have. Information that was burning me up from the inside, increasing my desire exponentially.

  “Never have I ever taken anything within me,” I whispered, not breaking our locked gaze.

  He shuddered, sipped, and then replied, “Never have I ever fucked someone with my tongue.”

  My mind went blank for a moment. It had never even occurred to me that that was something two men could do—would want to do—but now that he mentioned it…good lord. I needed him to do that to me, needed to do it to him. I craved every form of intimacy, every opportunity to bring our very essences closer together, never mind our bodies.

  Without drinking, I murmured, “Never have I ever opened someone up with my fingers.”

  “Fuck,” Carson groaned, draining his glass yet again and refilling both of ours. I had not even noticed that I was running low, despite the fact that the cheap whiskey was making my head buzz pleasantly. My cock was impossibly hard in the confines of my jeans, and I yearned to stroke it, give myself some sort of relief, let Carson get his hands on me. But of course, we were in public.

  “Carson, please,” I whimpered, fighting the impulse to leap across the table and rub myself all over him. This was torture.

  His eyes fluttered closed and I took in his stunning beauty. The contours of his face, the gentle slope of his nose, the flicker of those long lashes against high cheekbones…he took my breath away.

  “Never have I ever gotten hard while playing a drinking game in a dive bar,” he said, every bit a challenge.

  That startled a hoarse laugh out of me, and I barked out, “Liar.”

  Carson grinning, not at all contrite, and acquiesced by throwing back his whiskey. I followed suit.

  “How does the game usually end?” I inquired, watching his gorgeous throat as he swallowed.

  “Oh,” he said, a bit surprised, “someone usually gets drunk and distractible, and it kinda dissolves from there.”

  “Are you feeling drunk?” I asked, looking him up and down. His cheeks were rosy from the liquor, and his eyes were bright. He looked relaxed, content, intoxicated.

  “Well I’m sure as hell feeling distractible,” he said cockily.

  My dick twitched almost painfully, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, praying for composure.

  “It has been years since I have flirted over drinks, so forgive me for being somewhat at a loss here. I might need you to tell me what happens next.”

  Carson’s grin was Cheshire Cat sharp, and I was completely at his mercy as he said, “If we were young and horny, we would probably go hook up in the bathroom.”

  “Dear me, are you serious?”

  “Afraid so. Good thing we’re not young and horny, huh?”

  “Speak for yourself,” I snorted.

  “I hate to break it to you, Ainsley, but you’re going grey at the temples. You’re not exactly a kid anymore.”

  “I was referring to the implication that I am not horny,” I said with as much composure as I could muster. Carson moaned loudly, and I pointedly ignored the curious looks coming our way from the bar’s few other patrons.

  He brought one hand to my jaw and cupped it gently, drawing me almost close enough to kiss across the table. “Drunk hookups are a really bad idea. Especially when there are real feelings at stake.”

  I nodded, hoping he had a follow-up statement. “I would have to agree.”

  “So,” Carson continued, pausing just long enough to place a lingering kiss on my lips, “I think we should call it a night and let ourselves stew a little in anticipation.”

  I was shaking. The kiss was absolutely perfect, and not nearly enough, all at the same time. Carson was right, of course—it would be foolish to give into our desire under the influence of cheap alcohol and an ungodly dose of sexual tension. We deserved better than that. But, god, I simply could not imagine parting ways that night. I needed him with me, pressed against me, even if we kept things chaste.

  “I will call us a car,” I offered, reining in my lustful mind. “And when we get back…”

  “I’ll tuck you into bed,” Carson promised, pulling me back in for another kiss.

  Abshire Manor was silent when we got back. Carson and I made our way up to my room with only minimal noise—stumbling over unfamiliar objects in the dark, stifling giggles, sharing muted kisses in secluded corners. We were simply unable to keep our hands off of one another. There was an added element in the house that heightened our desire for one another: the element of risk. Alistair, Beauregard, Dom, or Sydney could happen upon us at any moment, and then we would have to explain what was going on. Worse still, we would have to live with the consequences of that discovery for the rest of the week. I could barely contain my arousal as I realized how much we were risking by necking like high schoolers in the hallway.

  The alcohol had
hit me hard once I got out of the car, and everything felt abstract and visceral. Carson’s arms around me, his hand held in mine, his lips on my neck—they all steadied me, kept me present through the flurry of drunkenness. When we finally reached my room, I was beginning to sway on my feet. The whiskey and that strong hot toddy had done me in. And then, of course, there was the fact that Carson made my world spin even when I was stone cold sober.

  “You’re beautiful,” I slurred as I dropped onto the bed.

  “Shh,” Carson warned gently, closing the door behind us and turning on a lamp. “Beauregard’s just across the hall, he’ll hear—”

  “Well, why shouldn’t he know that you’re beautiful?” I asked, caught somewhere between drunk belligerence and warm humor.

  Carson began untying my shoes, smiling. “He shouldn’t know that you think I’m beautiful, unless you want to have to explain what’s going on between us to everyone in the house.”

  “I could shout it from the rooftops, if it would make you happy,” I offered.

  He shook his head, snorting out a laugh. “How about you just tell me quietly instead?”

  My shoes hit the ground as he tossed them aside, and I grabbed one of his wrists, squeezing gently. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on, Carson Powell.”

  “And you are the drunkest person I have laid eyes on in, like…a week. Sorry, my roommates party pretty hard, it’s stiff competition.”

  “Stiff,” I said, rolling the word around in my mouth. “Stiff…I’m stiff for you.”

  “Yeah, the feeling’s mutual, dude,” he sighed, smiling down at me. “Let’s do something about that tomorrow, okay? After we’ve both had some sleep.”

  I nodded, pleased with the suggestion. “You can teach me all about—”

  “I’ll teach you everything you want to learn,” he agreed, cutting me off before I could humiliate myself any further. Probably a good idea.

  “I should put on pajamas,” I said, trying to sit up and finding myself pinned in place by a dizzy spell.

  “Whoa, alright, how about we just get your jeans off and call it good,” Carson suggested. I nodded, but when I didn’t make any move to shuck my pants, he did it for me. I shimmied my hips to help, although in retrospect I probably did nothing more than complicate the process. One way or another, he managed to get me down to my briefs, and then he helped me change my button-down for a soft t-shirt that he must have found in my suitcase.