Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  He curls his fingers around my hips, guiding me lower. “I think you can do whatever you want to do.”

  “Good answer. I like getting whatever I want.” I like you. I want you. I brush my lips over his. He feels slightly sandy, tastes slightly salty. Would his dick taste like this? Do I want to find out?

  Yes, I think I do.

  I rock against him and his amazing, not-naked, huge penis presses against my panties as my dress billows around us. It’s so arousing. His hands shift to cup my butt and I close my eyes as the world swims gently, slowly around us in a haze of lust and champagne.

  “Maple?” Max’s voice. Hoarse, a little rough. He’s asking me a question, he’s—

  “I’m not there yet.” My eyes drift open as if looking could somehow put out the fire that’s burning me up. “Help me?”

  “Yes.” He groans something else, a handful of words, something that doesn’t matter because he curls his fingers in while he talks, his fingertips brushing the edge of my panties. Oh God, he knows what he’s doing. The heat’s spreading through my body like a forest fire and it’s so good, better than I’d imagined until he slips beneath the cotton and I discover a new favorite touch. Maybe practice does make perfect? I open my mouth to ask him, but all that comes out are little needy moans that almost but not quite drown out the slick, wet sounds we’re making together. I think he wants to hear me because then he’s kissing me again and all the moaning and panting I do is into his mouth.

  When I come, grinding against his impressive hard-on, it’s still a sweet, sudden surprise. I rest my head against his shoulder. “Wow. They should bottle you.”

  I think he’s saying something.

  Daring me.

  But—

  Someone’s attached weights to my eyes and they close.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Max

  JESUS. I HOLD Maple tight because she feels good and I can smell her when I breathe in. There’s the perfume she likes, the vanilla one that reminds me of cookies, and a trace of roses because she “hydrates her face” with a rosewater spray. And then there’s the sweetly salty scent that lets me know louder than any words or porn-star screams just how much Maple enjoyed what she let me do to her. It makes me want to lick her from head to toe.

  “Maple?” She shifts against me, her mouth pressing against my chest, and I need to be naked with her. “Dare me to hook up with you?”

  The seconds tick by, one after the other. The ocean comes in and goes out. Her breathing settles into a gentle rhythm. I should regret that last dare, but I don’t. This isn’t a game of spin the bottle or even a tease. I know Maple isn’t a hookup, but I’m not ready to let her go yet. So instead, I smooth my hand down her amazing hair. It’s all looped and twisted and tucked into itself like an infinity symbol or some deliciously complicated bit of highway and overpass.

  “Maple?”

  She breathes out, soft and steady, deep and oblivious against my chest. She’s asleep. I guess that’s a good thing because I shouldn’t be asking her to hook up. It’s just that we’ve both had a few drinks and we’re on a beach—and we’ve touched each other.

  I know the sounds she makes when she comes.

  I know—

  Math.

  Shit.

  I calculate the number of cocktails she’s drunk since she arrived (four) and the better part of a bottle of champagne. For just a moment I wish she’d been taller, bigger, less tired, had a full stomach. Anything so that we could keep playing our game. I want her so badly.

  Instead, I shift her so I’m holding her with my left arm, leaving my right arm and hand free to text. Two texts later, my team is shutting the party down. I forgot that she’d worked this week and now it’s late and she’s tired. Of course she’s going to fall asleep after she comes.

  My pop-up parties are notorious for their abrupt endings. One guest described them to all of Instagram as “wham, bam, thank you ma’am” parties and it stuck. I get mine, my guests get theirs, and then everyone goes their separate ways. There’s no hanging around or hanging out, so no one up there will care if I pull the plug and send them home.

  Maple mutters in her sleep, shifting, and I stroke her hair, her arm. It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, the way she lets go. First she let me make her come and now she’s letting me hold her while she sleeps. I can’t stop touching her even though it’s not going to end up with me inside of her driving us both mad. Her arms are toned and strong. I noticed them when she waved from the top of my stair earlier tonight. She was fucking gorgeous then, and now—now she’s even more so.

  When the noise finally dies way above us, I stand up, shifting her in my arms. She settles in as if she belongs there, and I file the sensation away. I’ll analyze it later. Right now, I need to get her somewhere she can sleep. Plus, the tide’s really coming in now and we’ll be out of beach soon unless we pull a Survivor and camp out on the rocks.

  Tomorrow I’ll tease her about having to carry her up the stairs like Sleeping Beauty or one of those movie princesses who always needs rescuing by a prince in disguise or a white knight. Not that I’m either of those things. I’m fairly certain I don’t know how to be. Turns out I can climb the stairs holding her just fine, though, even if I don’t have my knight errant license and no one would ever mistake me for a hero.

  Security nods at me when I reach the top. For a moment I wonder what he may have heard or seen, but it doesn’t matter. He’s signed an NDA and I’ve learned that Maple likes being watched. The possibility of getting caught gets her off.

  Since I’m not getting off tonight, however, I carry Maple upstairs to my bedroom. She’ll have to spend the night with me because it’s not as if I can send her home in the car like a package. Or a hookup. I feel off-kilter, but I like having her here, so I decide not to examine things too closely.

  I gently kick the bedroom door open. A quick scan reveals that my housekeeping team has done its job and everything is in its place. The white cotton sheets are folded neatly back on the enormous bed, and the gray duvet Maple talked me into is folded into a neat rectangle at the foot of the bed. And then there’s the ocean. I open the French doors that lead out onto a small balcony, so that the ocean air can pour through the room. The ocean smells amazing. Like salt and something wilder, freer and less permanent.

  When I set Maple down on the bed, she curls into a ball and buries her face in the mattress. Okay. I can figure out a plan. Just because I’ve never had a hookup put the brakes on before we finished the date doesn’t mean I can’t do this. Whatever this is.

  Just don’t panic.

  Two minutes later I’m still clueless and Maple’s even more soundly asleep. Her position doesn’t look comfortable to me, but maybe dancers are more flexible than us mere mortals? And suddenly, even though this isn’t a date and we haven’t quite had sex, I feel like tonight might just be okay. I want to wake her up and tell her how much fun I had. How much I’d like to do it again and is she busy tomorrow?

  Or the day after. I’ll take any day she gives me.

  But Maple sleeps on, oblivious. It would probably creep her out if I stripped her down and put her in one of my shirts, so instead I set out a pair of clean sweats and my favorite UCSC T-shirt where she’ll see them when she wakes up. I also put a spare toothbrush on the bathroom counter, along with three towels and a new bar of Irish Spring in its bright green wrapper.

  I realize she has sand on her feet when I make a round-trip back from the bathroom and QA my handiwork. Sand I can fix. I lift first one and then the other while I run a warm washcloth over them. Getting sand in the bed sucks and I think she’d like it better this way. It’s not as if I have a foot fetish—I think—but my dick didn’t get that memo. Maple has the most fucked-up feet I’ve ever seen. High arches, calluses, a permanent arch that’s both unnatural and strangely beautiful. For most of us, hard work ma
ybe makes itself seen and felt through ulcers. Or gray hairs. Or a honking big bank account. All of Maple’s hard work, however, is written right there on her bare feet. She’s not afraid to let her passions change her.

  Eventually, when her feet are clean and I can’t think of anything else to do for her, I tuck her into my bed and then I lie down next to her. I don’t quite wrap myself around her, but I want to.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Maple

  #morningafter #oops #thiscouldwork

  SUNLIGHT POURS INTO the room, tap-dancing on my eyeballs and working its way beneath my skin. I stretch into the warmth because I’m surprisingly cold. Maybe the landlord finally fixed my AC? There’s a second sun pressed up against my leg and over my rib cage. No. Wait. Not a sun but a someone. Last night’s memories filter back slowly, one moment at a time, like water dripped from a tap. The town car. Max’s party. Our private party on the beach. And maybe something more. When he’d touched me it had been a dare and a challenge and part of me had decided to take him up on it. I didn’t care then that he was a player and a rich guy, someone with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. I didn’t care that we’d fuck and move on and that I’d probably regret his passing out of my life even though that was stupid. Maybe. Or maybe we’d meet, in weeks, in months, in years to come and the thought would just flicker through the back of my head: I know what he looks like naked. A quick sliver-shiver of a thought like fish in a stream, here and then gone.

  I open my eyes without really intending to and there he is.

  Eyes closed, lashes brushing the tender skin beneath his eyes. I have no idea what I thought would happen, but thinking clearly wasn’t part of last night’s plan anyhow. Max breathes deeply, and I let my gaze roam over his face. His lips part slightly, dark stubble roughening the line of his jaw and cheek. Awake, he’s always so focused and intent, but asleep he seems softer and somehow vulnerable. My eyes drift over his face, seizing this chance to commit him to heart. He’s the same Max who invited me over, who took me down to the beach, who licked my neck until I came. The only thing different is that now I don’t have to imagine him naked—or mostly naked. Max likes specifics and I still haven’t seen his penis.

  He’s sprawled on his side, one leg over mine, an arm draped over my ribs. My temporary dark-haired Adonis. At some point between the beach and bed, he’s lost his shirt. Broad, capable shoulders crowd out the morning sunlight. His chest is muscled and lightly dusted with dark hair, narrowing to a delicious six-pack that demands my attention.

  There are no visible tattoos, no jewelry, just almost-naked Max in a pair of ordinary red plaid boxers. I think I’d like him even better all naked. He’s pretty much the hottest man I’ve ever ogled, let alone shared a bed with.

  I don’t think we had sex last night.

  Mistake. I run a questing finger over his hip. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of him since I barged into his office. That was weeks ago. It wasn’t romantic or sexy or even remotely hookup-y. But then he started texting and I answered and now here we are. A thick ridge tents the cotton of his boxers and I want... I want...

  I look up and his eyes are open. I love his eyes. Up close they’re more gray than not, framed by unfairly thick lashes. I race to find words to say but nothing feels right, so I just draw my finger over his cotton-clad hip. Back and forth. And then again. He made me come last night. He put me in his bed. He wakes up looking like a Greek god while I’m undoubtedly rocking a case of bed head and morning mouth.

  “Morning,” he rasps. There’s a question in the word, a question I think I want to answer. Should we have sex? Do you want to hook up with me? Is this a mistake?

  My finger traces the line of his hip bone, down, from one small cheek to the next to something so much bigger and harder. I brush the tip of his dick with my finger and he jerks. God, you’re big, I think, wishing I knew what he wanted. Are we friends who drank too much and passed out together? Am I the party guest who just wouldn’t go home? Or—

  Are we a little something more?

  No. I’m not doing more. I’ve learned that lesson.

  “Max?”

  My voice sounds hoarse which makes sense. My throat feels as if I tried to eat sand for dinner.

  He stares down at me for a long moment. I can feel his eyes moving over the top of my head and then down. I slide my finger along the length of him again. “Should I go?”

  I feel rather than see him shake his head. And then he licks the side of my neck. It tickles and it’s a little weird and it feels so freaking amazing because you don’t do that to friends unless maybe you’re both cats. Or possibly dogs. Or—

  I pretend the sound that comes out of my mouth is a moan. Something sexy, something husky or rough or anything but the raw, ugly, needy sound I make. I’m going to fuck him.

  I leap out of bed, pressing my hand against his chest when he leans up. “Stay here.”

  He blinks at me. “Maple?”

  “I’ll be right back.” I toss the words over my shoulder as I sprint toward the bathroom. Thank God for billionaire McMansions and en suite bathrooms. I rush in and slam the door. How fast can I do sexy? Or at least satisfy basic hygiene requirements? I map out a strategy while I pee but apparently Max is impatient—or has no boundaries—because he’s knocking on the door before I’ve magically transformed myself into a sexy glamazon.

  “Maple?” My name again, more insistent.

  I pop the door open, holding a strategic hand over my mouth. “I need a toothbrush.”

  He points wordlessly to the precise pyramid on his bathroom counter. Toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash. Behind them is a neat row of miniature beauty products. The man is a Boy Scout.

  In unison, we move to the double vanity. He pulls open a drawer and retrieves his toothbrush. I tear into the stack of oral hygiene goodies he’s left for me. And then we stand there next to each other, brushing and rinsing.

  It’s like we’ve just fast-forwarded our lives thirty years and now we’re an old married couple. It’s awkward but cute. I can smell mint toothpaste and then he reaches for the mouthwash.

  “Five minutes,” I tell him with a smirk. “And then I’m getting the party started without you.”

  I saunter out of the bathroom, pulling the dress over my head and tossing it onto the floor. I’m reaching for the clasp on my bra when I hear the bathroom door click shut. Yep. He’s got it figured out. Just in case he needs any additional clues, I ditch my panties, sprawl on his bed and start taking care of business.

  Just because he got me off last night doesn’t mean I’m completely willing to trust my happy ending to him—plus guys love the show-and-tell and it gets things off to the right start. The wetter I am, the better tab A fits into slot B, if you know what I mean.

  It never takes me long to come when I concentrate. My body’s tightening, warming up like a runner hitting her stride right before she rockets off for a victory lap around the park. My legs tense, fingers dipping deeper, because right there, there, there is today’s magic happy spot.

  And of course that’s the moment the door opens. “You were serious about not waiting.”

  For a moment, I think about stopping. Just waiting for him to come over here and take over. Or better yet, ordering him. I don’t have any problems putting in requests when someone asks what I want. But this feels good, too. Truth is, I’m so aroused by the way his eyes heat up, following my fingers, that I’m a heartbeat away from coming.

  It feels so, so good.

  My hand slides down my panties. “Sex is always better when I take care of myself.”

  “So you don’t need me at all.” The dirty boy leans against the wall, his gaze trained between my legs.

  “You bet I do.” I wink at him. “I’ve decided to take advantage of you just as soon as you join me.”

  Touching myself in front of Max doesn�
�t feel awkward. He tilts his head, watching, and we both know he’s memorizing the way I do it. That he notices exactly how I like it. It’s not just that he’s an engineer. It’s just that he’s Max and he cares about details and he loves to learn shit—and, since he’s supersmart and even more competitive, he therefore needs to be the very best at whatever he’s learning.

  So I’m a little surprised when he doesn’t rush to join me. Instead, he reaches into his boxers and fists his dick. His hand mirrors mine, stroking up. Down. I’ve got an obstructed view of his penis and that’s a waste because what I can see is spectacular. He’s long and thick and if I were comparing, which I’m totally not, he’s far more gifted than my boyfriends have been.

  “I didn’t expect that.” I gesture toward his crotch.

  He looks down. “What? You thought I’d have a carrot-sized dick?”

  “Fruit of the Loom. Isn’t there, like, a billionaire’s code that requires you to wear Gucci or Balmain?”

  He shucks his boxers. “Better?”

  And then, while I’m still staring at him (because now I have a ringside seat and there’s a lot of Max O’Reilly to appreciate), he launches himself onto the bed. His fingers find my ribs, gently tickling as he rolls me on top of him. I’ve never liked being tickled but his fingertips scrape over my skin, dancing, teasing, playing. I snort-laugh and grind against him. He’s not getting away from me now.

  His hands cup my butt, lifting me up. I plant my hands on either side of his head, bracing myself so I don’t fall off. Not that there’s any chance of that, because my mouth’s stuck to his and we’re kissing, his tongue in my mouth, mine in his the way he’s going to be inside me real soon. Turns out Max really knows how to kiss.

  The rough, hungry pressure of his lips against mine makes me dirty moan.

  He’s naked, I’m naked. Could this morning get any more perfect? And could I be any more screwed? Hooking up with Max is the best worst idea I’ve ever had.

  He pulls his mouth away from mine, staring up at me with hot, hungry eyes. “Yes? We’re doing this?”