by Amanda Faye
"You know she doesn't believe you. Cause you're an asshole, Ryan."
I shrug, even though I'm back under the spray, and she can't see me.
"That's her fault. Look, I'm fine. She's fine. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow, a heartbroken husk of a man. As far as I'm concerned, tonight is a win-win. I get to flirt with Cris and irritate Tom, all in one fell swoop. The only thing that could go wrong is if you're still in my bathroom by the time I finish in the shower.”
She may have a point, not that I'd ever admit it out loud. Not about it bothering me. I've got thicker skin than that—about playing the boyfriend.
Once I finally get the opportunity to kiss her, it's going to be a struggle to stop. I give myself a few strokes and consider taking the edge off before we leave the house this afternoon, but the feel of the front door slamming echoes in my bones.
"Anybody home?" yells Cris, and that puts an end to that.
"Keep it in your pants, Ryan."
Before I can ask Beth how she possibly knew what I was thinking about, she leaves the bathroom with a tug of the door.
Chapter Two
Ryan
I stand under the spray for a few extra minutes, letting the shower lotion stuff my sister buys me soak into my skin. Just because, at heart, I'm a punk doesn't mean I have to look like it. Or so I've been told.
I dry off as best I can and wrap the towel around my waist, heading to my closet. Nice, Cris said. But it's a wedding—Tom's wedding.
Securing my towel again, I head into the living area. Cris's bag is in the living room, but the girls are nowhere to be found.
"Marco," I holler.
"Polo" comes from the spare bedroom.
"What are you wearing?" I yell at the closed door. I hear a scuffle on the other side before Beth pulls it open.
"Jesus, Ryan, you could at least put some clothes on. No one wants to see that."
She smirks, despite the disgust lacing her voice. The little snot. I hope her next pregnancy gives her triplets.
I look to where Cris is perched on the bed with a different pair of shoes in each hand.
"The wedges," I say, nodding my chin towards the cream-colored pair she holds to her left.
"Huh?" Beth asks, looking at me like I've sprouted a second head.
"The wedges will hurt less at the end of the night. Wear those. What color is your dress?"
"Silver," Cris replies automatically.
"How would you possibly know that?" Beth asks.
"Twins," I reply in the same flat voice she gave me before I turn and head back into my bedroom.
Silver dress. I drag on a pair of black boxer briefs and a black muscle shirt. Black dress slacks, the tailored pair. I pull a dark grey dress shirt out and a vest, but quickly shove the garment back into my closet. It's June in Los Angeles. The vest would be too much.
I run the hairbrush through my hair, then the mouse, then the blow dryer. It's almost to my collar now, and as girly, as it sounds, if I don't brush it out and dry it properly, it'll frizz.
I look at myself in the mirror, gaging what everyone else sees. Dirty brown hair, brown eyes. Brown beard. Muscles built from spending my days under cars and my nights on a surfboard. I’m certainly not a body builder, but I haven’t had any complaints so far.
When I'm as presentable as I'm going to get, with an actual watch on my wrist, I pull my dress shoes from the closet and carry them and a tie into the living room.
Empty.
"I thought we were on a timeline, ladies. Why am I ready first?"
The door opens, and Beth comes out, trailing Cristina in her wake.
My breath leaves me in a rush as I get a look at her. She looks—beautiful.
"Jesus, Sugarplum. I thought the rules at weddings were to not outshine the bride. You look amazing."
I walk around her, taking in a three-sixty view.
She's wearing a wrap dress. The top layer looks slinky, the bottom like lace. It ends several inches above her knees, giving me a glorious expanse of leg. It's high cut, covering her entire region of chest and collarbone, but the way it curves against her ass makes up the difference for hiding her breasts.
Cristina is skinny. Like, Barbie Doll skinny. It’s her biggest complaint; that she can’t gain weight. Kids in high school thought she was anorexic. Every time it comes up in conversation, Beth shoves her off the bench. Or throws food in her direction. Girls, man. Never satisfied with what they have. What little weight Cris does have, sits squarely on her hips and tits.
And that dress? It’s hugging every glorious inch of it. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.
Her hair is pulled back in a braid and tucked up inside, leaving her throat and neck exposed. The nude pumps blend perfectly into the skin at her ankles. It looks like she's floating on air.
"Jesus," I whisper again.
I can see the blush creep up the back of her throat, and I'm suddenly desperate to swipe my tongue across it. It’s too early in the evening to be losing my concentration like this. It's not like I've never seen her dressed up before. We've been at almost every major life event the other has had. Something about knowing she looks like this for me, though, to rub it in the douchebag’s face, does something to me.
"Are you sure I look okay?" she asks, and I huff out a breath before whispering wow one more time.
"If you looked any more okay, they wouldn't let us in the building tonight, Sugarplum. You look like perfection incarnate."
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to bring my pulse back under control. I feel Beth staring at me and shoot her a dirty look. Get your shit together, she sends me via twin talk.
"Why is your shirt so tight?" Beth asks, and I look down to examine myself. It doesn't feel too tight, and I twist and stretch my arms to make sure.
"It's a slim fit. Mom says I don't have enough bulk to wear a regular shirt. I tried not to take that as an insult." I rotate my shoulders, suddenly self-conscious over my choice of clothing.
"You let mom pick out your clothes?" Beth mocks, but instead of replying, I slyly give her the bird while scratching my chest.
"Do I need to change?" I ask the room, doing a turn in place.
"No," pants Cris, with more enthusiasm than I was expecting.
"I mean, no. You look great. Did you say something about a tie?"
I bend and pick it up from the couch, slipping it around my neck. "Yes or no?"
"Yes," she says, and closes the distance between us, taking the tie in her hands. She ties it for me expertly, one of the skinny knots instead of the bigger Winsor.
"I've been thinking," I whisper. The words are out of my mouth before I have any recollection of thinking about anything.
"Mm—hmm," she replies, with her hands still on my tie.
"If we're playing a couple, we might have to kiss."
She licks her lips, and the motion goes straight to my cock.
"The thought has crossed my mind too."
"I think we should practice, you know, once at least. It's bound to be awkward. I mean, I knew you before you had tits."
She rolls her eyes, but the tension building between us effectively breaks, and I watch as her breath comes a little easier. I thank God every day for those tits. The Nutcracker was the last ballet she ever participated in.
"You are kind of gross," she says, and that half annoyed smirk is across her face again.
"Then we should have the first one now, in case we suck at it." She nibbles on her upper lip, and I all but groan at the sight of it.
"Fine. But make it quick. I'm nervous enough without you slobbering all over me."
We're already close, but I take a step closer, bringing my bare feet to rest on either side of hers. I let my fingers glide to her head, cupping her face in the palm on my hands. She fits perfectly. Her heels eat up some of the distance in our heights, and I merely have to tip her chin back to align her lips with mine.
They're soft and tender, slick with the gloss in which she's
coated them. I slip her top lip between my own, nibbling on it with my teeth the way she was moments before. She thaws against me, releasing my tie and linking her arms around my neck.
Time and space melt away as she parts her lips and slithers her tongue through my teeth, licking and tasting the inside of my mouth. Her fingers tighten their hold, pulling me deeper to her, and something cracks inside me, my hard-earned restraint crumbling like ashes. I use one hand to angle her mouth, deepening our kiss with every swipe of the tongue, and the other drops to her ass, pulling her to me and grinding against her core.
"Okay then," comes from somewhere near Neptune, and I jerk in Cris's hold, my heart thundering so hard my vision blurs for a minute.
I spread my fingers, suddenly afraid her skin might burn me, throwing them into the air like I'm under arrest. She steps out of my space, and I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the heavens, willing my body back under my control.
"You may have had a point, Bro," Beth says with sarcasm dripping from her voice. "Y'all really sucked at that."
Well, fuck a duck on toast. Beth is right. I'm never going to be the same again.
Chapter Three
Ryan
Cris mumbles some excuse about getting the rest of her things and flees into the guest room, and I sit on the couch, trying to get my composure back and finish getting ready.
"Well, that was a fail," Beth says from much too close.
"Or a roaring success," I say. "Too soon to tell." My twin instincts do me proud, and I duck right as a throw pillow comes crashing towards my head.
"It's not too late to back out, you know."
"Yeah, okay, mom. I'm good, but thanks. Go get me my wallet and keys, would you?"
I don't bother to raise my head from my shoes to see if she leaves, but since silence fills the space where her mouth was once moving, I take that as a yes.
I close my eyes and try to settle back into my skin. Get your head in the game Ryan. This is just like any other night. I've spent tons of time alone with Cris over the years. This isn't any different.
The girls end up in the living room at the same time, and as a familiar pair of motorcycle boots come into my vision, my gaze follows them up to their owner.
Cris is still in her dress, but has switched from her heels to her boots, and added in the Kevlar leggings I got her a few Christmases ago for when she rides with me. Her helmet is in one hand, and a small carryall is in the other.
"Excuse me?" I ask, dumbfounded at the scene in front of me.
"You won't let me on the bike without my gear. My dress is short enough that I can still straddle the cycle. Why do you think we braided my hair? It'll be perfect under the helmet. Just take the Harley instead of the Honda, would ya? It has side storage for my bag."
She says this in a tone that says, ‘what aren’t you understanding, bonehead?’ This is a girl who’s used to getting what she wants. At least where I’m concerned. But this taking it too far. I’m not letting her high-strung personality guilt me wearing a helmet into a wedding reception.
"We're not taking a bike at all! You want to ride a motorcycle to your ex-fiancé’s wedding? That's crazy! We'll take my truck. Or your car."
"Please," she wines, and she sounds like a petulant twelve-year-old. Quieter, she says, "Tom hates motorcycles. You know that."
He does, and I do. Still though. Still.
Dammit. Of course, I'm going to tell her yes. I can never tell her no, and she knows it. It's why I'm in this position as it is. I make one last shot at talking her out of it.
"It's going to be sweaty. You know I insist on the jackets." She's already got her white grungy leather jacket pulled up over her shoulders. She looks fucking hot.
"I know!"
She lifts her bag higher into the hair, giving it a little shake. "That's why I thought you could wear a non-dress shirt and change back in the parking lot. I have wipes and wrinkle releaser. Your hair always looks fantastic when you shake it out after a long ride, and it's going to be like a thirty-minute drive."
"You know, it would be so much easier to take the truck and then pretend we took the bike. We could even carry our helmets inside."
I run my hands through my hair, already toeing off the dress shoes I just laced up.
"Please?" She whispers, and this time, the hope in her voice breaks me.
Without wasting any more time, I yank at the knot on my tie, pulling it form around my neck. I draw my shirt from my pants and start to unbutton it, slipping it from my shoulders and handing it to Cris.
"Make sure you fold that. I don't want any more wrinkles than necessary."
Carrying my shoes back into my bedroom, I toss them into the closet and bend to pick up my nicest pair of boots. I know Cris said no boots, but if she wants to ride the bike, then this is what she gets. They could use a shining, but they're a nice pair. They don't look very combat-ish anyway.
I sit on the bed to zip them on, then head out into the living room without bothering to grab a shirt. I can wear a jacket and my tank just fine.
Ignoring the ladies conferencing in whispers in my living room, I go to the coat closet and switch out the red cycle jacket for an actual leather one. Hotter, since the red is designed to breathe, but it will look better when I'm carrying it around a hotel ballroom.
The things I do for this chick, I swear.
"Times a tick’n, Sugarplum. We ready yet?" I glance at my watch, then my phone, and confirm we've got all of 45 minutes until we're officially late for the wedding.
Hugging Beth, Cris walks towards me with a tremulous smile on her face.
"Yeah, let's go."
She looks nervous but determined to go through with this fiasco.
It's going to be a long night.
For once, Los Angeles traffic isn't half-bad, and we make it to the hotel with twenty minutes to spare. I'm sure that means we're still going to be one of the last ones there, but oh well. She wanted to make an impression. Arriving late and with a smile from ear to ear is going to make a big one.
It takes us a few minutes to make ourselves presentable again. I run Cris's hairbrush through my hair, then spritz her spray deodorant as she shakes the wrinkles out of my shirt. I have a female twin; it's not the first time I've worn women's cosmetics.
She unzips her boots then shimmies the leggings down her thighs while I pretend to be watching for people in the parking lot. I stop her, though, when she pulls her heels from her bag.
"You want to make an impression, right?"
She hesitates for a moment before she answers, probably deciding what answer to give. Finally, she raises her chin in a sign of defiance. Barefoot, I'm much taller than her again.
"Yes. I want him to take one look at me and hate himself almost as much as I hate him. Then, I want him to hate me because I'm one hundred times happier and a thousand times hotter without him weighing me down."
That's my girl.
"Put the boots back on."
"Huh?" She asks, looking between me and her boots, left leaning against my bike.
"Trust me." I lean in close and whisper in her ear. "That dress and those boots? You'll make your point. I guarantee it."
While nothing special, they lace up the front and zip up the side, ending just above her knee. She and Beth have the same pair. With the dress, there are a few inches of skin between the boots and where the skirt starts. They barely have a heel, but it's the way they encase her calf in flesh-hugging leather that makes the impression. With her jacket ending just above her hips, she looks like she stepped out of a Babes R Us catalog.
"Okay then," she breathes, watching me for a moment before using the bike for support as she pulls them back on.
“Oh, your tie!” Cris exclaims, bouncing a little in her boots.
She reaches into the depths of her case, pulling out the scrap of fabric like a magician pulls his scarves from the hat.
Stepping into my personal pace, she places the neckwear around my throat, reach
ing to turn up my collar.
I let my hands rest on her hips, settling her up against me, and enjoy the normalcy of her knotting the tie. When I don’t let her go right away, the runs her hands down my chest, soothing away wrinkles that may or may not be there.
“Thank you, Ryan, for coming with me tonight. I know you’d rather be anywhere else.”
She licks her lips, and it takes all of my self-control not to lick them for her.
“Sugarplum, anywhere you are is where I want to be. Sure, I’d rather be face first between your legs, but I’ll concede to holding your hand at a wedding instead.”
She huffs out an amused sound, shaking her head in disbelief.
“You’re such a pig,” she says, but there’s zero heat behind the words. Instead, she seems almost happy about it.
“True, but I’m your pig.”
“At least for tonight you are.”
She steps out of my hold, and I do nothing to keep her with me. When she bends to pick up the trail of crap she’d dropped to the ground, I take a moment to admire her ass before I jump into motion as well.
I pack all of her shit back up, picking up the various makeup applicators and perfume bottles that are propped in crevices on my cycle and go to put her bag in one of the storage containers when she stops me.
"I'll take it inside with me. I have a room for the night. If there's not enough time to take it up myself, I'll slip someone a twenty to leave it on the bed."
That's news to me. Images and desires of what I could do to her alone in a hotel room run rampant through my imagination, but I shut it down hard. I'm not here for that.
"Let's do it."
I stand with my hands in my jacket pockets while she checks into her room, then, being the gentleman I am, take her bag from her and give it and our helmets to the closest bellhop, slipping him the money to take it to her room for us.
We start in the direction the receptionist pointed us, but after a few steps, I realize I'm alone. Looking around, I spot Cris rooted to the spot five feet behind me.