I get to work on her skirt, easing it down her hips.
“Oh, shit,” she says, and then stifles a laugh with her hand.
I freeze, looking up at her.
Goddamnit—of course this will be when she remembers she’s on her period.
“What?” I ask, as calmly as I can.
Her blue eyes stare up at me, wide with playful apology. “I haven’t shaved my legs in . . . a while.”
I exhale, relief making my hands clumsy as I yank the skirt the rest of the way off.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t, either.”
She giggles, and when I look down at her, she’s fucking stunning. She stills under my attention, letting me look up and down the length of her naked body. Her legs may be unshaven, but I’d never be able to tell. Suffice to say, Logan is a natural blonde, and every other bikini-conscious part of her makes my mouth water.
It’s only when I’m over her like this, positioned between her thighs and registering how entirely relaxed she is being nude before me, that I appreciate it fully: Dimples isn’t here for anyone but herself.
Most girls don’t come home with me solely for their own pleasure. As much as they may insist that’s the reason, they come because they want a relationship, want to be adored. They want me to keep them beyond a single night, to like them beyond what we do together in bed.
But Logan doesn’t seem to really care what I think of her or whether we even see each other again. She’s using me.
I feel the sting of rejection and the warmth of respect at the same time.
She worries that sweet bottom lip with her teeth. “Everything okay?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep inhale of her. “Just looking at you,” I tell her. “You’re . . .” You’re surprising. “You’re really fucking pretty.”
She doesn’t thank me. She barely reacts at all, only watches me with heavy eyes.
I run my hand down between her breasts—full swells, small pink tips—and across her ribs, lower down her toned stomach. Her hips mirror the movement of my palm, chasing my touch.
“Let me kiss you here?” I ask, drawing my fingers between her legs. She’s soft, wet enough to tempt me but not enough that I’m sure she’ll go off like a bomb the way I want.
She shakes her head a little, smiling that wide-open smile at me. “No way, sir. That’s special.”
Fuck. It is special and for the length of a sharp inhale, it thrills me that she feels that way. But then frustration inches in: the more time I spend with her, the more eager I am to ensure this night blows her goddamn mind. If she’s come to a movie theater to be entertained, I’m going to show her the motherfucking Godfather.
She reaches down to the cushion by her hip and finds the condom, handing it to me.
“I thought you wanted me to pull out all my tricks?” I tease.
She laughs, a single burst of sound, but the smile stays. “Just come here.”
Shaking my head I tell her, “If we’re skipping the previews, you’re at least putting that on me.”
With a cute little eye roll, she pushes herself up on an elbow, tearing the condom wrapper with her teeth. Slowly, slowly, she rolls it down the length of me and I bite my lower lip, groaning.
Seeing her naked . . . tasting her tongue . . . the warm grip of her hand on my cock and I’m ready to fuck, but her hands don’t immediately leave me. She touches my cock, my balls, my hips and stomach. Now she’s deliberate, now she’s relishing. Her fingertips explore me, soft and gently tickling up my chest until she curls a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me over her.
“Come here,” she whispers again, kissing my chin, my jaw, my neck.
Maybe I should be in charge; she’s got more innocence buried beneath her steel than she does true cynicism. But I don’t want to lead right now. She reaches for me, slipping me around, playing with the tip of my cock on her clit, and I feel the way my arms shake, planted beside her head. She wants to lead it, wants me to stay still, wants to use this part of my body to feel good. Every muscle along my spine is bunched, every thought banished but the feel of her. The fucking feel. I watch her face and the million expressions I see tense and relax across it. I’ve never been so wrapped up in watching someone give in before.
Finally, she slides me lower. I sense the dip, the invitation, and ease my way inside.
She holds her breath but doesn’t make a sound. I want to roar. She’s warm—crazy warm—and wetter now. I have to ease in and out, an inch at a time because she’s small, and I worry I’m hurting her but her hands find my ass and she pulls me forward, rocking with me to get me deeper, more, all the way.
I groan when I’m finally there, but she’s quiet. She’s so quiet even with the clench of her all around me; with the way I’m squeezed inside her, how can she not make a single sound? I’m all the way in, grinding to get the feel of her, mouth on her neck, her tits. I feel unleashed, ravenous.
I could lose myself. I could fuck hard.
But, God, when she rolls her hips under me I know I could also fuck slow.
Whatever the hell she wants, it’s so good and her tits pressed to my chest make me rub against her, skin to skin.
“It’s okay?” I ask, quietly checking in.
She nods, swallowing. “It’s good.”
I groan, pulling back and then moving back into her.
The slow drag out, long easing in.
So good.
She smells good, too.
Hands all over my back, up my neck.
Logan’s quiet, but it feels good for her, I can tell. I sense it in the way her fingers tangle in my hair, the rolling of her hips and tightening of her nipples. She’s had good sex before; she knows what her body wants. She wants deep, she wants me pressed right up against her and grinding. She’s not getting shy now that we’re getting down to it. No, she’s taking and taking and taking.
Women sometimes talk. Either that or I do. But here we’re just breathing; there’s only the sound of inhales, forceful exhales, and the shifting of our bodies together. And then the involuntary gasps we both make when I start moving faster, and harder. Her breasts move beneath me, hips rise from the couch. She rides me from below, showing me the speed, the pattern she needs.
That she remains so quiet means her orgasm comes as a total shock to me; it comes like the crashing of a wave and when I hear the noise she makes—a tight, relieved cry—I am completely frantic: I need to hear it again, and longer.
I ride it out for her until she seems to deflate under me in relief, but then I’m rolling onto the floor, carrying her with me so that she straddles my hips.
“Take,” I whisper, hoping she understands. I want to give her every drop of relief tonight.
The way her eyes shine when she looks at me tells me she needs this. She loves sex. I mean, holy hell, why a woman with this degree of experience and sensuality doesn’t fuck whenever she wants is beyond me. She rolls her hips, starting to ride me, and then she’s off on a new tear, working herself closer to that tipping point again. Her skin grows shiny with sweat, fingers press sharply into my chest, up my neck, gripping me. Almost threatening. It’s got to be better this second time, her body says. Bigger. Longer. Harder.
“Oh, shit,” she says on an exhale and there—fuck—there it is. Wild and tight and wet, so fucking wet she’s all around me pushing herself farther onto my cock. I groan, fighting the way my body wants to give in, wants to come so hard I’ll see stars.
But I know we’re not done here.
I find myself staring at the smooth arch of her throat, the grace of her straight collarbone as she rides me slower now, coming down. I study the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she gasps for air. She’s completely given herself over to it. To me. For this perfect moment she trusts me.
She’s beautiful, smart, and a little defensive, but even so, she’s here, letting me feel her. I want to deserve this. And I worry I’m going to come hard and wild, and still be left unsatisfied because the t
iny taste she’s giving me isn’t going to be enough.
“You’re good?” I manage, running my hands up her waist and higher, cupping her breasts.
She lifts her head with effort, eyes hungry. “I want you behind me,” she says.
Without a word, I lift her off me, help her onto her knees, and then slide back in, unable to keep from groaning, low and long.
I’m obsessed with the muscular lines in her back, the way her clit feels under the slide of my fingers. I’m obsessed with the way she moves no matter what position she’s in, with the sound she makes when she comes.
I know when this is over I’ll drive her home—because she won’t want to stay. But right now, the sex is good—it’s so good—and every time she turns her brain off long enough for her body to take over and collapse into orgasm, I feel some tiny shell chip away.
I want to see her tender pieces.
Fuck. It’s been forever since I wanted tender.
* * *
“WHERE’D YOU DISAPPEAR to last night?” Dylan asks.
I close the car door and lock it behind us remotely. “Went home with someone. What did you guys do?”
“Went back to Dan’s.” Dylan pulls the door open to Fred’s. “I don’t know how to describe the weed he had other than to say it made Jenny bark like a dog.”
I follow him in, not sure I heard his answer correctly over a hundred people yelling, and the loud, pounding music: “Did you say Jenny barked like a dog?”
He nods, his wild blond hair bobbing with the movement, and leads us to the bar. My chest tightens when I see Logan there, working. She looks hot: hair piled high and messy on her head, arms bare in a white tank top that shows off the shape of her perfect tits, a face free of makeup save for her shiny mouth. I feel like an odd mix of idiot and asshole for not anticipating that she might be here tonight.
I hope she doesn’t think I’ve come because of her.
But, shit. I also don’t want her to think I’d avoid her, either. I don’t think I want her to avoid me.
I make a mental fist and imagine punching myself in the jaw.
“Hey, Freak,” Dylan says to Logan with a grin.
They know each other?
She looks up, smiling easily. “Hey, Sideshow.”
She doesn’t react the way I expect her to after last night, so I assume she doesn’t see me behind him . . . but then she tosses two coasters down on the bar top and I realize she’s just greeting me like she would any other customer. It makes something in me grow tense at the same time something else unwinds. What did I expect? That she would suddenly go from a girl determined to have one wild night to a stage-five clinger?
She puts her palms on the bar and looks at us, waiting. “What can I get you guys?”
“A snack,” he says. She laughs, reaching for a cherry and tossing it into the air. Dylan catches it in his mouth, chewing it while he eyes her playfully.
Holy fuck. Dylan not only knows Logan, but he likes her?
Swallowing, he says, “And now an amaretto sour.”
“Amaretto sour?” Logan and I say in unison.
“They’re delicious,” he insists.
“Cultivating your feminine side?” I ask.
He shakes his head, dismissing me. “London makes the best amaretto sours. Seriously, try one.”
I open my mouth to ask him who the hell London is when Logan leans forward, handing him another cherry. “Aww, thanks.”
Every muscle in my body hits pause and my brain seems to trip over the sudden stillness.
She isn’t watching my reaction. Without asking what I want, she pops open some obscure IPA for me, sets it on the bar, and gets to work on Dylan’s drink. But I wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes from her even if someone shot a gun on the other side of the room.
“London?” I say, leaning my elbows on the bar. I grab my beer, taking a sip as she lifts her face to me and pours his shaken drink into a tumbler.
“Hmm?” she answers, blinking quickly to Dylan and then back to me, eyes tight with warning.
I lean in, giving her a tiny shake of my head. I told him I went home with someone, but not who. Besides, he’s distracted—as he usually is—nodding his head to the music and looking around the room as if it’s his first day out of the cave and he can’t believe everything that’s happening all around us.
“Your name is London?” I ask quietly, heart hammering while I try to remember how many times I said the wrong name last night. Trying—and failing—to remember whether I grunted out the wrong name when I came. “I’ve been calling you Logan.”
Her dimples appear a split second before a smile curls up the corners of her mouth. “You have.”
“You let me call you by the wrong name?” My smile feels like a bare flash of teeth. Inside I’m a chaotic swarm of reactions: amused, irritated, embarrassed, confused.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” she explains. “You got all the important details right.” With a wink, she takes the twenty I’ve put on the bar, rings up our drinks, and drops my change back in front of me. Without another lingering look, or even another word, she steps away and helps another customer.
Okay, what the fuck just happened?
I can be pretty casual about sex, but even I would correct someone if they were calling me Lucas or Jake. Especially if we were fucking. To think the entire time I was calling her by the wrong name and it mattered so little to her she didn’t even bother to correct me . . .
Dylan turns back to me, grabbing his drink and taking a sip. His expression softens into euphoria.
“I think I just saw your O face,” I say, squeezing my eyes closed. “That will never be unseen.”
“Try this.” He shoves it in front of me.
I take it from him, sliding the straws out of the way to sip directly from the glass. Ugh. “I’m not really an amaretto sour connoisseur,” I tell him. “It tastes like amaretto and sour to me.”
I look over his shoulder and my eyes snag on the sight of . . .
Shit, I am so bad with names.
“Dyl.” I lift my chin, indicating he should subtly follow my attention to the overly made-up brunette and her pixie-cut friend making their way over to us.
But of course he whips around.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Aubrey,” he answers, waving to her. “I think her friend’s name is Lou?” And then his brows pull together as he turns back to me. “Wait. Didn’t you sleep with her last summer?”
I nod, giving him a guilty wince as he calls me an absolute asshole under his breath, and then Aubrey is there with her tits and hopeful smile aimed right at me.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” she purrs into my ear.
“Hey, Aubrey.” I hold my breath, hoping that I haven’t messed up her name, too.
“You remembered my name!”
Dylan coughs out a single syllable: “Dick.”
Aubrey doesn’t hear him. Her wide brown eyes meet mine, and the invitation is there, so clear. I feel a tightening in my abdomen, the warm rush of adrenaline.
She was sweet, I remember now, looking at her. Unlike London, Aubrey seemed to want more than just one night. She reassured me she didn’t take guys home often, made porn star noises in bed, and faked about seventeen orgasms, but it still managed to be fun. I didn’t nearly pass out when I came the way I did last night with London, but I managed to get off just fine.
I glance over at London as the thought rolls through me, and for a stabbing, panicked second I worry about how this must look. I’m standing at the bar, not ten feet from the woman I had sex with last night, and there’s a woman I’ve obviously slept with standing with her arm around my waist, her cheek resting flirtatiously against my shoulder.
It isn’t the first time two women I’ve hooked up with have been in such close proximity, but it’s the first time I feel like I’m tangled in Saran Wrap, mildly claustrophobic.
Though I don’t know why I’m worried; London still hasn�
�t looked back over at me. She doesn’t even seem to want to remember it happened.
I lead our little group away from the bar and lean closer to Aubrey so we can hear each other over the shouting and cheers from the overhead TVs. Her lips are sticky with gloss, eyes lined heavily with dark mascara. I don’t remember noticing this before.
“How’s it going?” she asks, and then bites her bottom lip.
I give her my best smile. “Not bad at all.”
Chapter THREE
London
IT’S NOT LIKE I’ve never done this before—had a one-night stand—but the number of guys I’ve slept with is still small enough that when I see Luke walk into Fred’s the next night, the thought I’ve had sex with him is the first thing that flashes through my head.
Thankfully, it’s there and gone, replaced just as quickly with What the hell is he doing here? Sex with a guy like Luke is supposed to mean multiple orgasms and a smile you have to explain to your friends the next day. It’s also supposed to be a one-time thing. I’m fairly certain we were both clear on that point.
I never planned on seeing Luke again, which is exactly why I didn’t bother correcting him when he kept calling me by the wrong name. It’s also why it takes me a moment to get my bearings when he walks into Fred’s with Not-Joe, Oliver’s goofy employee and one of my favorite people.
They head straight toward me, but when I do nothing more than get them drinks and go about my business, I think Luke gets it. I can’t quite make out his reaction, though, and I wonder briefly if he’s disappointed that I’m not falling all over myself to see him or asking for a repeat performance. Which—let’s be real for a second—wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had, because when Luke claimed he knew what he was doing? He wasn’t lying. Not even a little.
But I’m not looking for a repeat. I knew it last night—even when it was so good I kept thinking, I don’t want this to end, I don’t ever want him to come and this to be over—and my instinct is reaffirmed now as I watch yet another brunette sidle up next to him.
Wicked Sexy Liar Page 4