“Right now I’d be terrible at anything more,” I tell her. “I don’t mean I’m scared of commitment or any shit like that. I mean, I’ve been in love before and am not sure I could do all that again.”
She lets out a short, sharp laugh at this, nodding as she tilts her beer to her mouth.
“At least,” I continue, “not right now when I’m working like crazy.” This sounds ridiculous. I can hear it, can hear the absurdity. We’re all working like crazy. We’re all busy and young and chaotic. “But, regardless, I’m a guy. I like sex. I like women. Is that the level of honesty you’re looking for?”
She nods.
“Your turn,” I say. Something ancient seems to be creaking to life inside my chest. It’s been forever since I’ve had a conversation like this—earnest, and open—with someone other than my family, and I forgot how nice it feels.
She drinks deeply from her beer again before answering. I watch her throat as she swallows. It’s long, pale, and smooth. “I left with you because I was barreled by a wave this morning.”
She surfs . . . that certainly explains her body.
“It’s been so long since I was rolled like that,” she says, staring down at the bottle in her hand. “I forgot how scary it is. For the first part of the morning, I couldn’t catch a single good wave. And then one came along that just ground me to dust. All day, I’ve been tense and out of sorts. It’s like it never occurs to me to work out tension with sex. Tonight I figured, Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeat quietly, feeling my pulse charge forward as it seems to become a possibility.
She nods but her eyes are on my lips now.
“Whatever you want, okay?” I tell her.
Slowly, so slowly I can see every emotion pass through her eyes—uncertainty, fear, desire, determination—she leans forward and brushes her mouth over mine. It feels like silk.
“We’re only doing this tonight,” she says, pulling back a few inches to meet my eyes. And when she says it, it sounds nothing like it has coming from other girls. She’s not worried she’ll fall into the trap of thinking it’s more; she’s worried I will. Her dimples dig into her cheeks as she smiles, saying, “So make sure to show me all your tricks.”
I laugh into another kiss. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t come back to the bar expecting to get head in the parking lot,” she says against my mouth. “I’m not that girl.”
See? I was right.
I pull back to look her in the eye and salute her with my fingers at my forehead. “Understood.”
Without much ceremony, she reaches for the hem of my shirt and helps me out of it. Her hands come up, warm but tentative, fingertips before palms smoothing over my skin. Exploring, as if it’s been forever since she did this and she’s forgotten what skin feels like. Her hands are soft; her nails are only long enough to scratch lightly down my chest and over my stomach before she gets to work on the buttons of my jeans.
Whoa. Jesus.
I slide my hips just out of her reach, pulling a condom out of my pocket and placing it near her hip. “Do you want to go to my room?”
She shakes her head. “Here is good.” She tugs me closer and works my pants and boxers down my hips before a thought seems to halt her movements. “Do you live alone?”
I kiss her, speaking against her lips, as I kick my pants to the floor. “You’re getting me naked on my couch, so, God, I hope so.”
I feel her giggle against my mouth when I bend to suck at her throat, and subtly shift away from her hands. I don’t want her hands on my cock yet; neither of us is ready to fuck and what’s the hurry? It’s a complete one-eighty from only five minutes ago. She’s not hesitant anymore, not even a little. I wonder if she’s like that in everything: cautious, then almost recklessly committed. Even so, there’s still a film of detachment there, as if she’s checking things off a mental list without really giving over to anything.
It’s weird.
Usually I sense a frantic need for connection—the inescapable snare of eye contact, a quiet string of questions, kisses that feel like secrets being offered—and it means I can choose how much of it I want. But Logan isn’t looking for deep connection with me; she seems to want the paradox of getting it over with and being consumed.
I’m oddly reminded of driving through the Rockies with my parents during a snowstorm: Mom happily remarking on how lovely it was while Dad focused intently on the mechanics of getting us all there safely. My job is to navigate us both through this.
She guides my hands to her shirt and then closes her eyes as I unbutton it down her front, kissing. She smells like oranges and the sweet scent of girl.
I pull her shirt from her shoulders, down her arms, and unclasp her bra. Fuck, her chest is nice, too. Breasts just bigger than my hands. Flat, toned stomach. She has the body of a girl who unself-consciously surfs in a bikini: curved, tanned, and defined. I want to lose myself in this, want to sense her own relief from it, or even feel some urgency overwhelm her ability to control. For once I want to linger on my bed, lights on, talking nonsense while I kiss all these perfect parts of her.
But I can feel the tension in her abdomen, the way she just wants to move forward, keep going, get there.
Is this how it feels to be with me when I’m distracted and simply need to fuck?
Bending, I kiss her chin, her lips, parting them with mine. Her tongue is small and soft in my mouth and beneath the tang of beer she tastes like oranges, too. I imagine her reaching for one at the bar, idly sucking on it between mixing drinks.
“Come on,” I whisper, sucking at her lower lip. Give me something. “Touch me.”
She licks my upper lip and a tight noise of want escapes her mouth.
“It’s okay to want this. I want this. You’re not doing anything wrong here.”
A tentative hand slides around my neck, her legs spreading as she pulls me between them and
come on
come on
there.
I feel it, when she softens under me, giving in. Her hand comes up to my face, the other reaching for me, curling around my dick. I harden from her touch, and inhale the sweet citrus smell of her, bending to suck a soft nipple into my mouth, groaning at the way it stiffens against my tongue.
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.