“You are so luscious,” he murmured in her ear, words shattered by the spray and the steam, cut into bits and pieces her overwhelmed, pulsing mind and body could barely understand, the allure of his hands on her br**sts, one pausing to shift himself and plunge into her, then resuming its spot on her overflowing cup, taking her to an aroused madness. As friction grew, his thrusts timed perfectly, her swollen, red passage seemed tapped into her lungs, her heart, her lips and her everything.
Mike's hands roamed her torso, teasing her cl*t as his gliding tightened, thrusts harder and more focused, the feel of his body behind her hardening as his own cli**x surely built. Her fingers clawed at the tiled walls, needing flesh to dig into, to hold on to for the wild ride of an explosive, wet, dripping orgasm that –
Beep, beep, beep. “Ack!' she squeaked, hand flailing for her phone. An alarm? What? Eyes unfocused and cl*t in the throes of an orgasm (huh? In her sleep?) she fumbled the phone, its ineffectual clunk on the floor making her cringe in horror. Another broken glass screen wasn't going to please the geniuses at the Apple store.
Retrieving it and sighing loudly with relief at its intact condition, she stared dumbly. An alarm for a meeting at work. Jesus. So why was her p**sy on overdrive, pulsing as if she –
Oh.
A flash of her dream drizzled into her subconscious – and then a tsunami of tactile and mental dream memories hit her.
Seriously? Coming from a dream? Was she that far gone?
As her cl*t drummed a beat like a bass drum being attacked by a throng of marching band directors, the answer made her weep with frustration.
Yes. Apparently.
Josie was, quite possibly, Dylan and Mike's savior, because it appeared that she had convinced Laura to give them a shot and to come over for dinner. One very, very long week had passed without word from her, and then – a text. A quick phone call. An invitation heartily extended and hesitantly accepted.
Accepted. That's what counted, right? They had a chance.
Mike knew they could blow this so easily, so he had deferred to Dylan as the cook tonight. Admitting he was better in the kitchen was hard, but he had to face facts: something about the Italian in Dylan made his food a little extra...something. Extra flavorful? Extra intense?
Extra fine. Like the man. And if that little bit of extra could be the deciding factor between Laura's giving them a chance or walking away, Dylan could cook.
Choosing the wine, though, was Mike's fierce prerogative.
“Oh, a nice red!” Laura teased, taking the glass by the stem from Mike's nervous hand. They were standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen in his and Dylan's apartment, the entire place decorated in a slick, cold grey and black scheme he had never liked, but that been a legacy of choosing this place a few years ago. The price had been a stretch for him and Dylan, though Jill had shouldered a bit more of the rent; after her death they'd learned she had paid well over half the real price, the two of them blindly forking over a rent check to her every month, never knowing the true cost.
So he understood – on a more trivial level – how it felt to be duped. You're really comparing that to this? his conscience exclaimed, riding him. Not even close.
“It's a Chilean carmenere.” OK, OK, he argued back with himself. Not the same. Stop comparing and just stay in the moment. He took a deep breath, held it for seven seconds, and let it out in four. Center yourself, man. She's worth it.
“It's, um, very red,” she agreed, drinking half the glass in one long sip. Her hair was down and flowing tonight, framing her face with soft curves that mirrored her body. Casual, in a simple v-neck pink sweater, low-rise jeans that made his hands itch to grab that voluptuous ass, and with a tentative, but guarded, approach that made him want to reassure her, Mike wasn't sure how the night would end but he did know one thing:
He and Dylan were going to pull out all the stops to encourage Laura to take a giant, unconventional leap.
Even if it meant –
His fingers slid over her forearm, the touch soft and reassuring, meant to get her attention – not her arousal. He nodded toward the living room. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Laura had a way of tipping her eyes up first, eyebrows hitching up slightly, then bringing her entire face into the light – Mike's light, that is, given his height – that was so endearing his heart felt like it blossomed, a lotus flower of love. Love? Where'd that come from? His conscience panicked.
“Sure,” she said, eyebrows furrowed now. He didn't want to worry her. In fact, what he was about to say was all about getting her to relax. He compared what he was wearing to Dylan's flour-coated polo shirt, jeans, and bare feet. On balance, he'd done fine after changing three times – a simple blue button down and his most comfortable jeans seemed to fit in. Spending so much time worrying about little details was, at best, nothing more than angst and nothing less than an exercise in occupying his scrabbling mind.
Either this would all work out or it would just fall apart. And either way, he had to find peace with the outcome.
She leaned against the arm of the deep, scarred leather couch, a couch made shiny from too many hours of his and Dylan's asses being planted on it, watching some sports game (Dylan) or a quirky documentary (Mike). Jill's butt had left its considerably smaller imprint, too, for she had tortured them with her Christopher Guest obsession until Mike had finally gotten it – and loved those movies, too.
Shaking his head slightly, he willed himself back to the present, where Laura's perplexed look was shifting, microsecond by microsecond, into wariness. No, no, no – not what he was going for.
“I just wanted to say, first, that we're really glad you came tonight.” The skin between her eyes wrinkled with something other than a smile.
She looked up and simply said, “Thanks.”
“And Laura, I – this is awkward, but I want to say it. There are no expectations tonight.” His words had the opposite effect as his intent, her body bristling, eyes shifting away from his. Damn it! “I mean, Dylan and I – we just want this to be a simple dinner. No expectations.”
“You mean no assumptions.” Her voice was hard. Cold. Closed off. She nailed Ice Queen, that's for sure. It made the awkward teen in him come out, his voice shifting up.
“I just – I mean – I,” he choked out. Fuck. This wasn't how he meant it!
“Mike,” she said, interrupting him. “When you tell me there are 'no expectations' what you really mean is that normally you and Dylan would want sex. Expect sex. But you're – what? Being kind and letting me off the hook tonight?” She searched the room, looking for something, and then her head froze. Her purse. She was looking for her purse.
Ah, fuck. Mike had driven her to leave by trying so hard, with good intentions, to put her at ease.
Once again, his plans destroyed everything. This wasn't really happening, was it? In horror he watched as she handed him her glass of red wine and walked to the couch where her purse sat.
Dylan appeared in the doorway, mouthing “What the fuck?” to Mike as Laura turned her back to them, pausing with her hand inches from her purse strap.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Turning toward them her eyes widened at the sight of Dylan, who now wore half a pound of flour in his hair and on the front of a bright red apron he'd donned. It even sprinkled the tops of his toes, giving him a disheveled, slighty-nuts chef look that made Mike wonder whether Laura noticed.
“Guys, we need to talk.” She picked up her purse and sat down, plunking it in her lap, then cocked one eyebrow at Dylan's appearance, a hint of a smile spreading her lips. Good. Good. Mike let out a rush of air; he'd been holding his breath without realizing it, as if that could stop time. Or, maybe, prevent him from bungling this. Too late for both.
“I don't have anything to lose here, so I'm just going to say this.” She paused, eyes rolling up and to the left, as if rethinking something. “Well, I have plenty to lose,” she muttered, “but pride can be rebuilt.”
With a frown, she put her purse back down and stood, waving her hand at Mike and Dylan, who both followed her lead and soon Mike found himself sitting next to Dylan, who plopped on the couch with a poof that made Mike cough a bit, flour now sprinkling his forearm. He gave Dylan a c'mon, are you kidding me? look.
“What? I get artistic in the kitchen.” Dylan self-consciously wiped his face, looked at his palms, and grimaced at the white powder.
“You cook like a four year old with an Easy Bake oven and a fan.”
“Hey!” Laura said firmly. “Me. Remember me?” Sheepish, they both had the sense to dip their heads before giving her their eyes. Mike suppressed an urge to shove Dylan. Unfortunately, Dylan had the impulse control of Bill Clinton in a room full of interns and couldn't hold back his nudge. Mike simmered. Not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth it.
His eyes settled on Laura.
Worth it.
Dylan blinked, his eyelashes white. “Yes.” His voice came out like silk. “Of course we do.”
“Then shut up and stop the childish crap and hear me out.” She wasn't angry now – her voice was preternaturally calm, and it creeped Mike out. Like she was detaching. Detaching not in some Buddhist sense, but detaching from them. From the relationship. From the possibility of what he knew, deep inside, was achievable.
So that creepy feeling needed to be respected.
And so did Laura.
“You know that what you did was wrong. You know that you should have told me.” Ah, here it comes, he thought. Good. Let's get this out in the open so we can deal with it like adults.
“We don't need to talk about this right now,” Dylan jumped in. Mike's hands twitched. If he strangled him would it be justifiable homicide? Instead he shoved him, hard, and stepped on his foot.
“Ow! Hey! What was that about?” Dylan crossed his leg up and massaged his instep. More flour. Jesus.
Mike gestured toward Laura while disdainfully brushing flour off his arm, carefully aiming it toward Dylan. “Let the lady talk.”
A grateful look from Laura was his reward. “We do need to talk about it. Now. So settle down there, buckaroo.”
Both men flinched, Mike's entire body turning into a lightning rod during a storm, directing all the electricity in the air through his nose, making his scalp stand on fire. Dylan just gawked at her, wide-eyed.
Instantly on alert, she seemed to realize something had happened, but Mike knew she wouldn't understand. “Did I just say something wrong?” she asked.
He leaned forward, wishing he could touch her, soothe her. Knowing he couldn't. Not yet. “No, no. Nothing wrong. It's just – that's what Jill used to call Dylan when he was, well, when he just was. Buckaroo. We haven't heard it in nearly two years.”
That face. Her cheekbones were so perfect, soft curves blunting hard bone, her eyes serene, questioning, and hard all at once, brows knitted in confusion and wariness, in something more – a look of evaluation, of surmising what was critical and worth knowing, to apply to some emotional calculus he didn't understand.
Buckaroo.
How one word could so easily change everything. Dylan swallowed so hard Mike could feel the click in his throat, and then he realized he had to break the tension, he had to make this all make sense, because Laura and Dylan weren't going to do it. All those years of Jill and Dylan carrying the emotional water in the relationship had made him stale. Soft. Lazy.