Maybe I’ll walk to the beach. Being near the water always clears my head.
I open the door, my eyes taking a second to adjust to the dimmer light in the hallway. They still locate her immediately.
Wren’s leaning a shoulder against the wall across from the bathroom, inspecting her nails. Her cup is gone. Her chin lifts to meet my gaze as I enter the hallway.
We stare at each other for a few seconds, the babble of overlappingvoices downstairs suddenly muted.
“All yours,” I state, stepping toward the stairs.
“I didn’t come up here to ‘take a piss.’” Her imitation of my voice isn’t very accurate. At least, I hope it’s not. Or else I sound like a douche.
I glance back. She’s given me the perfect opening to ask, “Why did you come, then?”
I’m no longer talking about upstairs. I’m wondering why she’s here, period.
Wren doesn’t reply. She closes the distance between us in a couple of rapid strides, colliding our mouths together.
Kissing me—again.
Catching me off guard—again.
She doesn’t taste like alcohol. She tastes like mint and watermelon. Her lips are soft and warm, moving against mine in a demanding rhythm that’s impossible to ignore.
I get caught up in matching it for longer than I’d like to admit. Lack of oxygen is the main reason I step back, sucking in a hasty breath. “Stop kissing me.”
“Because you hate it?” Wren’s smirk is knowing as she glances at my crotch.
I exhale heavily, fists clenched, urging my dick to deflate. Her staring isn’t helping. I’ve been less turned on during blow jobs than I am by her gaze lingering on the bulge of my erection.
Wren has this infuriating talent for teasing. A skill of manipulating people exactly where she wants them. I know it, I’ve seen it, and yet I’m still susceptible.
She doesn’t need to know that though.
“You’re not my type,” I tell her, which is absolutely true.
“You know I can see you’re hard, right?”
I scowl. “I get hard watching porn too. Don’t take it personally.”
She scoffs. “You have a high opinion of your hand, if you think jerking off is the same as sex with me.”
I grudgingly admire her confidence. Wren isn’t the only one who enjoys a challenge, and there aren’t many people who push back at me.
“You want to fuck?” I ask bluntly.
I’m expecting her to laugh. Or act offended. Or do anything really, other than reply, “Yes,” equally frank.
“It won’t be what you’re used to,” I warn. “I don’t do sweet or romantic. Just fast and hard.”
This time, I predict her reaction correctly.
Her chin juts defiantly. “I told you, you don’t know me. Or what I’m used to.”
“We can use Wade’s room.” I start that way, the opposite direction from the stairs.
Most—maybe all—of me isn’t expecting her to follow, but she does. I’ve been propositioned at parties in the past, but hooking up at one has never unfolded like this before. I’m sober since I never made it back to the kitchen for a beer, and I’m starting to suspect Wren is, too, which is also an anomaly.
That must be why this feels different, I decide, as I flick on a lamp to rummage through Wade’s bedside table for a condom. Once I find one, I turn the lamp back off. Enough moonlight is coming through the open window to illuminate shapes, and I want this to feel as impersonal as possible. Hard and fast, just like I told her.
