Joy Ride
“Fuck,” I mutter as I jerk faster.
Tighter.
Rougher.
I’m fucking my fist, like the world is on fire. My body is on fire. Unholy pleasure sizzles under my skin as I fight for some goddamn relief.
Every muscle in me is tight. Tense. Wound the fuck up from her.
Her sweet hair in my nose.
Her face on my shoulder.
Her nudges, her looks, her smile, her tits. Her majestic, wonderful tits.
God, I want to tear off her clothes and slam her to the wall. I want to crush her lips with my mouth, taste her tongue, suck on her neck. Feast on those tits until I get down on my knees and bury my tongue in her pussy.
I burn. Everywhere. Lust rattles through my bones as I imagine that first taste. How wet she’d be. How sweet she’d taste. How dizzy it would make me to sink my face between her legs and eat her till she came all the fuck over my jaw.
I want to drive her to the brink of insanity, like she’s done to me. I want her crazy with desire, grabbing my hair, and moaning my name until she can’t stop.
I groan so loudly it’s criminal. The noises I make could wake the neighbors. I don’t give a shit. Lust surges down my spine, a warning shot. I’m close, so damn close, and I’m desperate.
I hate how I feel, but I fucking love how this feels, too. I have never needed a release more. Never.
My mind trips back to a few minutes ago. To the flash of that perfect nipple, tipped up, begging me to suck on it. That nipple called out to me. I wanted to bite it. Wanted to see how much of her breast fits in my mouth.
I want her to feel this same goddamn frustration.
With my other hand, I grip my balls hard, tugging as I jack my cock more roughly. Another drop of liquid beads at the head, and I spread it down my shaft, barely coating me. Who fucking cares. I don’t need lube or lotion for this.
Smack goes my belt buckle against the door.
Slap goes my hand on my dick.
Henley, Henley, Henley goes my brain.
I grunt like an animal, a fucking desperate man.
If there’s a God, Henley will be in her apartment any second, jamming her hand down her panties and fucking herself with her fingers.
And that’s it.
The flip switches as I think of her sweet, hot pussy. There’s no place I’d rather be than inside it. There’s no one I want but her.
My quads tighten. My muscles burn, and a shock of pleasure surges down my spine.
Seconds later, I’m there.
I come hard in my hand. It feels fucking amazing, like silver sparks raining from the sky.
But the pleasure ends far too quickly. It subsides in mere seconds, and I’m left with this empty, terrible want as I stand against my door, my belt undone, and my hand coated in my orgasm.
The trouble is I’m not sure she’s out of my system.
In fact, as I wash my hands, I peer behind me in the mirror’s reflection. The towels she used are neatly hung. The bubble bath lines the shelf. The tub is pristine.
She did everything she said a good girlfriend would do. It’s almost like she was never here at all. And as I brush my teeth, nearly chewing through a new brush, I can’t stop thinking about her.
I leave the bathroom and strip down to nothing, and she’s still in my head. When I get into bed, I wish she was stepping out of the bath, drying off, and wandering into my room.
With that in mind, I try again to get her out of my system. Lying on the white sheets, I picture her climbing over me, riding my face.
Then in the morning, as I shower, she’s on her knees taking my cock in her mouth, letting me fuck her lips.
Maybe, just maybe, she’s out of my system now.
21
Henley’s To-Do List
* * *
—Meet John to discuss strategy.
* * *
—Prep for appointment with lawyer.
* * *
—Find new smoothie mix that makes me not give a crap about Max, that jerk.
* * *
—Drink it up. It isn’t getting any easier building this Lambo with him.
* * *
—Practice my game face.
* * *
—Don’t let on the ice-age treatment bothers me.
22
I ring the buzzer of the walk-up on 18th Street, craning my neck to get a glimpse of the third floor.
A flower planter hangs from the window as promised—a cheery green one, bursting with tiger lilies. Fall flowers, Josie told me.
I manage a smile, thinking of the woman my brother loves. Chase and Josie have re-moved in together. They found a new pad in Chelsea, and they’re having a mini housewarming party with the gang.
Mia suggested I bring a bottle of wine and a kickass new Scrabble dictionary, so that’s what I’ve got in hand. As I wait, I glance behind me at the tree-lined block. A twenty-something brunette in sunglasses walks a pug down the street, and for a brief second, I imagine Henley.
I jerk my head away.
Somehow, I’ve managed to work with her for the last week since Bubble-Bath-Nipplegate.
It hasn’t been easy, but we’ve pulled it off, mostly by taking turns on the Lambo. It’s been living in my shop since I have more room. In the last week of working on the car, the network shot a few promos, including one with the actor Brick Wilson, as well as Henley and me. The buffer of Brick made it easier to deal with her.
When the buzzer sounds, I let thoughts of the show go as I head into Chase’s building. I walk up two flights of steps to a long hallway on the third floor. My little brother stands in the doorway. Growing up, he was the happiest fella in the world, and that’s even truer now that he and Josie are officially an item. His hazel eyes shine.
“Glad you could make it. I thought I’d have to surgically remove you from a Ferrari or an Aston Martin to get you here,” he says, then claps me on the back. “You’ve been working hard?”
“Is there any other kind of work?”
Chase pretends to stare at the ceiling. “Nope.” He gestures me into his and Josie’s new digs. I’ve seen his place once before, and it’s perfect for them—a one-bedroom with exposed brick walls and lots of light. On the wall by the door is a framed cartoon drawing of a cat in an apron serving cupcakes to a small dog. It has Nick Hammer’s style all over it. I suspect the cartoonist drew it for his sister, and the signature in the corner confirms that. Nick is parked on the couch with his wife, Harper, next to him. They wave hello, and I say hi. On the coffee table in the living room, a huge bouquet of daisies spills over the edge of a vase, and a Scrabble board sits next to it. I spot Wyatt and Natalie in the kitchen, leaning into the fridge.
“Max!” Josie rushes over and throws her arms around me. “So good to see you. How did the monkey bread go over?”
“Great,” I say, then look around, eager to move to a new topic.
She narrows her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s amazing. Who doesn’t love monkey bread?”
Chase gives me a studious stare as he taps his head. “Monkey bread? Hmm. Wait, I’ve got it.” He snaps his fingers. “You bought monkey bread for Henley.”
I scoff. Josie laughs.
“Did he?” Chase asks Josie.
She shrugs. “He didn’t tell me who he bought it for. He just said it was a gift for a girl, and I said if she liked the monkey bread, then next time he should get her cinnamon rolls.”
“Ooh, get me cinnamon rolls, pretty please.”
The comment comes from Spencer, who had bounded up the steps with his wife, Charlotte, to join us in the entryway. “I love cinnamon rolls. Please say they’re for me.”