Chapter Fifteen

 

~ FREYA ~

 

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” My mother would scold me for taking the Lord’s name in vain so brazenly; I can practically see her in her buttoned-up starched dress in church on Sunday, praying for the lost soul of her daughter.

But I’d argue I’m saying the words like a prayer, not a curse.

We’re on the downward slope toward land and I can see the crescent of Sandy Point State Park off to the right, even that tiny spit of sand where Mason and I once laid our beach towels and read—a romance novel in my hands and something scary by Stephen King in his—only to be surrounded by water when the tide struck.

What I wouldn’t give to be there right now, my feet buried in sand rather than soaking my flip-flops in sweat.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate him for doing this to me. I hate him for believing that I could get us across this bridge alive.

I hate him for knowing the way this tiny fear of mine has grown into such a huge thing that I’ve been crippled at the sight of the Bay Bridge.

I hate him for being willing to risk his life, sitting in the car with a panic-stricken driver at the helm, soaring along the Bridge at breakneck speed (or at least forty miles per hour feels breakneck when your heart is lodged in your throat). I hate him for the way he’s been prattling on for the past five minutes, prodding me with pointless questions only because he wants to make sure my brain hasn’t completely shorted out. I hate him for being so devoted to me that he would rather risk me killing him, than to see me live one more day of my life with an overblown fear.

No wait… I love him for that.

Damn. I really do love him for that.

Now, with land so close, I regain my ability to swallow.

“You did it, Freya.” His words are hushed, thick with admiration as though I just discovered the sweeping cure for cancer. I should hope I’d get as much reverence out of him if I ever get my damn book published. (And yet, I somehow know I would.)

But right now, on solid ground on the west side of the Bridge, I’m feeling like I could publish any book, or climb any mountain, or drive across any bridge right now.

Flicking on my turn signal, I exit to something familiar, that state park where I’d spent many days with Mason admiring his body before I knew what it felt like to have him inside of me. And between that thought, and the fact that I’ve just tamed a monster of a bridge, I’m about ready to pass out cold.

“You did it,” he says again, as I pull off the road onto an unpaved area buried in trees. “And now I’m fully prepared to face death by your vengeful hands.”

I burst out laughing. He’s developed an acute skill for dramatic words since he’s started editing my book. Yet he’s right, I should want to murder him in cold blood right now. But I don’t. After unbuckling my seat belt, I notice my hands are shaking when I raise them to his face, cupping his stubbly chin in my hands. Instead of strangling him, I press my lips soundly against his, tasting the remnants of the orange juice he drank with his breakfast.

This morning, I’d been ready to attempt wiping the memory of last night from my mind—anything to get back to that comfortable place where we’d spent the past two years, as best friends and nothing more.

But at this moment, all I want is to feel him against me again, to savor the gift of having a man in my life who knows me better than I know myself. My tongue slips into him, swiping along his front teeth and I smile as I feel him growl in return. We devour each other along the quiet roadside, until lightheaded, I finally need to come up for air.

Gasping, I lean back into my seat.

“If I knew you’d have this reaction, I’d have made you drive across that bridge ages ago,” he teases.

Yet he wouldn’t have. I know that. He knows that. For two years, we’ve been tiptoeing around each other as we’ve both been immersed in relationships with other people. Each of those days seems such a waste to me right now because I’d give just about anything to rewind my life and use that time to explore these feelings that are simmering inside of me.

“I can’t believe you made me do that,” I whisper.

“Hey, you kissed me. Not the other way around.”

“No, drove over the Bridge.”

His grin is wide, almost proud as he unbuckles his seat belt and turns slightly to face me. “I was afraid you’d never talk to me again.”

“How long ago had you planned this?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking about it for two years now. You let things blow out of proportion. You get some idea in your head and then it grows and grows like some kind of balloon until something pops it.”

“That’s it exactly, you know. Once I latched onto this idea of what might happen, I just couldn’t let it go. But it’s just a bridge. People drive across it every day. People who have probably had a whole lot worse than panic attacks. People who’ve overcome heart attacks or strokes or—”

His upper lip curls. “Geez, now you’re making me not want to drive across it, with half the population ready to keel over in the next lane.”

I smile. “You know what I mean.” And I do know he knows. It’s like he reads my mind sometimes. And me, his.

Holy crap, what will it be like when he leaves?

“Mason,” I say his name softly, loving the way it sounds on my lips when I’m feeling so exhilarated like this. So alive.

I can overcome any fear.

I can be a published novelist.

I can fall madly in love with a man who’s about to leave me.

No wait, scratch that last one. Or at least I wish I could scratch that last one. But the thought of it seems to loom over me today like a dark cloud. And tomorrow, when he drives off for points south, that cloud will unleash a storm that is nothing short of biblical in proportions.

So I do the only thing I know right now that will fend off that cloud—the only thing that will make me feel more alive than driving across the Bay Bridge. I lean into him again, letting my lips meet his, tasting him again as though it was the first time. They say the best way to relieve a hangover is having a drink. Hair of the dog that bit you, they say.

Maybe the best way to stave off the ill effects of having just had sex with your best friend is to do it again.

My tongue lashes against his. Every nerve ending in my body fires as my toes curl up in my flip-flops, and I lean closer to him. The arm rest between us presses into my hip and I groan.

Mason has an SUV—way too big for what he’d ever need being a single guy who doesn’t have a brood of kids to drop off at school. And the guy doesn’t golf, so he can’t possibly use the excuse that he needs space for his golf bag. Until now, I’ve often wondered why he’s got such a big car.

Now I know.

At the risk of sounding too vanilla, I don’t want to admit I’ve never had sex in the back seat of a car. So I’m uncertain how exactly to go about doing this gracefully as my eyes glance behind us, into the wide expanse of his back seat beckoning me, complete with its shaded windows. Screw gracefulness, I figure, as I pull my mouth from his and climb in between the seats like a clod.

“Come and join me before I feel like an idiot back here,” I say, feeling mildly foolish and one hundred percent desperate. If I rethink this for even an instant, sanity might return to me. Or to him. And then I’ll only have last night to look back on when he’s gone.

By God, I need more than that.

But I might not get it, I suddenly think, as he opens the SUV’s door. Shit. Is he leaving? I wonder it for a split second until the back door opens and he climbs in.

“I’m 6’2” and weigh 200 pounds, Freya. If I tried to climb between the seats, you’d be calling 911 for help dislodging me.”

“200 pounds,” I murmur, my mouth against his skin as I lift his shirt. Of solid muscle, I add silently, my hands splaying against his abs as I lick his pecs as though they’ve been created by Jolly Rancher. He’s deliciously salty and the texture of his skin on my tongue feels dangerously appealing. It makes me wonder what the rest of him would taste like, and I unzip his shorts to find out.

“Oh, God. Freya.” His words come out in a rush as I free him from his shorts. My fingers wrap around the girth of him and my core heats up like a deep fryer, remembering how it felt to have him inside me last night.

Any reservations I had about doing this vanish because I know I need this again with him.

I sink lower onto his body and touch my lips to him, my tongue tracing his cock from the base to the tip. I look up at him, watching his eyes slam shut as he moans. Tasting the moisture at the tip of him, I savor the salty taste on my tongue, memorizing it. After tomorrow, I won’t have this again. He’ll move to another state and find himself distracted by some other woman. This isn’t meant to last, I know. But if I’m going to continue my friendship with him, I need to get my fill of him now.

I move my mouth up and down on him, loving the way hard manages to get even harder, and long, longer, until I can bear it no more. He senses it in me, taking my head in his hands and pulling me off him.

“Baby, I’m going to explode if you keep doing that. And I want you to get your own satisfaction,” he murmurs as his hands slide up my shirt, unclasping my bra. He doesn’t pull the fabric from me, only glides his hands over my breasts and massages me until I whimper. He kisses me as he does, manipulating my skin between his fingers, flicking his thumbs over my nipples, kneading me until I feel his touch moving lower.

Yes.

His hands venture down to the base of my knee-length skirt and he lifts it. I expect him to pull off my panties, but he doesn’t, just slides his fingers past the cotton in between my legs and thrusts them into my slit which is wet for him, aching for penetration.

I want to hold off the climax. I want to show some kind of control so that I can savor this feeling for longer. But I can’t. My body pulsates as I cry out, and he buries his fingers deeper in response till my moisture spills onto his hand. My pelvis thrusts, and I push my clit harder against his palm, forcing more penetration, wanting so much more than he can give me with his fingers. The climax holds me firm in its grasp for longer than I thought possible. I need release, and I need his cock inside of me for it. I grab him, but he pushes my hand away, instead reaching into his pocket for a condom. He tears open the foil with his teeth and sheaths himself as my body continues to quake, rubbing against him any way I can, chasing satisfaction.

He moves me completely onto my back, legs open to him, and nudges the fabric over my pussy to the side, then slamming his cock into me, so deep I scream his name. My folds clamp onto him and my body shudders, with waves of passion crashing over me. Sliding outward and then immersing himself in me again, he launches me upward on a spiral of need once more. I dare to open my eyes, almost unable to even admit to myself that I’m having sex in the back seat of his SUV. It feels desperate and needy and beautifully erotic as I feel him throbbing deep inside me, with me still fully clothed and only his cock exposed on his body. It makes me feel powerful, knowing that he couldn’t wait any longer than I could, and that this man, with his superhero physique and eyes that are nothing short of hypnotic, didn’t even take the time to tear off my panties.

His hands slide again to my breasts and then emerge from beneath my shirt when he cups my face in his gentle grip. Every cell in my body sparks to life. Every square inch of my skin becomes an erogenous zone under his touch, under his gaze, under him.

When he kisses me then, he’s so deep in me I want to weep with pleasure, and the look in his eyes is sheer adoration. I don’t know where it comes from; it’s as though he’s a man I don’t know right now.

He’s not the brazen, wise-cracking SEAL who flicks chunks of pineapple off my pizza saying they have no business being on anything Italian.

He’s not the eye-rolling guy who complains when a woman gets too comfortable in a relationship with him.

He’s not even the protective friend who plants his fist in some man’s face for cheating on me.

He’s someone different now, as I feel him increase his rhythm, taking me along for the ride. For all that I know of Mason, I don’t recognize the man I’m with now—this man with something masquerading as love in his eyes as he looks at me.

Because it’s not love he could possibly feel. Not the kind I feel blossoming in my heart, the kind that has me aching for a future filled with more moments like this. He’s not capable of that kind of love. Not him.

Even when he buries himself deep in me with one final thrust and I shatter right along with him, I remind myself that it’s not love in his heart he has for me.

But maybe something treading on the border of it.