Chapter Thirteen
Lisa
“What exactly did you used to do here?”
Dax’s question makes me giggle, or maybe it’s the way his hair tickles the underside of my breast as he kisses his way up my naked torso.
“Definitely not this,” I say, then gasp as he shifts his hips to rock deeper inside me. His movements are slow and deliberate, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to tease, or trying to avoid jostling the collection of antique frying pans on the wall above the log bed.
“I helped them stage exhibits,” I tell him, conscious of the breathiness in my voice. It’s not easy carrying on a conversation while having illicit sex in a replica of a cot slept on by members of the Corps of Discovery at Fort Clatsop in 1805. “That, and I gave tours for schoolchildren.”
“As a volunteer?”
“Yes,” I say, though it comes out more like a hiss. Good Lord, Dax knows how to move. Does he know how freaking good he is at this?
The smug look on his face tells me he does, and also that he plans to torture me for a good long while. He slides in slowly, smiling down into my eyes as he takes his time easing back again.
“And you were also a board member?” he asks like it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss my career history mid-coitus.
I nod and try to recall what he asked me. “Definitely not—bored. What?”
He laughs, and I close my eyes, wanting to contain the sensation of Dax driving deep inside me. Then I open them again, because I really need to see this to get the full effect.
I reach up and tug the tail on his coonskin cap. “I promise this isn’t a priceless artifact. I bought it at a thrift store in the Pearl District when I helped stage this exhibit.”
“You’re so fucking smart,” he murmurs. “Why is that such a turn-on?”
“Beats me. But I’m glad it is.”
Dax shifts again, taking his time sliding in and out of me. It’s a delicious tease, though probably ill-advised since there are a hundred art connoisseurs milling around two floors below us. The only reason I’m not freaking out is that I know this floor is closed to the public tonight.
“Oh,” I gasp as he flicks his tongue over my nipple again. “That’s nice.”
“Careful,” he warns as I grip the log bedpost. “If you knock that bearskin rug off the wall, I’ll have nightmares for years about being attacked by a grizzly.”
“It’s a black bear,” I murmur and grip his shoulder instead of the bedpost. “One of a hundred and twenty-two animals catalogued during the Lewis and Clark Expedition between eighteen-oh-four and eighteen-oh-sex.”
“Sex?” He grins down at me as he moves his hips to hit something really deep inside me. I arch up, forgetting about bears and muskets and history and pretty much everything else but the way Dax feels inside me.
But he’s there to remind me. “Tell me more about Lewis and Clark.”
I open my eyes and study him. “Is this your idea of dirty talk?”
“Kind of.” He grins down at me as he slides out and back in again, deliciously hard and slick. “Let’s just say I’m developing a fetish for hot brainy babes.”
“Plural?” I give him a teasing, haughty look, but he breaks my concentration as he moves again. His mouth dips into the hollow between my ear and shoulder, and the warmth of his breath sends an army of goose bumps marching down my arm.
Or maybe that’s the wall of mounted animal heads on the wall across from us. I glance away and focus on answering Dax’s question. “The leaders of the expedition were Captain Meriwether Lewis and Second Lieutenant William Clark,” I tell him.
“Meriwether? I’ll bet his wife had a helluva time screaming that in bed.”
I giggle and arch up against him, a moan escaping my lips. “He wasn’t married, but Toussaint Charbonneau was. He was one of their interpreters, and his wife was Sacagawea.”
“Ah, Sacagawea. I’ve heard of her.”
“She taught the explorers about which berries and roots they could eat so they didn’t all die of scurvy.”
“Scurvy,” Dax murmurs, kissing my throat as he eases deeper, distracting me once more with delicious sensation. “Pretty sure that’s the first time anyone’s said scurvy to me during sex.”
“How about blunderbuss?”
That stops him short, which is a pity. I liked the way he was moving. Reading my mind, he starts again, driving up with aching deliberateness. “Blunderbuss?”
I stifle a giggle and a moan at the same time, which is damn hard to do. “It’s a kind of rifle the explorers carried. Named for the Dutch words ‘thunder gun.’ It had a heavy stock, short barrel, and wide-mouthed muzzle.”
“Mmm,” Dax says, brushing a kiss across my lips as he presses deeper into me. “Speaking of mouths, yours is delicious.”
My giggle turns into a moan as he tilts his pelvis just a little, hitting something really good. Pulses of pleasure race through my core, and I know I’m getting closer. There’s a delicious buzz building slowly in the center of my body, and I struggle to form coherent thoughts. “Did you know Lewis and Clark had a sextant on their journey?”
“Is that like a threesome, or a special teepee for fucking?”
“Neither,” I gasp, recognizing the first tingle of orgasm building inside me. The rest of my explanation comes out in a tangled rush. “It’s a special instrument used to make astronomical observations to help calculate distances.”
All the words run together, and I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I just said. For that matter, neither do I. All I care about right now is that Dax keeps moving like that, hips thrusting, body creating dizzying friction at the place where we’re joined. I arch up against him, so close I can hear my pulse fluttering in my ears.
“Want to hear a Lewis and Clark joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rumbly in my ear.
“Wha—what?” I think he said something about a joke, but for all I know he asked me to rub off my eyebrows with sandpaper. I’ll agree, as long as he keeps doing what he’s doing.
“A Lewis and Clark joke,” he repeats, his breath warm against my throat. “I learned it in grade school.”
“Yes!” I gasp and tighten my legs around Dax, wondering if he knows I’m right on the brink. That if he moves even a little, he’ll tip me right over the edge.
“What did Lewis and Clark say when they finally reached the Pacific Ocean?” he asks.
I’m so far gone I can’t form words, but I choke out something that sounds like “what?”
Or maybe “don’t stop fucking me,” I’m not sure. I bite my arm to keep from crying out as the first wave hits me.
“Long time, no sea.”
I burst out laughing, right as the orgasm grabs hold. The result is a dizzying combination of gasping and giggling and thrusting and breathless, giddy hysterics.
Holy mother of hell, who knew a laughing orgasm was a thing?
By the time I come down, I’m practically hyperventilating. Tears are running down my face and Dax reaches down to wipe one from my lashes. He grins down at me, a little breathless from his own release. “I knew that would come in handy someday.”
“Oh God,” I gasp, still struggling to catch my breath. “I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard in bed.”
“Most guys would take offense to that.”
But he isn’t most guys. In every way possible, in all the best ways, Dax Kensington is not most guys.
And somewhere deep down, I know that will make it harder to say goodbye when The Test is done.
…
Later that week, my sisters come over for wine, gossip, and friendship salad.
“Please stop calling it that,” Cassie groans as she plunks down a limp-looking carrot, a head of broccoli, and something that looks suspiciously like a baggie of Cheetos. “Friendship salad makes it sound like we’re going to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ over a plate of arugula.”
“Well, we might if someone had thought to bring arugula,” Missy huffs as she eyes Cassie’s offerings with disdain before arranging herself on one of my leather barstools at the edge of my granite island. “Luckily, I brought kohlrabi, shredded beets, green onion, and a half-pound of Brussel sprouts that I slow-roasted with pancetta and Medjool dates to lend a sweet-smoky flavor.”
“Lucky us,” Cassie mutters, though she’s smiling as she reaches over and steals a piece of pancetta out of Missy’s Tupperware container. Missy smacks her hand, and Cassie yelps with indignation.
“Sorry I’m late!” Sarah Keating bursts through the front door, her long caramel hair flying behind her and a phallic object in her hand. “Does anyone else feel self-conscious shopping for cucumbers? Like you’re standing there squeezing them and checking out the length and girth to make sure you get the best one, and you look over to see every creepy guy in the produce section is staring at you.”
Cassie snort-laughs, while Missy tries—and fails—to look appalled. “That has never in a million years crossed my mind,” Missy says. “But that’s a very nice-looking cucumber. English, right?”
“Beats me.” Sarah arranges herself on the barstool next to Cassie, while Missy reaches over to pour her a glass of Pinot Noir.
“Where’s Junie?” Cassie asks.
Sarah is a case manager at the group home where Junie lives, which is how we all know her. In the year-and-a-half since Cassie and Simon met, we’ve become quite tight.
“Simon called and said they got stuck in traffic coming back from the Mariners game.” Sarah takes a sip of wine. “He’ll bring her straight here.”
“Poll time,” Cassie says, reaching out to pluck one of my smoked salmon canapes off the platter in front of Sarah. “Is the name ‘friendship salad’ the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, or the second stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Missy frowns. “What would the first be?”
Sarah rolls her eyes and grabs a canape of her own. “‘I think we’re better off as good friends, don’t you?’” she quips.
“Ouch.” Cassie grimaces and gives me a look I recognize as my cue to open another bottle of wine.
I hesitate, wanting to hear the rest of the story. “I take it that’s the big talk Keith wanted to have last night?”
Sarah nods and says around a mouthful of canape, “Yep.”
“Oh, honey.” Missy reaches out and pats her hand. “I know you were hoping he was going to ask you to move in.”
Sarah shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before I can pass her one of my hand-embroidered linen napkins. “Another one bites the dust.” She picks up her wineglass and takes a fortifying sip. “You guys are sick of hearing about my stupid breakups, and I don’t feel like talking about it anyway.” She pastes on a shaky smile and turns to Cassie. “What were you saying about friendship salad?”
When Cassie hesitates, Sarah gives her a good-natured nudge with her elbow. “I’m serious, I’m fine,” she says. “I don’t want to be that girl who’s always talking about her lousy breakups at girls’ night. So, friendship salad?”
I grab the conversational baton and run with it. “Cassie thinks it’s a dumb name, but I happen to like the idea.”
“I like the idea,” Cassie says. “Just not the name.”
“Spoken by the woman whose contributions look like something pillaged from the crisper drawer in a frat house,” Missy retorts.
Cassie shrugs and bites into a crudité. “What can I say? I’ve been in Baker City all week testing soil pH levels at a former landfill site, and then I spent two days catching up with Simon.”
“I’m not sure we need to know what ‘catching up’ is code for,” Sarah says with a grin. “That’s my boss we’re talking about.”
Cassie flushes with pleasure while I set to work chopping the artichoke hearts I’ve marinated all week in a special blend of lemon, bay leaves, olive oil, and juniper berries. “Anyway, I happen to love friendship salad,” I say. “I adore the idea of all of us contributing something to make a great big salad filled with a little love from everyone.”
Cassie pretends to gag, but I know she doesn’t mean it. Her pores practically ooze love. I’ve seen the way she and Simon make goo-goo eyes at each other when no one’s looking. There’s lust, sure, but also a mix of respect and love and affection that takes my breath away sometimes.
“I want that,” I say out loud.
The three women look at me, then each other.
“The limp carrot?” Missy points and starts to hand it to me, but I shake my head.
“No, I’ll pass on that. I meant— Never mind.”
Hell. I didn’t mean to bring this up. To talk about my growing feelings for Dax. But the way my sisters are eyeing me says they’ll get it out of me one way or another.
“Speaking of limp carrots, how are things with Dax?” Sarah says with a faux casual air.
I give an unladylike snort-laugh and grab a radish off the sideboard. “His carrot is most definitely not limp,” I assure her. “And honestly, it’s more like a late-season zephyr squash or a Costata Romanesco zucchini.”
Missy’s eyes widen, while Cassie busts out laughing and swipes a slice of radish off my cutting board. “I thought you had that look about you.”
“What do you mean?” I demand, swatting her away from my pile of thinly sliced veggies.
“You’re all cheerful and glowing lately,” Cassie says. “Like a woman getting laid well and often.”
Sarah grins and heaves an intentionally dramatic sigh. “Lucky bitch.”
It’s the nicest compliment anyone’s paid me in a long time, and I try not to let it show how pleased I am.
Ever the peacemaker, Missy reaches across the counter to pat Sarah’s hand. “Someday your prince will come.”
“And then, so will you,” Cassie adds. “Over and over and over—”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the multiple orgasm thing?” I blurt out the question before thinking it through, but I don’t regret it. Honestly, I like that I finally have something substantial to bring to the table of girl talk.
Three pairs of eyes swing to me, and everyone stops laughing. “What?” Missy says.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I’m determined to press on with the risqué girl talk. I’ve never been part of it this way. I’ve listened, sure, but I haven’t had something noteworthy to contribute until now.
“I—uh—I guess I never realized it was possible to—” I give a flourished gesture with the knife, hoping at least one of them will fill in the blank.
Cassie grins and picks up her wineglass. “I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned—” She gives an exaggerated flourish to mimic mine, making my cheeks heat up again. “So to speak,” she adds. “Didn’t you believe me?”
I shake my head, torn between feeling embarrassed and excited. Like I’m part of the club or something. “I guess I never realized,” I say. “I never thought it could be like that.”
Missy studies my face, her eagle eyes missing nothing. “You’re talking about sex, right? Just sex? That’s still all it is?”
They’re all watching me, like they know the secret thoughts I’ve been having all week. Like when Dax called Tuesday night to make sure I got home safely from a job over in Gresham, and we stayed on the phone talking until almost midnight. It wasn’t even phone sex, which—FYI—should probably be on my sexual bucket list.
If I keep adding things, maybe The Test will never end? Like maybe I could propose an extension beyond the thirty days we agreed to at the start.
The ladies are still staring, so I force myself to keep a neutral expression as I pick up Cassie’s carrot and start to peel it.
“Right,” I say slowly. “It’s still just sex.”
I focus all my attention on the carrot, reminding myself to keep it that way. Sex without love, that’s what we agreed.
There’s a knock at the door, and Sarah glances down at her phone. “Oh, that’s Simon and Junie.”
“Don’t worry, I already told him he can’t stay,” Cassie says. “This is girls’ night. He’s just dropping off Junie.”
But as she gets up and opens the door for him, it’s clear she’s thrilled to bits to lay eyes on her fiancé. Her whole body seems to float, and she greets him like they’ve been apart six years instead of six hours.
Lucky bitch, indeed.
“Hi, everybody!” Junie says as she hustles into the room. Her T-shirt is emblazoned with an electric guitar, the logo for the National Down Syndrome Association, and the words, “I’m rockin’ this extra chromosome.” She marches in wearing a Mariners cap and holding a plastic bag of produce. “I told Simon to stop at the store so I could buy things for the friendship salad,” she announces as she thrusts the bag at me.
“That’s perfect, Junie, thank you.” As I stretch my hand out for the bag of tomatoes, she studies my face with interest.
“You’re in love?” Junie’s expression is earnest, and her words so startling they halt the rest of the conversation in the room. Everyone stops talking at once. The room goes silent, and all eyes fix on me again.
“What?” My cheeks go hot, and I suspect they’re the same color as these tomatoes. “No, of course not. Why do you think that?” I glance from Missy to Cassie to Simon and back to Junie again, waiting for one of them to rescue me.
Unfazed, Junie continues to study me with intense curiosity. “I think you love somebody,” she says. “You look like you do. Like when Simon and Cassie started to love each other that way.”
My cheeks go hotter, and I decide to focus on the tomatoes. I set to work washing them—the tomatoes, not my cheeks—and hope no one notices how awkward I’m being. “I’ve been dating a man, sure, but it’s nothing serious,” I say in a breezy tone that sounds like I sucked on a helium balloon. “You met Dax. The guy with the motorcycle? He’s really just a good friend.”
My voice wobbles a little, and I’m certain it doesn’t go unnoticed. I glance up to see Junie smiling like she’s just uncovered life’s greatest truth. “You love him,” she repeats.
It’s a statement this time, not a question, and there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder if she’s onto something.
“Come on,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Let’s get this salad put together so we can eat.”
Junie smiles, and my stomach does a funny somersault.
I’m pretty sure I’m fooling no one, least of all myself.