Chapter Five
Lisa
Dax gives me a startled look as he digests the words I’ve just spoken.
I want you again.
He stares at me for a few beats, seemingly at a loss for words. “I know you said some of this is new to you, but the male anatomy needs a little more time to—”
“I don’t mean right this second,” I say, waving aside the rest of his explanation. “I may be an uptight priss, but I’m not a virgin.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I feel awkward straddling his lap like this. Then I replay what he just suggested, and the awkwardness ratchets up. “Wait, did you think I was a virgin because I’m not very good at—at—at all this?”
I wave my hand again, hoping the gesture is enough to sum up what just happened here.
Like it could ever be enough.
Dax grins and grabs my wrist, then plants a kiss on my palm. He takes his time with it, sending a shiver that runs all the way from my hand to the point where our bodies are still joined. We should definitely get rid of the condom.
“Anyone ever accuse you of overthinking things?”
“Good Lord, yes,” I say. “I never stop thinking.”
He grins. “Smart girls are sexy as hell.” He plants another kiss on my palm. “Relax, Lisa,” he murmurs, and oddly enough, I do. “I didn’t peg you as a virgin, a priss, or a woman who doesn’t know how to fuck. You are none of those things.”
The word fuck rattles through me more pleasantly than it should, and I realize these walls have heard the word more times in the last hour than they have the entire time I’ve lived here.
It also occurs to me that I really should get off Dax’s lap. I try for solemn dignity, but feel ungainly as I swing one leg to the side and move back, smoothing my skirt down as I stand up. I do my best to straighten my blouse, making a vain attempt to tuck it back in before giving up and hurrying toward my bedroom.
“Give me just a minute to put myself back together,” I call over my shoulder as I slam the door behind me before turning to lean against it.
What the hell just happened?
Before I can stop it, a grin spreads across my face as I remember exactly what just happened. Every last detail, from Dax’s scruff against my throat to his hands on my ass to the thundering earthquake of orgasm. Orgasms.
Good Lord.
I can count on one hand the times Gary made me come more than once, and I’d have at least one finger left over. I use that finger now to make an obscene gesture in memory of that relationship and the asshole who left me standing there at the altar in my Vera Wang wedding gown and my Oscar de la Renta beaded peep-toes with—
Knock it off, I order myself. You just had the best sex of your life with a guy who’s the exact opposite of all that. Now get back out there and put the rest of the plan in action.
The rest of the plan is fuzzy in the back of my head, but it’s been percolating in my brain all evening. It begins to gel as I straighten my clothes, splash cool water on my face, and touch up my lip gloss.
When I return to the living room, Dax is standing in front of my stainless-steel wine chiller studying the bottles inside. It’s an impressive collection, with reds and whites in separate, temperature-controlled compartments. It’s one thing I fought for in my split with Gary, even though he kept the fancy house in the West Hills with the thousand-bottle underground wine cellar. This condo was mine to start with anyway, though I redecorated to remove any trace of Gary’s four-year influence on my life. I wanted something different.
I stare at Dax now. He’s certainly different.
“Hi,” I say.
Dax smiles at me, and I try to come up with something clever to say to the man who just banged me senseless.
“There’s an Evenstad Reserve from Domaine Serene in there,” I say.
Christ. Can I be a bigger snob?
But Dax just smiles. “I’ve only had the 2013, but I hear the 2014 was much oakier.”
I blink at him, dumbfounded. “It was sixty percent French Oak instead of fifty-seven. You know wine?”
The utter shock must be obvious on my face, and Dax straightens his shoulders.
He takes a step back from the wine chiller and holds my gaze, unblinking. “Sorry to kill your fantasy about having sex with a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal who can’t tell a decanter from a champagne flute and spells Cabernet with a K.”
“I—I—I never thought—”
“Yeah you did.” He gives me a small smile, and there’s no ice in his voice, but still. I can tell I hit a sore spot. I’m not sure what that’s about.
“Sorry,” I tell him, not sure what else to say.
“Not a problem,” he says. “It’s good to know wine for business, plus I happen to enjoy it.”
I glance away, embarrassed by my own assumptions. By the fact that I’ve judged him without really knowing him. It’s not the first time someone’s caught me in the act of being pretentious and judgmental, but it’s the first time it’s really stung. I start to swing my gaze back to Dax when it snags on his wallet upended on the floor. I stare for a few beats, pretty sure I’m seeing things.
“Holy shit.” I blink at the jet-black credit card fringed with silver, then look at Dax. “Who are you?”
He follows my gaze toward the couch, then gives a small, dry laugh. Taking his time, he ambles over and picks up his wallet. Then he walks back toward me, shoving cards and ID back in his wallet, but not that one. The black card he holds up, giving me a clearer view of it. I’ve never seen one up close.
“This? Is this what you mean?”
I nod, too surprised to play dumb. “I just—that’s an Amex Centurion Card. Isn’t it?”
He nods and shoves it back in his wallet. But I’ve already seen enough to know it’s the real deal. “Not to hang up on this or anything,” I say slowly, “but doesn’t that card have like a seventy-five hundred-dollar initiation fee and another twenty-five hundred in annual membership charges?”
He looks at me oddly. “Are you a banker?”
“No, but I almost married a stockbroker whose life’s ambition was to have one of those cards.”
Dax shrugs, not seeming too concerned. “I know you wanted to fuck a penniless dirtbag from the wrong side of the tracks,” he says. “If it makes you feel any better, that’s really where I come from.” He clears his throat. “And I really do know how to weld.”
And how to fuck, my brain adds, and I wonder when my subconscious started talking like a sailor.
I also wonder why he’s belaboring his point about my assumptions. “Look, I’ll admit I might have judged the book by the cover,” I say slowly. “But you have to admit you did the same thing with me.”
I have him there. I can tell by the way his eyes narrow just a little, and I remember the conversation in the bar about grudge fucks. There’s a story behind that, but now’s not the time to push for it.
There’s something else I want.
I smooth my hands down my skirt, doing my best to regain my composure. “Let’s start again,” I say. “Thank you for the best sex of my life.”
He blinks, then starts to laugh so hard he grips the edge of the wine chiller to keep from doubling over.
“God, Lisa,” he says. “I’ve gotta hand it to you. You never say exactly what I expect you to.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or insult, but it seems like a good sign he’s laughing.
“Right,” I say, wishing this were a little less awkward. “I wanted to propose something to you. Not marriage,” I clarify when I see him blanch. “Or a relationship of any kind, I promise. This is strictly a no-strings-attached kind of thing.”
His eyes glint with intrigue, and I take a step closer, thinking this conversation would be easier if we each had a glass of that damn Pinot Noir in hand. As I reach for the handle of the wine chiller, Dax catches my hand and lifts it to his mouth.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re right—that was fucking amazing.”
I flush and try to mask how much that means to me. I’m used to people praising me for my skill at floral arranging or canapés or a hundred other things like that.
But not for crazyhawt monkey sex. He really looks like he means it.
I clear my throat and draw my hand back, grateful for the rush of cool air that hits me as I open the wine chiller. I take out the bottle and hold it up, pleased when he nods approval.
“Tell me where the glasses are,” he offers.
I direct him toward the hutch then busy myself opening the bottle and pouring it into a decanter. The whole thing feels so domestic. How do normal women conduct themselves after a casual hookup? I’ll have to ask my sister, Cassie.
When we’re finally seated back on the couch, I wait until he’s had his first sip to get down to business. “You enjoyed the sex?”
He sputters into his wineglass, then gives me a bemused nod. “Yes. Very much. Are we going to debrief now? Make a spreadsheet to highlight our favorite moves?”
I have to admit, I’d like to know. But I tamp back my curiosity in favor of getting to the point. “Here’s the thing,” I begin. “I slept with you because it seemed like the exact opposite of what my normal instincts would be. The opposite kind of guy, the opposite circumstances, the opposite type of sex.”
“Type of sex?”
“Type,” I repeat, not sure how much to spell out. “Lotus position on the couch with all our clothes still on, as opposed to—I don’t know—missionary position under the covers with a tasteful negligee cast aside at precisely the right moment.”
“Lotus position?” Dax grins. “Did you just turn our hot, spontaneous animal sex into something that sounds like a floral arrangement?”
“Exactly!” I smack the couch with the back of my hand, startling us both. He probably thinks I’m nuts, but he doesn’t move away.
“Look, the sex was amazing,” I say.
“You mentioned that.”
“I’d like to try a test,” I tell him. “Not an ‘are we compatible’ quiz from Cosmo or anything like that,” I clarify when I see his brow crease. “A test of my own instincts.”
“How do you mean?” He sounds dubious, but also interested. I take that as a good sign.
“Well, since doing the opposite of my instincts went so well this time, what if I tried it for a whole month? Like every time I have a decision to make, I do whatever the opposite of that would be.”
“Are we talking strictly sex, here?”
I shake my head as I feel heat creep into my cheeks. “Some sex, yes. But not just that.”
“Give me an example,” he says. “A non-sex one.”
“I don’t know.” I fumble around in my brain for something that doesn’t involve sex, but it’s tough to do with Dax sitting beside me looking like sin on a stick. “Say my normal breakfast is a whole-wheat bagel with low-fat, artisan Neuchâtel cheese and a smattering of lox with homemade capers and a side of organic berries. Instead of that, I might have…I don’t know—”
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” Dax offers.
“Yes!”
I can’t read anything from his expression. Does he think I’m crazy, or is he seriously considering this? He takes his time responding. “Are you asking me to be your tour guide to chocolate chip pancakes?”
I nod, thinking it sounds weirder when he puts it that way. I hold my breath, wondering if I’ve just ruined a good thing. If I’ve just made an ass of myself or offended him or screwed this up in some other typically-Lisa fashion.
“Look, I know I’m asking you for a favor here, but maybe there’s something I can barter with.” I flutter my lashes, hoping he gets the message, but guessing he thinks I have dust in my eye. “I’m sure there’s something else I can offer.”
I graze his knee with my hand, hoping to drive the point home. Dax stares at it a moment, then looks at me. “Oh, you’ve got plenty to offer.”
I wait for him to spell it out. To tell me what might make my proposal appealing for him. If I go through with The Test, I want us both to benefit. I want Dax to tell me what would make it worthwhile for him.
He lifts a hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I shiver from the warmth of his touch. From the fact that I want more of it. A lot more.
“I accept.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Today was fun. And if you’re after someone to suggest biker bars and best practices for keg-stands, I think I can help you out.”
I start to ask what’s in it for him, but I stop myself. That’s hardly a good negotiating tactic.
But Dax reads my mind anyway. “Let’s just say I enjoy the pleasure of your company.”
Well, okay then.
The word pleasure ricochets through my mind, making me shiver.
It’s then that I pledge to have as much sex as possible with Dax Kensington before The Test is through. It’s the least I can do for the sake of science, right?