The Worst Best Man Page 20

  I rip the packet open as Max unzips his jeans and tugs them down his thighs. Then I lift my ass so he can pull my panties off.

  “Come closer,” I say. “I’ll put it on.”

  I scoot to the edge of the hood and sheathe him, my gaze never wavering from his. “Ready?”

  He nips at my lip. “So ready I might spontaneously combust in frustration.”

  My hand dips between us as I center him at the entrance to my core. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  “No, we—”

  He goes still as I take him inside me. “Fuck, Lina. I just . . . fuck . . . that’s . . . I . . . fuck.”

  I stretch around him, slowly taking his cock inch by inch. The fullness is intoxicating, dulling my senses of sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell while sharpening a new one: my sense of Max. If a bomb went off a foot away, I probably wouldn’t notice. But if Max blinks, I’ll know it without even having to see it. “So good,” I mumble.

  Max jolts, as if I’ve shocked him back into consciousness, wraps my legs around him, and slams his hands on the hood. He pumps into me slowly, testing the friction and studying my response. “How’s that? Feel good?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut so I can focus on formulating the right words. How do I explain that he fits me perfectly? That I want to do this with him every day for the foreseeable future? That my mouth is dry, and my breasts are heavy and aching, and my head might pop off because it’s both too much and not enough all at once? I can’t say any of that. Nope, nope, nope. So I say, “That’s good. Really good.” Then I open my eyes and catch his satisfied smile, and his expression nudges me to add, “It’s so fucking tight I might burst.”

  “That’s the goal,” he says on a chuckle, and then his eyes grow serious, hooded with desire. “And this?” He pumps faster, each time grinding into my pelvis before he withdraws.

  Slack-jawed, I clutch the back of his T-shirt, seeking leverage to meet him thrust for thrust. Max has other plans, though, and gently lowers me so my back rests on the hood. He scoops my ass and pulls me forward. I’m teetering on the edge of the hood, but the position allows him to press his chest onto mine and brings our faces within centimeters of each other. I shudder and close my eyes.

  “Open them, baby,” he says. “Please.”

  I don’t want to. I really don’t. I’m already overwhelmed by him. Staring into his eyes as he brings me this much pleasure will do something to me I’m unprepared for. I don’t know what exactly, but I know it will. And it’ll be irreversible.

  “Lina, don’t let me do this alone,” he says hoarsely.

  I don’t know what “this” is, but the longing in his voice can’t be ignored, so I open my eyes and meet his lust-filled gaze.

  “There you are,” he says.

  He clasps my hands and squeezes them tightly. The tingling between my legs jumps tracks, rerouting to my heart, which is beating so rapidly Max might need to perform chest compressions on me before we’re through. No, no, no. I shake myself loose, preferring to grab his ass instead. And that small adjustment does something to him.

  “Fuck, Lina,” he grounds out. “Yes.” He lifts his torso and drags his hand between us, placing two fingers on my clitoris and rubbing in expertly targeted circles.

  The need to release this unspent tension causes me to buck against him. I’ll do anything to come. Anything. “Max . . . I’m almost there. I—”

  I stiffen against him. He stills, too. And then he spasms above me, an incoherent stream of cussing and oh, Jesus filling the serene spring air. Despite his frenzied state, he doesn’t forget me. “I want you to come so badly,” he says. With a gaze that’s fierce with determination, he moves his fingers in one gloriously slow circle and I fly apart, writhing underneath him and screaming like the fox that lived in the woods behind our house when I was a kid. If someone hears my cry, they’ll think Max is murdering me. It’s a distressing sound, not at all pleasant to the ear, and truly, irredeemably mortifying. But as the last of the tremors leaves my body, I know this: It was totally worth it.

  Max wraps a lock of my hair around his finger and bends over to press his lips to mine. He doesn’t move to lick his way inside. It’s just one long meeting of our mouths. A period at the end of this lovely sentence. I should be calming down now. Instead, my heart is ratcheting up. I squirm underneath him, my gaze locked on the sky.

  I can sense him staring at me, but I can’t return the favor.

  Finally, he pushes off the car and slips out. There’s some rustling, and then I hear him zip up his jeans. Without a word, he tugs my T-shirt down and pulls me to a sitting position. I can’t not look at him any longer. That would be rude.

  He nibbles on his bottom lip as he studies me. Then he raps the hood of the car. “Forget I ever said anything unkind about old banana cab here. She and you just helped me scratch off the first item on my bucket list.” He pecks me on the forehead and gives me a handkerchief. “Thank you.”

  It’s the right thing to say to someone who’s plainly having a tough time putting what we just did in proper perspective. But it feels wrong—and that’s a problem.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Max

  I wake up groggy and disoriented. Where the hell am I? I open an eye and spy a dashboard. Oh, yeah. The banana cab is now the silence cab.

  It’s true that sex with Lina depleted my reserves so thoroughly that I would have fallen asleep anyway, but I dozed off within minutes of climbing into the car because it was clear from Lina’s lack of engagement that she wanted me to.

  If she needs space, she’ll get it.

  And if she’s worrying about us, she’s not alone. This weekend has been more intense than either of us could have predicted. But we’re returning to DC soon, and the normalcy of everyday life will help us reestablish the casual relationship we’ve agreed to. If I know Lina, and I think I’m starting to, focusing on work will alleviate some of her distress and give her the confidence that we can handle a no-strings, no-future arrangement.

  I sit up and readjust the seatbelt across my chest. “Sorry I fell asleep on you. You stole my mojo.” Dammit. How is that focusing on work, Max?

  A smile tugs at her lips nonetheless. “Totally okay and totally understandable. Some people have more stamina than others.” She purses her lips in an obvious effort to suppress a smile.

  Do not engage. You’ll take it one step too far, and she’ll go quiet again. I pull up the note app on my phone and clear my throat. “So let’s discuss any specific ideas or concepts you have. On the ride here, we were both on board with the wedding-godmother theme. Any thoughts about the scenarios where we could explore that theme?”

  She sits up straighter, her face brightening with excitement.

  This woman’s such a fucking cutie. If I’m not careful, I’ll want to be around her all the time.

  “I like the idea of being the calm among the chaos,” she says. “I envision images showing mini-catastrophes with me at the center sorting it out. When clients hire me, they’re concerned that mayhem will ensue without my services. I think it would be smart to convey that.”

  It’s not a bad idea, but there’s a flaw she hasn’t considered, and spotting the issue is why I’m here. “You’re used to working with various vendors at different venues and the like. But with the Cartwright, the hotel is your main vendor. It’s supplying the location, the catering, the guest rooms, even the table settings, and more. I don’t think Rebecca would appreciate the suggestion that her hotel is likely to be the center of chaos, even if her master wedding coordinator will ultimately save the day.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “I see what you mean. Let me give it some more thought, then.” She grumbles playfully. “Some people just have to show off and expertly expert.”

  I crack a smile even though I’m trying to be all business. “We don’t need to figure it out today. What about the hotel amenities?”

  “What about them?” she asks.

  “Have you tri
ed them? A hotel suite? The restaurant? The spa where members of the wedding party might go for a day of pampering before a wedding?”

  “I visited the restaurant last week,” she says. “For lunch. I need to go back for dinner. And Rebecca said she’d arrange for me to tour the available accommodations at my convenience. I think I want to propose that the hotel knock down the walls between two rooms and create a dedicated wedding suite. Probably more than one. It’ll solidify the hotel’s brand as a wedding venue.”

  I nod as I start typing again. “You’re right about that. We could add it to the wish list. We’re clearly not going to have dedicated rooms before the presentation, but I think it would be smart to float the idea as part of your vision. I could go with you, by the way.”

  I can see a hint of a furrowed brow in her profile. Apparently I didn’t slip in that suggestion smoothly enough.

  “Go where?” she asks.

  “Blossom,” I say. “The hotel restaurant. For dinner. I mean, we should be able to enjoy a meal together from time to time, right?”

  “Uh, sure. That would be nice.” After a few beats of silence, she asks, “Do you enjoy what you do?”

  The question comes out of nowhere, and I jerk my head up in surprise. I’m not sure if she’s uncomfortable with the notion of going to dinner with me or if she’s generally curious about my professional aspirations. Could be both.

  She rushes to explain before I can answer: “It’s just that Rebecca asked me this recently, and I realized how often people can be competent and even great at their jobs without having a passion for them.”

  “There are many aspects I love,” I tell her. “Learning about the client’s business. Researching the market. Devising a marketing strategy to achieve the client’s goals. I like that my profession’s currency is one part ideas and one part data. It feeds both my creative side and the part of me that needs to see results.”

  “So what are the aspects you don’t love?” she asks.

  “The ass-kissing,” I say quickly. “Tons and tons of ass-kissing. The schmoozing. Plus, sometimes our clients have shitty businesses or fundamentally fucked-up strategies, and no amount of marketing is going to help them sell a shitty idea.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “What’s it like working with your mother?”

  I swing my head in her direction, my face deadpan. “A challenge. She’s a good boss, but she has a hard time accepting that Andrew and I can’t meld into a single, perfect human being. I’m trying to break out of the bubble wrapped around us, but my mother thinks everything’s working out as it should.”

  “The assignment with Rebecca,” she observes. “That’s your opportunity to show what you can do on your own, I take it.”

  Exactly. I don’t need to explain why I want to disentangle myself from Andrew. She gets it. “You’re absolutely right. If I can impress Rebecca, then maybe she’ll ask me to be the lead manager on the account.”

  She glances at me and returns her eyes to the road. “That’s if you impress her more than Andrew impresses her, you mean.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s kind of unavoidable. But think of it this way: By working with me, you’re necessarily sticking it to Andrew.”

  Her brows knit in confusion. “That’s never been my goal, though. That’s yours.”

  I shrug. “Not a goal. Just a by-product.”

  “My bullshit meter says otherwise.”

  Damn. I thought she understood. Apparently not. This is the problem with being inextricably linked with Andrew: Even when I’m trying to escape living in his shadow for my own good, I get pulled back into competition with him. It’s not my fault that my success necessarily requires him to fail. Knowing this conversation may not end well, I feign a big yawn, opening my mouth wide and stretching my arms out above me. “I think I’m going to need another nap. Do you mind?”

  She purses her lips as she shakes her head. “Not at all. You know I enjoy the quiet. And like I said, some people have better stamina than others.”

  Somehow I don’t think she’s talking about my physical endurance, but if she is, I’d rather not confirm it.

  And when I don’t want to deal with an issue, sleep is always the answer. Always.

  * * *

  “Want to come up?” I ask. When she doesn’t respond, I add, “Just to see the place.”

  We’re double-parked in front of my building, a three-story rowhouse the owner has split into three living spaces—which is the only reason I can afford it. The main drawback is that my housemates and I share a common kitchen. For the most part, though, we don’t get in one another’s way.

  Lina grimaces. “I’d love to see your place, but I don’t have an advanced degree in reading parking signs in the District, so I’ll probably get towed.” She peers down the street through the windshield. “Besides, I don’t think there’s an empty spot anywhere.”

  “Parking’s free on Sundays, but yeah, the street’s looking tight.” I look up and down the block and see nothing but occupied parking spaces. I reluctantly climb out of the car, the urge to prolong our time together slowing me down. “Okay, well, maybe we can try another—”

  “Hey, Max,” my housemate Jess says, half of his body hanging out the front door. He’s a chief of staff for a DC councilmember and is almost never home. That’s pretty much all I know about him. “I’m heading into the office.” He glances at the car. “Need me to move?”

  My man, Jess. We’re going to be best friends someday. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he says before disappearing back inside.

  After Jess and Lina make the coveted DC-parking-space exchange, she follows me up the short set of steps leading to the front entrance.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” I tell her. “I’m on the second floor.”

  “You live in Adams Morgan,” she says as she begins to climb the stairs. “How humble can it be?”

  “Fair point,” I say behind her.

  She trails her hands along the banister. “So listen, I’m not going to stay long. I’m just going to take a peek because I’m curious, then I’m going to head out.”

  I slip past her to unlock the apartment door. “Fine, no problem. That’s exactly what I expected you to do.” Faking nervousness, I take a deep breath and open the door. “Here it is.”

  She glides inside and her jaw drops. “Whoa. It’s a Crate & Barrel showroom. The bachelor edition.”

  Lina immediately focuses on my favorite part of the place: the exposed-brick wall that faces the south side of the apartment. More than two dozen black-and-white photographs hang on it. She spins around and looks at me, her thumb pointing behind her. “Don’t tell me you took these?”

  I shake my head. “No way. I’m just a fan of black-and-white photographs. I pick them up when I come across them. For some reason, wine festivals are excellent places to buy art.”

  She faces the opposite wall, her gaze settling on the mini home gym in the corner. “Ah, so that’s how you get all those squares on your stomach.”

  I nod. “I have a personal rule: If I’m watching TV, I’m on that machine.”

  “How barbaric,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “When I’m watching TV, my exercise consists of bathroom and fridge breaks.” She holds up an index finger. “Before you criticize, know that I drink lots of water when I watch TV so I actually do take a few hundred steps as part of my plan.”

  I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying a word.”

  “Smart man.” She points down the hall. “Bedroom?”

  It’s a simple question, so why is the answer stuck in my throat? Jesus. Get it together, Hartley. “Yeah.”

  “Mind out of the gutter, Max. I just want to see if you’re one of the few guys under thirty who actually use bedsheets.”

  I smirk at that one. Who knew she was such a smart-ass? I cup my mouth and lean over as though I’m going to share a secret. “Psst. I even have a bed skirt.”

  With that new
s, she marches theatrically to my bedroom door. “Oh, this I must see. That’s gotta be as rare as the Hope Diamond.”

  Standing at the threshold, she leans in and sweeps her gaze over the room. I watch her from the hall. Is she imagining me sleeping in there? Even better, is she imagining us not sleeping in there? I can picture her lying against my sheets, her hair tousled and falling onto her face, as I brace myself in a push-up position and then sink into that sweet body of hers.

  She claps her hands together loudly, the sound dousing the heat that was building in me. Damn. I can’t even see a bed and not think about getting her in it. I’m a sad, sad man.

  “Well, this has been great,” she says. “Really great. Thanks for letting me see your humble abode. It’s nice. Really nice.”

  So far, I’ve only seen this babbling side of Lina when she’s aroused and doesn’t think she should be. I thought we decided on a no-strings affair, but something about this morning’s events seems to have taken us back to square one. I don’t know what’s going on in her head, but I’d like her to be at ease with me, and if that means I need to wait for her to work out whatever’s spooking her, then that’s how it’ll be.

  “Walk me to the door?” she asks.

  As if there would ever be a question that I would. C’mon, Ms. Santos. I hope you know me well enough to expect common decency as the baseline. “Of course.”

  Before we get to the door, she turns and rests the palm of her hand on my stomach. “I’ve been acting weird, haven’t I? You felt it, right?”

  My mouth’s going rogue, trying to curve into a smile, but I’m fighting it, not wanting to do anything to make her skittish. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She sighs. “I just . . . I think I was going off adrenaline and pheromones and spring-in-the-air-itis this weekend. And everything was fine until you took me to the flower fields and it felt like too much. And then once I was in the car, and all the adrenaline and pheromones and spring-in-the-air-itis was gone, the enormity of what we did hit me.”

  Only a person with his head up his ass would be surprised by her explanation. Glad to know that isn’t me. “Honestly? I figured. But it doesn’t have to be a big deal, remember? We’ll play this how you want to play it. Eyes open. Zero promises. No need to make it more than it is.”