Wicked Sexy Liar

  I hadn’t counted on stories about doll salons and shopping with his mother. I hadn’t expected him to be so attentive and charming. I hadn’t expected the sex to be so good in part because he was so genuinely into me. And I never, not in a million years, expected him to say he loved me.

  That last one takes me by surprise all over again and I’m momentarily frozen, blinking away the water as it runs down my face. I’m not sure what to do with something like that. Luke is twenty-three and used to fucking whoever he wants. It’s hard to silence the voice telling me he’s simply infatuated. That he’s forgotten how infatuation can feel a lot like love.

  I ignore the way the admission twists my stomach and shut off the water, reaching for a towel before climbing out.

  The air is cold on my damp skin, and it reminds me of a morning I’d gone to visit Justin our junior year. He’d been up late studying the night before and was asleep when I got there after closing out the late shift at work. I took a shower and wrapped myself in a towel, realizing I’d forgotten my toothbrush. I opened the drawer, thinking I’d just use his. There was a purple toothbrush there, right beside his familiar blue one. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but much later I realized of course it was Ashley’s, the girl he’d been sleeping with for almost two years by then.

  That memory circles around in my head as I stand at Luke’s bathroom counter, looking up at my reflection and telling myself for the thousandth time that not every guy is Justin. Luke is not Justin. Not every guy cheats.

  It’s just so hard to break the instinct to keep my arms locked over my chest, guarding my heart.

  There’s no way I’m looking for Luke’s toothbrush. Instead, I do my best to make some order of my hair and brush my teeth with my finger and a tube of toothpaste on the counter.

  With a towel wrapped securely around my body, I open the door, intent on finding my clothes and getting home, maybe even trying to slip out before he wakes up.

  But walking down the hall toward the bathroom door is his sister.

  “Margot. Hi.”

  Margot, the one he was talking to last night. The sister who more than likely spent the night listening to us having sex.

  She stops, meeting my eyes. “London. Hey, I didn’t know you were up.” She looks like she got only marginally more sleep than I did.

  I adjust my towel. “Just needed a shower. You’re up early.”

  A slow, teasing smile spreads across her face. “Actually, I never really went to sleep.”

  I groan a little.

  She laughs. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Want some coffee?”

  I look back toward Luke’s room, where the door is still pulled shut, and nod. “Sure.”

  “Sweet. Let me use the bathroom, and I’ll meet you in there.”

  She steps around me and closes the door, and I walk down the hall to the kitchen.

  The sun is just starting to come up, the sky beginning to brighten on the other side of the window. I’ve been here enough times to know where Luke keeps his dishes and I pull two mugs down from the cupboard, opening doors until I find the coffee. I hear the toilet flush and the water run in the sink and then Margot is there, her taller form hovering beside me as she reaches for the filters.

  She looks so much like Luke that it’s a little unnerving. They share the same thick dark hair, the same full brows and perfect cheekbones. But it’s the intensity of their gaze that’s the most pronounced. If I thought Luke was intimidating before he smiles, he has nothing on his sister.

  We stand in silence while the coffeemaker gurgles and hisses in the background, and I search my mind for things to say, an icebreaker that doesn’t begin with I’m sorry I kept you up because I was so loudly banging your brother.

  The scent of fresh coffee fills the air and when the machine chimes to signal it’s done, it spurs me into action. “So you live closer to campus?” I ask.

  She nods, holding out her mug for me to fill. “I still come over to hassle him when I need to. Maybe do some laundry or steal his towels to take to the beach.” She pulls back her full mug with a quiet “Thanks,” eyes dropping down to my body briefly. “That’s a nice one, by the way. One of my favorites.”

  I follow her gaze and realize I’m still wearing Luke’s Stone Brewery towel. “Oh, boy,” I say with an embarrassed smile. “I’m practically naked. In your brother’s kitchen.”

  She waves me off. “Are you kidding? That’s the tamest thing I’ve seen here first thing in the morning.” Margot looks momentarily horrified with what she’s just said, but I smile, trying to hide the way my heart and lungs take a nosedive into my belly.

  “Yeah, well,” I say, floundering. “I was just going to get dressed and head home when I ran into you.”

  “Ahh.” She slips a piece of bread into the toaster and adds, “Were you going to leave without telling him?”

  There’s a hint of protective big sister in her tone, and while I get it, I’m not really sure how to balance that against the scores of possibly naked shenanigans she’s just alluded to.

  I really like Margot: we share the same hobby in teasing Luke, and my friends absolutely adore her, but after talking to Harlow and Lola two days ago, I’m more and more convinced that I don’t have to explain myself, or what’s happening between her brother and me to anyone, even her.

  “I hadn’t really decided yet,” I admit, holding my mug up to my nose to inhale the pungent, nutty odor. “Is this the part where you tell me what a great guy he is?”

  Margot doesn’t get defensive on his behalf. Instead, she snorts, laughing to herself as she rips off a paper towel and sets it on the counter. “No way.”

  “Really?”

  “My brother is a great guy,” she says with a shrug. “He’s honest when it counts, undeniably loyal, and has a huge heart. But I know he’s been a player. It’s not really my place to convince you of anything.” The toast pops up and Margot reaches into the fridge for the butter dish. “That’s his job. You’re a smart girl, and it’s obvious he has feelings for you. But you know what you need more than I do.”

  The knife spreads butter across the toast with a quiet scratching sound, and Margot smiles at me over her shoulder. That smile melts away any worry I had that she was trying to make me feel unwelcome. In fact, it makes me think she’s glad I’m here.

  “I really like you, London,” she says. “You’ll figure it all out.”

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF Margot’s car pulling out of the driveway drifts through Luke’s open window. He’s still in the same place I left him, stretched out on his side, sheet barely covering his hips. I can see a dark trail of hair low on his navel. His bicep peeks out, full and firm, where his arm wraps around his pillow.

  I’m still not sure whether I should go, and pace back and forth a few times, glancing over my shoulder at him. His hair is a mess and standing straight up from whatever he had in it the night before, and I laugh a little as I walk over and smooth it back down. One minute turns into two and my fingers slip through the strands, over the side of his face, past his ear and down, tracing his spine.

  Luke has a great back. His shoulders are broad, lats flaring along the edges, long torso tapering in at his waist. He’s nothing but miles of smooth, tan skin and a map of dips and edges. He’s also warm and somehow manages to still smell good after all of the hand jobs and cuddling and sex-without-a-condom and sleeping intertwined.

  I really don’t want to leave.

  With the conversation with Margot still ringing in my ears, I drop the towel and climb back into bed.

  I loop my arm around his waist and he stirs almost immediately.

  “London?” he mumbles. He finds my fingers where they rest on his stomach and rolls to face me, sleepy eyes blinking open and then squinting at me in the bright room. “Hi.”

  His hair is standing up and he has pillow creases across his cheek. “What is happening with your hair?” I say, reaching out to smooth it again.

  ?
??I was asleep,” he says, just before he smiles. “With you.”

  I look at the mess around us and laugh. “It looks like a storm passed through here. Don’t you have to get to work?”

  “I’m going to take my first personal day in a year,” he says. In a rush of movement he pushes me to my back to hover over me. His eyes make a sleepy circuit of my face and I just honestly can’t process the emotion there.

  It looks so real.

  “Did you shower?” he asks.

  “I hope that’s okay. I felt sticky.”

  I could be wrong, but he looks a little proud of himself.

  “You can do anything you want here,” he says, and tucks his face into my neck and groans. “Fuck, you smell good.”

  “I hope so,” I say, giggling as his stubble tickles my neck. “It’s your soap.”

  He sucks at my throat and then pauses, lifting his eyes to mine. “Was Margot still here?”

  “She just left. Is it a matter of genetics that she only made one piece of toast?”

  Luke laughs at this as he moves to press more small kisses to my throat.

  “Who eats one piece of toast?” I ask. “Do you Sutters have something against eating bread products in pairs?”

  Groaning, he says, “Logan. I don’t really want to talk about my sister right now.”

  He shifts, lowering his body so he’s pressed against me, hips already moving in experimental circles.

  We’re both naked and the sensation is so startling at first—the gentle drag of skin on skin—that I suck in a breath. This isn’t our first time being naked together—not by a long shot—but it’s still new enough that it’s a shock to the system: so much of his bare skin connecting with so much of mine.

  The room is cool; it’s near the back of the house and shaded by a couple of large eucalyptus trees that grow just outside the window. Even so, streaks of sunlight still manage to break through, and they catch the dust motes in the corner, warming the foot of the bed. They make Luke’s skin look golden, like he’s lit from within.

  He seems to note this, too, as he looks down our bodies, at how we fit together, the color of his skin against mine. My breasts are so much lighter than the rest of me, the traces of at least three different swimsuits outlined by the sun. Maybe he’s used to girls who spray-tan or stay out of the sun altogether, but he seems to marvel at it, how the stark cream of my breasts contrasts with the rest of me.

  He places a palm over my nipple and circles lightly, the friction just enough for it to tighten under his touch, have my toes curling against sheets. I’ve always liked my nipples played with—something he seems to have figured out already—loved the direct connection they seemed to have to between my legs. Each touch or pinch is like a jolt of electricity straight to my clit, and I can feel how wet I am already, that part of me slick and aching for more.

  Seeing my reaction, Luke moans and says my name again, biting along my collarbones and back down to my breasts. He’s relentless, sucking on one while pinching the other, and it’s enough to have me opening my legs to make more room for him, pushing my knees up around his sides.

  He moves up to kiss me, tasting my top lip and then my bottom, pulling away just hard enough for it to sting. My lips tingle, and as he moves down along my throat and between my breasts to my ribs, I reach up to feel them, how warm and slightly swollen they are.

  “I swear I’m progressive and not a caveman and, thanks to the women in my family, I’m probably the biggest feminist around, but fuck, I like the way my soap smells on your skin.”

  I laugh and run my fingers through his hair as he kisses down my stomach, whispering how good I taste, smell, feel. When he reaches my hip bone the instinct to stop him bubbles up in my chest but I can’t seem to say anything.

  Luke hesitates, too, lingering there, sucking at the soft skin of my navel. I want this, and every particle in my body pushes against my skin in an attempt to move him lower. Lower.

  Luke circles his tongue around my belly button and I rock my hips up, using my grip in his hair to guide him, to show him what I want.

  His eyes fly to mine, wide and slightly unfocused. “Logan?” he asks.

  I think about Luke trusting me enough to get on that surfboard and how sometimes we have to jump. I think about how he said he loves me.

  I want to jump.

  I nod and there’s a moment of understanding between us before he smiles. “I’ve thought about this more than is probably healthy.”

  I feel my face heat. “I probably have, too.”

  He shakes his head like he can’t believe what’s happening. “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you make a lot of noise, Dimples?”

  “That’s a dollar,” I tell him, pinching his shoulder.

  “My wallet is in my pants, take whatever you want.”

  He doesn’t wait for anything else and my head falls back against the pillow, spine arched in anticipation as he moves down between my legs. His first touch is tentative: lips pressed against my pubic bone in several small kisses, and then lower, mouth soft and partially open, directly over my clit.

  The air leaves my lungs and I cry out.

  “Like that?” he says against me, after taking me into his mouth and sucking gently.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Again.”

  He does it again, using his fingers to gently hold me open and suck on my clit, a little harder this time. It’s on the edge of being too much and not enough and I can barely breathe, can barely think of why I waited so long to let him do this.

  He alternates between kisses and little licks, broad stripes of his tongue that have my hips lifting from the mattress, rocking up to meet him.

  “God, yes,” I whimper. “I can’t . . . please . . .” I don’t even know what I’m asking but words bubble up in my throat. “Fuck, right there.”

  I realize I’m tugging on his hair but when I try to ease up, he shakes his head, meeting my eyes a moment before sitting up on his knees.

  “Don’t,” he says, panting. His cheeks are pink, neck flushed right down to his chest. His mouth is red and wet, and as my gaze flickers down his body, I see he’s touching himself. He gives his cock a few long, slow tugs as he looks at me, tongue flicking out to taste. “Don’t think. Don’t censor. You want more?”

  I’m already nodding, lifting my lower legs to pull him back down.

  He kisses my hip bones and then each knee before sliding my legs over his shoulders. “I want you to pull my hair,” he says. “I want you to scratch my back and fuck my face and do whatever you want to me.”

  “Okay,” I gasp, unable to process his words or look away as he leans in again, tongue swirling around my clit.

  I have to remind myself to breathe as he pushes one finger inside me, in and out, before adding another. I squeeze my eyes closed and focus on the way it feels; on the sounds he’s making and the way they vibrate against me.

  “I want to do everything to you,” he says, pulling his middle finger out and letting it trail lower, until it’s pushing against me, pressing gently.

  I buck my hips, unable to articulate a thought beyond his name and how good this feels, how I don’t ever want him to stop. I’ve never done anything like this before and now it’s all I can think about, letting Luke have this part of me I’ve never shared with anyone else. He doesn’t move any further, just a constant pressure that leaves my thoughts in a tangle of static.

  I move one of my hands from his hair and bring it to his face, down along his cheek to his mouth and where it’s moving against me. My skin is slick, slippery, and he moans as my fingers slide over it, back and forth alongside his tongue. I’ve never felt anything like it, so many sensations that I’m unable to tell where one starts and the others begin.

  Luke whimpers against me and I catch sight of his shoulder moving, his arm flexing beneath him. The idea that he’s as worked up over this as I am, so far gone that he has to touch himself, sets tin
y fireworks off along my skin. Heat travels up my spine and I’m not sure if he’s crying out or if it’s me but my orgasm is there, ripping through me red-hot and endless, arching my hips off the bed until I’m shaking, rocking against his mouth.

  With enormous effort, I lift my head to see him kneeling over me, hand working over his gorgeous cock.

  “Let me,” I tell him, and he blinks up, lips turned down as he tries to work out what I mean. “Come up here.”

  It’s only now I realize how out of practice I am, and how long it’s been since I’ve actually done this. I tap his hip and guide him toward me, a leg on either side of my ribs. He reaches for another pillow and sets it behind my head and then he just waits, eyes wide and chest heaving. There’s so much skin and muscle, abs clenched tight like he’s holding his breath. His cock is perfect like the rest of him and so hard, already wet at the tip.

  “Come here,” I say again, and open my mouth, watching the way his hand shakes as he holds the head against my lips. I reach out with my tongue to taste him and he whimpers. A feeling of power surges up in me and any trepidation I had seems to fall away.

  Luke pushes into my mouth, so gently at first. I curl my hands around his hips and look up at him in a way I hope conveys what I want him to do. I don’t want him to think or censor himself, either.

  “You want me to—” he starts to ask, and I moan around him. He starts to give himself over to it, spurred on by my sounds and the way I grip him tighter, encouraging him to use me.

  His cock slips over my tongue, grazes occasionally against my teeth. Those moments seem to make it even better for him and he swears, fingers pressed against my jaw and my skull as he pushes himself in and out of my mouth.

  “London, yes—oh, God, perfect,” he says, words stuttered out between shaky breaths. He braces one hand on the headboard just over my head and looks down at me as he moves. “Fuck, I’m not going to last.” His ass flexes beneath my hands and he’s shaking his head, like he’s sad it’s going to be over soon. “No. Fuck. Coming,” he gasps, and tries to pull away. “London, move. I don’t—”