The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren

 

In the handful of steps from the elevator to James’s room, my confidence evaporates. It’s been years since I’ve undressed in front of a man. What was I thinking? I’m not even sure who this brazen person is. It’s a wonder James didn’t gently guide me to my own room and instruct me to sleep it off.

Debbie would probably tell me that burst of madness in the elevator was born of frustration and anger—some need to be in control of my life because it feels like I never have any control at all. I’ve given ten years to Melissa Tripp. My young years! Ten years of hard work and ideas, hoping one day I might be acknowledged for even a fraction of it.

That is obviously not going to happen.

I rarely let myself think this way. Thoughts like these would make the day-to-day too hard, and any suggestion that I’m more than just an assistant would make Melly’s head explode. It’s not even that I want credit, exactly, but maybe I just need to know that she knows? Does she? Or have we played these parts for so long that she’s managed to fool herself right along with everyone else?

Here’s to another ten years.

Taking a deep breath, I press my face between James’s shoulder blades as he swipes his keycard. Gesturing for me to lead us inside, he follows, dropping his wallet, key, and phone on an entryway table. The door sweeps shut, sealing us into an air-conditioned silence. I clock the way he turns his ringer off. Good idea. But before I can do the same, he reaches up and gently slides the purse strap from my shoulder.

“I’ll get it,” he says.

I’ve never met anyone before who so easily and unobtrusively anticipates my needs. “Thanks.”

His room is a mirror image of mine, but otherwise identical—if not a whole lot tidier: king-size bed and upholstered headboard, requisite dresser and TV, desk, same framed watercolor prints on taupe walls, velvet couch, damask drapes. But my destination, of course, is the minibar.

While he pulls the sheer drapes closed—affording us both privacy and light—I open the small refrigerator and examine its contents. Soda, water, beer, juice, Red Bull. Tiny bottles of alcohol are neatly lined in the door. Normally the only thing I’d be interested in is the single-serving bottle of wine or maybe a bag of M&M’s, but today I reach for the hard stuff, twist off the top, and finish half the tiny bottle of vodka in a single go. It burns in the best way. On top of the fridge in individual weighted compartments is an assortment of chips and candy, along with a small box with a red heart on the front. I feel my face heat as I finger the label and read its contents—condoms, lube, personal wipes. And the label: INTIMACY KIT.

Okay, universe. No need to shout.

With liquid courage still smoldering in my chest and making its way slowly through my veins, I pick up the box and turn to face James.

He’s standing by the window, expression unreadable.

“I’m usually a very independent person,” I tell him.

I toss the box to the bed and his eyes follow the movement, widening when he realizes what it is. “I got that.”

“I don’t usually like help and I rarely ask for it, but …”

He lifts a brow in question.

“I’d like it if you undid my buttons again.”

Only a tiny beat passes—the time it takes for the words to travel across the room, for his brain to interpret them—and then James grins, crossing to me in a few short steps. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

Slipping off my shoes, I kick them to the side. “I’ve never had hotel sex.”

Slower than I’d have thought possible, he pulls the front of my shirt free from my skirt. “Never?”

“I did have sex outside once.” I watch as he undoes one button, and then a second, his fingers lightly grazing the skin of my stomach.

I have to work to keep my voice steady: “I was a senior and dating this guy named Jesse. There’s a trail in the Grand Tetons that takes you to Death Canyon. I’d never been there before, but he really wanted me to see it.” James pulls his attention from the buttons to glance at my face. I give him a little grin like, Yeah, I’m sure that’s really what he wanted me to see.

He laughs, this warm husky sound that makes my blood simmer.

“We stopped to have lunch and spread out a blanket in this gorgeous spot that overlooks the lake and—” I give a meaningful pause. “We never did make it to the canyon. What about you?”

His hands pause on the buttons. “Me?”

“Hotel sex.”

“You really want to talk about my exes right now?”

I swallow thickly. “Talking is relaxing me.”

He pushes out his bottom lip into this adorable pout as he considers. “Mathletes finals in San Jose. Her name was Allison, we were both seventeen. We spent an hour together in a Sheraton hot tub, and she invited me back to her room.”

“And?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I was nervous, but it was good.”

“ ‘Good’?”

“I’m not in high school anymore,” he says with a smile. “And you could say I’m a lifelong learner.”

I clear my throat and glance down at the floor. “Listen, I know I was pretty presumptuous earlier. We don’t have t—”

“You’re right. We don’t have to.” He takes a single step closer. “But I didn’t mind the presumption, and I’m very good at following instructions.”

“The qualities of a great assistant-in-training,” I whisper, and he laughs into a single, sweet kiss.

The last button is undone and he opens my shirt, fingers carefully pushing the fabric off one shoulder, and then the other. I can barely breathe. My eyes fall to his chest and with a little nod, he seems to understand, making quick work of his own buttons, stopping about halfway before reaching behind his neck and tugging the shirt up and over his head.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looks even better than he did last night by the pool: shadows more defined, bones sharper. The part of my brain that seeks out shapes and symmetry wants to capture this image and wallpaper my room with it. Last night I stared in frustration at these bland walls; now all I want to see is him.

We stand in front of each other in the bright diffuse light, with the enormous bed looming beside us. My hands follow the lines of his chest, down his stomach to where his belt sits low on his hips. With his eyes on me he brings his fingers to the clasp, and the sound of the leather as it slips through metal turns me on even more here, in the quiet room, than it did last night.

He pushes one hand into my hair and leans in, pants still closed but belt open. It’s like the pool all over again, our chests touching, his breath ghosting across my lips. With a rush of cold air from the vent overhead, goose bumps bloom across my skin; my nipples harden. His lips meet my cheek, my chin, my jaw, and with a quiet groan, he slides his mouth over mine.

It’s a hit of warmth and pressure, that indescribable satisfaction of a kiss that promises more. There’s only one kind of touch like that, one sensation that stimulates this kind of relief and hunger. It’s the pressing of his lips on mine, the small teasing bite, a shaking exhale, and a hungry moan that I lick off his lower lip. His other hand slides around my back, pulling us flush, and only now do I realize how acutely lonely I’ve been. How long has it been since I’ve had that quickening feeling shoving every other thought to the side?

I reach for him, gripping his wrist with one hand like I need an anchor when he comes back at a different angle, kissing me with more purpose, less caution. He licks my tongue, plays with me, smiling as he growls.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he says, tilting his head, tilting mine. His hand slips down to my throat.

“Have you thought about it before last night?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he admits.

“Me too.”

This is the same James I see every day, the same one who scowls down at his computer, who dresses for the job he wants, not the job he has. But this James also has hungry hands. He makes quiet noises in the back of his throat when I press against him, when my hands slide up his arms and over his shoulders.

This James sucks in a breath when I open my mouth, letting him in deeper. My hands trail along his skin, down his chest to where his heart pounds beneath my palms. I know he wants to help, but he’s patient and holds his breath when I unbutton his pants. The sound of his zipper is hilariously loud in this room full of quiet anticipation. I push his pants down his hips, along with his boxers. We both watch as I wrap my fingers around the hard heat of him.

It’s like a tiny bomb goes off in me. I think one goes off in him, too. My nerves are gone, and in their place is this ravenous monster of my former self, wanting to get as much of my skin touching as much of his as we can manage. I make a tight sound of impatience and urgency and he pulls back, searching my eyes.

“Talk to me,” he says, pushing my skirt and underwear down my hips. “Is this okay?”

I pull him back down. “It’s fine, it just …” I struggle to find the right words. “It feels like a fever.”

I can tell, from the way he groans and runs a greedy hand up over my chest, that he knows exactly what I mean.

This James is eager but gentle as he unfastens my bra; his mouth is a hot trail from my chin to my neck and down as he kneels. I wonder if I’ll ever get this picture out of my head: his eyes are closed, tongue flicking against my nipple and then, a few breaths later, between my legs.

I am nothing but ache and impatience as he stands and walks me backward toward the bed.

But he stops me just before I sit at the edge. “Wait. No.”

I experience a brief, sharp stab of disappointment, and suddenly the daylight filtering in makes me feel totally exposed. I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”

James shifts me to the side. “We are not doing this on a nasty hotel comforter.”

And I melt. With a sharp tug, he strips the duvet from the bed and then returns to me, kissing my shoulder, my neck, my mouth. James guides me down, pressing my back against the cool relief of the sheets. Our kisses become longer and unfocused. And then he’s there, hovering over me, with a condom in his hand. His hair falls forward as he sucks on my shoulder and with a gentle hand on my hip and one on my side, he’s rolling me over, onto my stomach, the heat of his front all along my back.

“Is this right?” He carefully pulls me to the foot of the bed.

He listened.

“Yes.”

I can hear us both breathing sharply, knowing we’re here. The fronts of his legs are warm against the backs of mine, his hand presses gently to my lower back, and then he’s closer, he’s there, pushing against me, with his capable hands moving to my hips and a kiss placed to the skin between my shoulder blades.

“Yeah?” he whispers again.

I nod, and the starting gun is his deep, relieved groan; he does what he’s promised. He’s moving confidently, hard and fast while he whispers something. Something about being what I want today. Something about how this feels, how he’ll need it again now that he’s had it. I think the same will be true for me—that I’ll need this again tonight, and again tomorrow morning when we have to be quiet and, someday, after work at his place, where there’s no need to be quiet at all.

His hand snakes around my body, sliding between my legs.

“Tell me if you need something else,” he says between sharp inhales, “to come.”

I would, but I don’t, and even if I did, my brain isn’t forming coherent words, only sounds that seem to be growing louder and sharper. He presses his fingers against me and it’s happened so fast—we were frantic after our half-shy disrobing—but the feeling he draws from me is like being poured out of a pitcher, warm and freeing. With a cry muffled by the sheets, I fall to pieces, brilliant color flashing behind my eyes. And with a quiet groan, he shakes and then goes still behind me, breathing heat against the back of my neck.

 

For a few seconds, we don’t speak or move. It takes several breaths for the room to stop spinning. And then James presses a lingering, gasping kiss to my shoulder before shifting back and disappearing into the bathroom. I take the opportunity to clamber up the bed and between the sheets, pulling them up to my chin. I want to scream in giddiness and excitement … and a resurgence of nerves. There’s no dark room to hide in, no nighttime to fall into.

James steps out of the bathroom, naked. He doesn’t seem to mind the walk to the bed, the daylight, or my laserlike focus on his body.

“Cold?” he asks, climbing in beside me.

“Shy.”

He scoffs, kissing my forehead. “Please. You are many things. But you are not shy.”

“Not all of us can saunter naked across a room, Jimbalaya.”

He laughs, squinting over at the clock, and I follow. It’s almost five. “What are we going to do for dinner?” he asks, but in his voice I hear the same hesitation I feel. Beneath the sheets with him it’s so warm and yummy. The last thing I want to do is go anywhere.

“Room service?” I suggest. “We can do rock-paper-scissors for who has to put on a robe and answer the door.”

I think he likes that idea. He pushes up onto an elbow, hovering over me. Brown eyes study my face, and when he translates whatever he sees there his smile straightens. “I’m glad it’s still light out. I like being able to see you.”

And more than just seen, I feel visible for the first time in maybe forever—but it isn’t scary. Being with James is like standing in the softest, most flattering spotlight. “I like being seen by you.”

“So tell me something.”

I snuggle into the crook of his arm. “Something about what?”

“About you.” His brows go up in a question. “I don’t even know where you live.”

“I live in a condo with my adorable landlords, Annabeth and Peyton, off South Jackson.” With a dramatic pout, I add, “They’re in Hawaii right now on a belated honeymoon.”

He squints. “You’re renting a single bedroom?”

The vague, familiar shame blows a shadow across my mood, and I nod. “Where do you live?”

“I’ve got a studio down near where the South Park Loop meets 191.”

I map the distance in my head. It would only take about ten minutes for me to get there.

“Is that close to you?” he asks.

“Very.”

He growls into a kiss. But with the reminder that he’s new to the area, it occurs to me that it probably isn’t easy to start over—especially not when he’s working such long hours. “Have you made any friends in Jackson?” I ask.

“One of my neighbors is a very loud man who comes home around midnight and unwinds to the dulcet sounds of death metal.”

I wince. “Oof.”

“My neighbor on the other side, Edie, is a ninety-year-old woman who knocks on my door with a cane to ask whether I need groceries. So, she’s pretty cool.”

“You should be getting her groceries.”

“Right?” He smiles, fidgeting with a strand of my hair. “Most of my friends are back on the East Coast, but even they’ve scattered throughout New England.” Shrugging, he says with relaxed assurance, “I’ll find my people at some point. Right now the priority has been getting my work life back on track.”

I stare at his mouth, thinking on these words. We’re both alone, and for so long I insisted that wasn’t the same thing as being lonely. Now I’m not so sure.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“I’ve lived around Jackson my entire life and you’ve just moved there, but we both need to find our people.”

With a knowing smile, James kisses me again, but this time he lingers, and it deepens, heating. I love the firm press of his lips, the quiet sounds he can’t seem to repress.

Against my mouth, he asks, “Is the lady satisfied?”

I run my finger down his chin, throat, chest and reach beneath the sheets, gently scratching his stomach. “The lady was satisfied …”

He growls, dragging his teeth over my jaw, and climbs back over me. “It appears I have more work to do.”

Giggling, I throw the sheets up and over our heads. Room service, rock-paper-scissors, and robes can wait.