Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell

11

Rachel

By the time I do Brody’s second party, I’ve hosted a couple more with my mom and have a pretty decent sense of the rhythm and flow. It’s basically like good sex: lots of conversation, plenty of foreplay, and then the lube comes out.

“So this—” I hold it up and take a quick peek to see where Brody is. He’s just outside the cabin door, standing and studying the sky, which is ribbed with wispy clouds.

He’s wearing his usual: jeans that on anyone else would be next week’s trash, but are living their best life cupping his business. Of course, boots—badass boots—do women get to ask men to leave their boots on in bed? I’m seriously considering it. Assuming I can get him into bed…

“This is warming gel. There are so many fun things you can do with it.” I planned ahead for this. Yes, planned. I wasn’t planning to plan. It just happened. I pour a tiny bit of gel into a bunch of those little paper cups you get free samples in at the grocery store and pass them around. “You can rub it in almost anywhere, and it’ll warm up and start to tingle. Lips, clit, nipples, labia…”

I practiced that about a thousand times in the mirror earlier, and I manage the whole explanation without stuttering even a little. Which is good, because when I sneak a glance his way, Brody has quit staring at the sky and is watching me. Green-eyed and intent. Yes.

“Try dabbing a little on your lips.”

I dip a fingertip into the paper cup and run it over my lower lip. The women follow suit.

“Oh, wow!”

“That’s amazing.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see how that would work other places, too.”

“It’s edible,” I inform them, licking it off my finger and taking a quick peek Brody’s way. His eyes are fixed on my mouth. On the finger between my lips. My body warms like someone has slicked the gel between my legs. Brody leans his head against the cabin door, eyes never leaving my face. The heat in my sex thickens and twists.

Auria, one of the women at my party, notices Brody and calls to him. “You want some, Brody?” She and her wife Tilly are both here. Auria owns Spa Day Sandwiches and Tilly owns Glory Day Spa.

Brody scowls. “No, thanks.”

“Works for men, too!” I say cheerfully.

He narrows his eyes at me. I bite back a smile.

“What would happen if you put it on his balls?” one of the women whispers, mostly to herself. I know she doesn’t, literally, mean Brody’s but I get an immediate and vivid mental picture.

“I don’t know.” I hesitate. “But you could buy some and try it.” Not on Brody, I add, silently, riding an unexpected wave of possessiveness.

We move on to the little rubber clit stimulator—always a crowd pleaser—then the ben wa balls. And I get a dropping sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’m about to do something outrageous, definitely nothing like picking a random scarf out of the drawer.

“So these—” I hold up the ben wa balls. “—are for strengthening your Kegel muscles, and also, if you leave them in, the effort to hold them in place can be very pleasurable. And they’re incredibly discreet. I could have two in right now, and you’d never know it.” I shrug. “I might.”

I wait a beat. Two beats. Three. Then I check. Just to see.

His eyes are a thousand degrees of heat. They’re burning through me. I’m going to go up in flames. My inner muscles clench around the (non-existent) ben wa balls.

I should’ve followed my impulse before the party. I’d thought about it a long time, holding an unopened box in my palm. I’d even taken them out—committing myself to the purchase—balancing their heavy, tantalizing weight in my palm. And then I’d chickened out of inserting them.

I pass the demo balls around.

“I’ve never been a balls girl,” one of the partiers says, both speculatively and impishly. “But these could change my mind.”

Snickers.

“Yeah, but it would be awkward if yours were bigger than his,” another guest says.

I look up and discover Brody smirking at me. He shakes his head.

My chest wings open like a bird taking off. It’s the smirk. Scowling Brody, I can deal with. Smirking, not so much.

Fight fire with fire, I think, and meet his amused eyes with a tease in my own. His expression changes—dark lust now.

I go hot all over, in waves.

“What’s next?” a partier demands, yanking me back to my task. Every group is different, I’m finding. These women are ready to roll with the harder-core toys when I bring them out. In general, they’ve been a rowdy crew, demolishing wine at an alarming speed. They’re almost all divorced, no-nonsense, and no-holds-barred.

Brody leans back against the edge of the cabin door, watching. Crosses his arms. His gaze is on me now. I don’t have to speculate about where his attention is—it’s fully mine. And the intensity of it, of that green-eyed fire, streaks hot through me, like the ghost flickers that sparklers leave behind.

The vibrators are causing so much joy in this crowd. This is a group that’ll turn every last one on, teasing their fingertips and their thighs before handing them back. I pass a thumb over the head of something hot pink and pleasingly smooth, then look up to find Brody with his eyes so languorously heavy that I almost drop the toy. Lashes practically touching his cheeks.

The buzzing toy in my hand doesn’t look like a real penis, but I wonder what those eyes would do if I slicked my thumb over his.

I raise my eyebrows at him, asking, and he narrows his eyes at me, mock anger, but I know he’s not really mad, because a corner of his mouth curls up.

The party goesfrom rowdy to rowdier. The stories they’re sharing are hilarious and hair-raising. Rush Creek is small enough that the divorced population is pretty incestuous. Apparently, it’s not uncommon to sleep with the parent of one of your kids’ friends. Or your kid’s pediatrician. Teacher. Basketball coach.

“Wait, basketball coach?” one of the women, Amy Pearson, asks. She has thick red hair, lots of freckles, and a curvy body shown to its best advantage by a great pair of jeans and a scoop necked top.

They’re all still laughing except her.

Then Cara Yun—dark-haired, slender, wearing a calico wrap-dress—says his name. He’s young, mid-twenties, and new as of last year, so I don’t remember him from high school. Apparently he’s also hard-bodied, raring to go 24/7, and enthusiastic about her pleasure. She’s having multiple orgasms for the first time in her life. “Benton’s the first guy who’s willing to put in the work.”

Amy’s gone pale. “Wait,” she says again. My heartrate ticks up. “Benton? Like Benton Frusk?”

Cara nods.

“You’re sleeping with Ben?”

“Wait, you’re sleeping with Ben?”

Things go off the rails then, Amy and Cara both on their feet, yelling, each saying they’d seen him first, that the other knew she liked him.

The other women are dead quiet for at least five seconds, then some dive in, some take sides, some try to soothe their yelling friends. I’m on my feet and calling for order. I’m hoping to return the group to their party spirit and open wallets, but tantrumming toddlers have nothing on this group, and as the fray escalates, the boat literally starts rocking.

“Enough.” The voice is deep, decisive, and calm.

Brody has stepped into the bow, into the middle of our group, where he stands with his arms crossed, which makes his forearms and biceps bulge. His ink flares, and so does something between my legs.

“Take your differences elsewhere. This is a party.”

Our clients have gone silent. I’m apparently not the only one impressed by Brody’s ability to take charge. They’re all staring at him, rapt, Benton Frusk temporarily forgotten.

Brody turns and goes back to the helm, depriving me of the view. The party feels like it must be over, and this isn’t the closing ceremony I’d hoped for. I’m aware I have about five seconds to rescue it. Not enough time to think. I have to improvise.

Luckily, I have some recent experience with worthless men like this two-timing coach, and there’s one super important thing I know about them.

They don’t deserve the women they mess with.

“Amy,” I say. “Cara.”

They both turn to look at me.

“He’s not worth it.”

I’m saying it about Benton Frusk, but I’m thinking it about Werner.

“He would be lucky to have either of you.”

I’m not just saying this to make them feel better. I like them both. I just met them tonight, but you’d be surprised how much of a feel you can get for someone by talking about sex with her for an hour-plus. Sex isn’t just sex, as I’m discovering. It’s wrapped up with everything. Childhood issues, current illness. Your self esteem, your friendships. Frustration. Loss. Hope.

It’s wrapped up with being human and being fragile and being strong.

So I feel like I know a little bit about Amy and Cara, just from watching them drink wine and support their friends and lose their stuff.

I cross my arms. “And if he doesn’t know that he’d be lucky to have either of you, then he definitely doesn’t deserve both of you.”

They both stare at me. Then, warily, they look at each other.

“Amy?” Cara asks.

“Mmm-hmm?” Amy says.

“Want to make Benton Frusk regret some life decisions?”

A smile creeps over Amy’s face, and the two women shake on it.

In the relative quiet, I bring out the order forms—clearly I’m not going to sell any more product after that—and Brody pilots the boat back to the marina.