Bad Boy Benefits: A Standalone Little Sister's Best Friend Romance Page 5

  He kisses and bites, pinches and pulls, and when I open my eyes, I see him looking at me once again like I’m the biggest turn-on he’s ever had. It only lasts a second, but it’s like pulling a trigger for both of us.

  He groans and I feel him come inside, hot and deep, the muscles of his body tightening into stone. As he spills into me, a shuddering inside sends embers through my limbs, and I use the last of my strength to cling to his shoulders. I squeal with my head back, letting the waves engulf me, until a cold, satisfying relief floods every inch of my body.

  It’s a slow, almost tender unclenching. The tight grip he has on my thigh softening, but gently holding my weight until I let my other foot onto the floor. I feel his breath slow against my neck, and I relax the life-saver tightness of my arms around him.

  As slow as foreplay, we part. He turns away to pull the condom off and discard it as I pull my dress down my waist and straighten it—though it’s probably ruined.

  “That’s one way to sober up,” I say, grabbing a half-full wine bottle from my rack and pouring a glass for myself.

  He looks at me with a little cute bashfulness and shrugs. “I honestly feel a little more intoxicated after that.”

  I smile at him as I take a sip, then start to walk over to the living room.

  “Guess I’ll get going then?” he calls behind me.

  I stop and turn to smile at him, taking another sip and dangling the glass between my fingers playfully.

  “Got someplace to be? Another party, maybe?” I say with a smirk.

  He frowns a little, confused. “Maybe…”

  Another sip, another look.

  “Who said this one was over?”

  The moment the words leave my lips I cut a path toward my bedroom, knowing he’ll be right behind me.

  Because tonight, we’re more than just frenemies.

  We’re frenemies with benefits.

  5

  Toby

  I’ve always been an early riser, never needing much sleep. It runs in the family, but while Mia used the extra time to study hard and overthink her life, I just used it to make the good nights last longer and leave before the mornings ruined it.

  At Maeve’s, I got up before the sun did, beside her naked body—as silky and luxurious as the white sheets. She didn’t even stir as I pulled myself out of bed and got dressed, in the kind of peaceful and deep sleep only a night as exhaustive as the one we shared could induce.

  That was half an hour ago. Now the sun is halfway up and I’m heading back up the stairs to her bedroom, carrying a tray loaded with croissants and coffee I just bought from a French boulangerie a few blocks away.

  I had planned to leave; not even a plan, a routine at this point. I had meant to go next door, get in my Ferrari, and head home for a shower before I hit up some errands. But before I had even turned the engine on, I had changed my mind. Maeve isn’t some casual, forgettably fuckable hookup whose name I’d have to put some effort in to remember—she’s my sister’s best friend, and we’ve just broken a years-long promise we made to each other. Sooner or later we’re gonna have to talk and make that promise all over again. Why not sooner? Or better yet, why not break things a little more before we fix them?

  It didn’t help that I woke up to the sight of her smooth back turned to me in the bed and couldn’t get it out of my mind even in the sober light of day. My appetite for her completely renewed, as if the multiple times last night had never even happened.

  When I step back into the room holding the tray, she’s still on her side. The sheets twisted around her, clutched to her front, one leg and her back exposed like they’re an avant-garde gown. Even in sleep she possesses some kind of intense elegance, a reposed, effortless, feminine sensuality.

  I set the tray down on the nightstand and move back to where I was asleep on the bed behind her. Once again stunned, appreciating her all over again. When I run fingers down her thigh she groans and squirms as if melting into the mattress. My hand on her waist and she purrs. My mouth on her shoulder, the night’s stubble tickling, the tip of my tongue tasting, and she sighs as beautiful as she looks.

  She rolls onto her back in front of me, a dreamy smile on her face. Groggily, she opens her eyes, finds me in the mist of the morning, and immediately awakens fully.

  “What the—” she yelps as she rolls away from me and onto her feet beside the bed.

  “Morning, gorgeous,” I say as I sit back on the bed to appreciate her nakedness.

  She stares at me as if I just sprouted horns for a few seconds, her wide eyes and open mouth extremely arousing, then I grab a croissant to appreciate the novelty of seeing Maeve lost for words. And still naked. Only for a few seconds, and then she composes herself and moves to a dresser to grab a pair of panties.

  “This isn’t funny,” she scolds with a growing composure. “You know the rules.” She pulls out a pair of leggings next and slides her long legs into them in a hurry, but still with the grace of a ballet dancer. “If it’s their bed, it’s your duty to leave before morning.”

  “But I brought you croissants,” I say, grabbing one and taking a bite as if to prove it. Immediately I hum at their still-warm buttery softness. “They’re delicious,” I say, muffled through the food. “You gotta try them.”

  She stops on the way from her dresser to her wardrobe and turns once more to glare at me. In nothing but her yoga pants she looks even more mouthwatering than the breakfast. Despite her naked breasts she still looks more proud and tough than other women can when they’re clothed.

  She frowns at me then says, “You woke up…went out…bought breakfast…and came back here?”

  I smile and don’t hide the fact that I’m looking at her breasts.

  “How could I leave?”

  Maeve turns, marches to the wardrobe, pulls out a workout tank, puts it on, and then strides toward me. Just as I’m putting the croissant to my mouth for a second bite she snatches it from my hand and dumps it on the tray, which she grabs and walks out with. I’m caught off guard for a moment, then bounce to my feet and follow her.

  “What’s the big problem, Maeve?” I say, following her down the steps into her kitchen. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  She turns in the kitchen to look at me and smiles so warmly I’m almost convinced she’s not acting.

  “That’s very nice of you,” she says, before scooping the croissants into the trash can and grabbing the coffee cups to dump into the sink. “Thank you.”

  “Hey! You’re wasting good food there.”

  “I’m on a carb hiatus—and I like to make my own coffee,” she says with her back to me, as she busies herself doing just that in the kitchen.

  I watch her for a few seconds, but she’s so busy filling her coffee maker and cutting up some fruit that I could almost believe she’s already forgotten about me.

  “Fruit’s a carb,” I point out.

  “Don’t get cheeky,” she snaps.

  “You know…” I say. “I’m starting to feel a little unwanted.”

  “Trust your gut, that’s what I always say.”

  I stare at her tight ass in those yoga pants as she makes her breakfast, except now my desire feels tainted, tougher. Less the exciting, eager prelude to something and more the uncomfortable yearning for something I can’t have. It’s mixed with guilt and confusion now, and there’s something unpleasant about the mixture.

  Maeve acting cold isn’t rare, or much of a surprise, but here, now, it wasn’t the reaction I expected. This is nothing like it was years ago, when we first hooked up. Back then there was a little mutual agreement, communication. This feels like something’s up. I quickly search my memories of last night, looking for something I said or did that might have made Maeve act this way, but I can’t find it.

  “I know exactly what you’re thinking,” she says, bringing her fruit bowl to the island where she drizzles rose water on it. I’m on the other side and can see the nonchalant ease in her expression now. The sound of
her Italian coffee pot steaming rises in volume behind her.

  “What?”

  “Firstly, you were staring at my ass.”

  “No shit, detective.”

  The tiniest, delicate smile appears in the corners of her lips. I only notice it because I’m looking at her so intently.

  “Secondly,” she continues, setting the dressing down and spearing a banana slice with her fork, “you’re wondering if something happened, if something’s wrong, if you did something to annoy me, etcetera, etcetera…”

  She puts the banana in her mouth and I watch her chew it for a few seconds.

  “Well, did I?”

  She swallows and laughs, casually waving the fork now as if playing with me.

  “Toby…honey…bringing me breakfast? What are you thinking?”

  I shrug and look about me innocently, suddenly feeling like I’m on a witness stand for a crime I had no idea had even been committed.

  “What’s the big deal? I thought you’d appreciate something to eat when you got up… What’s the rush? I thought we could hang out a little—”

  “You thought we’d spend the rest of the day fucking,” Maeve says bluntly, smiling broadly now. “Don’t play the gentleman. Last night was last night. When have we ever ‘hung out’?” she asks, looking at me keenly. “That’s not what we do. We flirt. We ridicule each other. We cross paths, push each other’s buttons a little, have our fun, and leave it at that.”

  “Yeah, but…” I trail off.

  Maeve puts her fork down and moves to the refrigerator. I get a flashback to last night.

  “But what?” she asks.

  “But last night was different. You know… We actually made the mistake of—”

  “No,” she interrupts, pulling out a bottle of water and slamming the fridge shut. She opens it as she moves back to her salad. “Not ‘we’—I made the mistake last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She eats a few bites before answering. “You know exactly what I mean. I finally caved in.”

  “Whoa!” I suddenly call out loudly, holding my palms up and having to take two steps away from her then two steps back. I even laugh before I can continue. “You’re not gonna paint this like I came onto you, are you?”

  She stops chewing and looks at me with a raised eyebrow and a smile like I’m trying to sell her something fake.

  “Is there any other way to paint it, sweetie?” she says, words dripping in sarcasm. “Begging me for an invite to the party? That whole thing with the lemon? I don’t know where you learned that routine, but full points for originality.”

  I’m so filled with incredulity at the gall of this woman, I smack the table and facepalm as I walk away from her, then back into the kitchen, laughing.

  “You know I ate that lemon so I could get the hell out of here—and don’t even try—damn, Maeve! Come on. You’re too smart to pretend to be dumb,” I say, still laughing in disbelief. “You know what you’re doing—what you did. That whole little ass routine.”

  “Ass routine?” she says, looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “Yeah! Ass routine!” I say. “At Miracle Isle yesterday, bending over to look at the sapphires—since when are you into sapphires? You were just trying to get a discount! And then again, last night, turning around to wash those cups while I’m still here. As if ‘Her Majesty Maeve of the shopaholics’ does her own dishes! In your evening dress, even. Gimme a break.”

  “Ha!” Maeve laughs, head back and loud. “Listen to yourself. You’re so cocky you think any woman turning her back on you is an invitation!”

  I point at her accusingly. “You know asses are my weakness.”

  “Everything’s a weakness when you’re as horny as a feral animal.”

  Scowling, I shoot back, “Nothing’s a weakness when you can’t admit it though, right?”

  “Admit it?” Maeve says, pretending to choke on a piece of orange. She clears her throat and smiles to the side as if an imaginary audience is there. “Do you honestly believe that I’m so short on male attention I’m reduced to enticing a man who has to be told not to dress in Hawaiian shirts?”

  I put my palms on the counter and lean toward her.

  “Yeah—when that man can fuck you better than every empty-headed poser and clean-shaven dullard you’ve been with in the past year put together.”

  She stares back at me, eyes narrowing slightly, our smiles for show, a challenge between us. For a moment there’s a spark, a tension. But it’s not like the tension of last night, the kind that threatens to erupt into something real, dangerous, and physical. It’s the tension we’ve had for six years, of two people pushing the ‘just friends’ line as far as we can but not overstepping it. The tension of a boundary we formed all that time ago—a mutual agreement—and relishing the love-hate relationship we have with it. A flirtation more like competitiveness. A competitiveness too respectful to turn sour, and a flirtation too sexual to take seriously.

  We break at the same time. Maeve dropping her head to her fruit salad, me sighing and turning away from the counter, both of us laughing. Not with sarcasm-drenched humor, but with relief now. In that instant, the weight of the whole night, what we did, and the consequences of it, disappear as easily as the sound of our amusement.

  “I guess it wasn’t that hard to slip back into the old rhythm.”

  “Of course,” Maeve says, spearing another piece of fruit. “Business as usual.”

  I tap the counter as I turn to leave.

  “See you around, Your Majesty,” I call over my shoulder.

  “Already dreading it,” I hear her say as I make for the door.

  6

  Maeve

  I tend to wear skirts on Mondays. Today a leather one with heeled combat boots. Anything more comfortable or relaxed and I might succumb to the typical “back-at-work” fatigue. Midweek, I mix things up depending on my tasks. Fridays I dress most formally. As the head of buying for a fashionable department store chain, it’s my job to be seen as much as it is to see. The younger men and women at work might be able to take the safe route of tasteful, classic compositions, but I have to uphold a higher standard. Not that I don’t relish it.

  Last month I told a national magazine that fashion was how I understood the world—I’m sure the interviewer thought I was pretentious, but it’s the simple truth. It’s a language. A collection of symbols we use to tell the world—and ourselves—who we are and who we want to be. Our aspirations and our desires. It’s an art, and only disregarded as one because it is interwoven into life. To me, that makes it one of the highest arts of all.

  A red button-up shirt, enough product in my swept-back hair to match the matte sheen of my skirt, a few chunky solid gold bracelets (vintage, thanks for asking), and a perfume as stark and cold as my appearance, and I’m ready to get to work.

  Harrold’s department stores have existed for nearly a hundred years, and the head office still bears the art deco fundamentals and sense of calm, sophisticated tradition, despite the tastefully chosen glass walls and modern desks. Heavy oakwood and structural detailing in the ceilings and doorways enclose spacious open-plan work areas and conference rooms with gigantic arched windows that people would probably complain break all manner of health and safety regulations were they not so beautiful.

  It spans three floors of a building that also houses established legal firms and businesses equally as old and as respectful of their histories. Even the elevators possess the sort of old-world elegance that instills a sense of glamour to all who ride them.

  I make my way through the lobby, past the tweed-suited gentlemen and intensely focused women there, my boot heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, echoing off the vaulted ceilings and across the professionally low-voiced crowd.

  An older man, a familiar face from the bureau below, holds an elevator open for me and I step inside.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He conveys his warmth with a smile and a nod and by
pressing the button to my floor.

  The doors are inches from closing entirely before a desperate, youthful hand shoots inside and clutches at it desperately. I dart forward but the gentleman beats me to it as he stops the door from closing and pushes it open for the young woman to get inside.

  “Thank you!” she gasps, out of breath and agitated from running some distance.

  “Morning, Harriet,” I say as the elevator starts moving.

  She’s wearing a knitted, oversized crop-top with black jeans and black heels. Button-cute face framed with big, curly, eighties-style hair. She’s one of my better protégés.

  “Oh, Maeve,” the girl says, “I wanted to show you my floor plan idea for the new rollout in the men’s section of the shop in Bel Air.”

  She clumsily pulls away a few folders she’s clutching to her chest, finds the right one, and opens it up to present to me. Harrold’s is not just old in name—it’s old in practices. So much of its internal documentation is still done via paper documents, which are filed via an inscrutable and archaic system. Honestly, I love it.

  “You weren’t working over the weekend, were you?” I ask her.

  She looks at me guiltily, which with her big, expressive, dark eyes looks very puppy-like.

  “I really wanted to do this well,” she explains, as the doors open and the older gentleman nods to me before leaving.

  “Then you should have had a little fun,” I tell Harriet. “Inspiration finds you when you’re not looking for it. I did visual merchandising for over a decade—I would know.”

  I take the folder from her and start to scan her work.

  “Uh, I know,” Harriet says, with the tiredness of a conversation we’ve had many times. “I just thought… Well, since the data team was really pushing for—”

  “Screw the data, sweetie,” I say, still staring at the folder as the elevator opens again on our floor and I start to walk with it. “They’d fill the stores with poorly made versions of last year’s trends if we let them.”