Chapter 10 #2
Next, it was the best man’s turn, and he had to tell us about the best sexual experience of his life so far.
And then one of the bridesmaids had to choose her fantasy orgy guests from her boyfriend’s contact list. That garnered some interesting reactions from said boyfriend and a few of the other guests.
Eventually, it was my turn again. “Okay,” Allie said. “We’ve made it through one—relatively tame—round. So…” She glanced around the circle, and everyone seemed to lean forward as if in anticipation. “We’re going to turn up the heat.”
I was a little scared about what Allie meant by that, but I also wasn’t going to back down. Not yet anyway. This time, I chose dare.
My sister smirked at whatever prompt was displayed on the screen, and I braced myself.
Was I going to have to strip down and swim naked in the ocean?
Pretend to have a loud, dramatic orgasm in front of the group or do something equally mortifying?
Because the longer the game went on, and the more we drank, the more risqué it became.
“I dare you…” Allie frowned. “Bleh. That’s too easy.” She swiped again.
“Hey! You can’t cherry-pick the dares,” I protested. “You’ve never skipped to a harder one for anyone else.”
“It was a dare to kiss someone for a minute. I mean, come on. Basic, especially since you’re already in a relationship.”
Everyone else booed in agreement, but the joke was on them because Frasier and I had never kissed. It wasn’t as if I could fight her on it. And besides, the rest of the group seemed to be aligned with my sister.
Allie slowly lifted her gaze from her phone to me, and my stomach churned. “I dare you to show us your best audition for a burlesque act.”
A few of the guys whistled, some whoops definitely rang out, and I was scared to look at Frasier.
“Good thing you took all those dance lessons when we were younger.”
“What kind of dance lessons do you think Mom and Dad sent me to?” I teased. “It was ballet, not burlesque.” Ballet, jazz, hip-hop, any type of dance, really—I’d loved it all. The creativity, the movement, the freedom.
“With burlesque, it’s all about the tease.” Allie giggled, sinking back down into her chair. “You have ninety seconds to prepare.”
Ninety seconds was far from enough time. My dance training gave me an advantage, but I was out of practice and entirely outside of my area of expertise. That said, I’d attended a burlesque show once in college as extra credit for my theater elective.
It had all seemed so glamorous. The performers were so confident and in control of their bodies. Sometimes, their acts were about making a statement, but they were always body positive and empowering.
I supposed it was better than being challenged to a striptease.
At least with burlesque, it was accepted that some acts didn’t involve nudity.
That said, it wasn’t as if I had many layers that I could use as part of the “tease.” I’d already ditched my shoes.
I wasn’t wearing a bra. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tune out everything else.
“Sixty seconds,” Allie called out.
Think, Bryn. Think!
I needed music. A costume, even if it wasn’t that great. An act. It was all about captivating the audience, tantalizing them, regardless of how much or how little I removed.
I glanced around the circle for props, costume materials, anything. I stood and grabbed Allie’s hat from her head before placing it on mine. I snagged one of the bridesmaids’ pashminas before draping it around my shoulders.
“Thirty seconds,” Allie taunted.
“What about music?” I asked.
“What song do you want?” I went to her side, nearly stumbling on the sand. I wanted to blame it on my haste, but maybe I was tipsier than I realized.
I grabbed Allie’s phone and skimmed through her music selection.
Even though the others were talking and laughing, I could feel their rising curiosity.
My hands were shaking, but I knew, if I was going to do this, I was going to do it right.
Once the music started, I would have to put aside my insecurities and embrace my inner badass.
I selected a Michael Bublé song with a sultry, big-band feel. I took a deep breath as Allie pressed play, preparing myself as if to step onto a stage. As the opening notes to “Feeling Good” began to play, I tried to channel all my inner confidence.
I grazed my fingers over the backs of several chairs, exaggerating the sway of my hips. When the jazzy beat kicked in, I sank down low. At first, it was clumsy. I felt awkward.
But if I thought of myself as a character in a show, I could push down the embarrassment threatening to heat my cheeks.
I could imagine myself on a stage under a spotlight, with a top hat and a feather boa.
Not…walking along the beach, with my sister and her friends watching as I dragged my hands seductively down my chest.
Several people let out a whistle, and I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. But when my eyes locked on Frasier, I felt centered. And the way he was watching me made me feel like the confident, sexy woman I was trying to portray.
I was performing for him and him alone. I didn’t dare scan the circle for reactions or opinions. In that moment, no one but Frasier existed. And his eyes were locked on mine, pulling me in.
As Michael Bublé sang about it being a new dawn, I felt some of my worries fall away. I hadn’t danced in a while, but power oozed from my body with every step. I was practically vibrating with the force of it.
I held Frasier’s eyes from across the circle, using my empty chair as a prop in my performance.
I pretended the chair was my dance partner, and occasionally I’d grind against it or sit on it.
I sank down, spreading my thighs apart, grateful for the long, flowy fabric of my dress.
It hinted at my curves without revealing too much.
His nostrils flared, his hands gripping and releasing his own thighs. God, he was so hot. And if his biggest turn-on was a woman with confidence, I was going to do my best to give that to him. To be that for him, but also for myself.
I stood and removed my top hat, holding it over my face and pulsing it as I moved my hips and then shimmied my shoulders.
I wasn’t thinking about what was next; I wasn’t thinking at all.
I let the feel of the music guide me. I tossed the top hat aside, bending down before snapping up and whipping my hair around.
Maybe it was the rum or my audience, but I was enjoying myself. I flashed Frasier a flirty smile, really leaning into the role. His mouth popped open, and in the background, I could hear several people shouting their appreciation.
While I didn’t typically crave the spotlight, I felt empowered. I was taking charge—of the performance, the energy, my sexuality. And I was embracing my sensuality, teasing with the pashmina, my body, my facial expressions. It was so freeing, like the smoke rising from the fire into the night air.
I tossed the pashmina aside, and I could feel all eyes on me as I crossed the circle to Frasier.
When the music intensified, I dragged my hands up over my body, lifting them up my neck and through my hair before letting it fall.
And then I sank down low, reveling in the way he watched me, thighs spread, lips parted.
As the music reached its crescendo, I lip-synched along with the final words about feeling good. I did feel good, and that was due in large part to Frasier. I wanted to touch him, needed to touch him and be close to him.
So I placed my hand on his shoulder, eyebrow raised in silent question. I couldn’t flat out ask him for permission, not without giving it all away. He set his drink down beside him, and when he patted his thigh in response, I flashed him a grateful smile that he’d understood.
I lifted my dress slightly, slowly lowering myself onto his lap. He was so big, so imposing. And yet, I’d never felt anything but safe when I was with him.
Even now, when I knew I was pushing the limits, I trusted that he’d be there to catch me. He always was.
I draped my arms around his neck, thinking back to our dance at the beach bar. I’d never imagined that a man who was so powerful and physically aggressive could also be so sultry and sensuous, seductive even. All night, I’d found myself wanting him to touch me like that again.
I wanted him to want to kiss me. I wanted him to want me.
But right now, I had a show to finish. A dare to complete.
So I locked my legs around his waist, and then I let go of his shoulders, reclining so that the ends of my hair dusted the ground.
I brought myself back up to a seated position, draping one arm over his shoulder and then turning to wink at my audience as the final notes faded out.
For a moment, it was silent but for the snap and crackle of the logs on the fire. And then everyone burst into applause. Allie leaped to her feet. “Oh my god!”
“That was…” The girl next to me fanned herself. “So hot.”
But the only opinion I cared about was Frasier’s. I tapped his shoulder twice, our secret code asking if he was okay. He double tapped my thigh in response, his hand resting close to my hip and ass, encompassing me. I’m good.
“Damn.” One of the guys was about to say something more but then stopped himself abruptly. When I looked back at Frasier, he was glaring.
“Grumpy bear.” I played with the hair at his nape, trying not to laugh at his stern expression.
He leaned in, his lips trailing along my ear. “Can you blame me? That was fucking hot, and I don’t like that anyone else saw you like that.”
I shivered, both from his words and his possessive tone.
His hands were on my hips. And god, it felt so good—to be touched.
Not by just anyone, but by him. My skin burned from his touch, my body reawakening as if from a long slumber.
Frasier smoothed his hand up my spine, sliding it beneath my hair until he was cupping the back of my neck.
I sighed aloud at the pleasure of it—his large, warm hands on my skin.
The way he was looking at me, as if I were precious.
I watched him, dumbfounded, as he caressed my back, his eyes darting between mine. Searching mine. When he nuzzled my nose with his, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“We should kiss,” I blurted, soft enough so only he could hear.
Not for the sake of our fake relationship. Not for any reason except that I wanted to.
And yes, maybe I was a coward, using the situation to lean in, as Georgia had suggested. But I felt so empowered by my performance that I was willing to push the boundaries a little.
He chuckled, the sound low and deep like thunder rumbling over an open plain. My heart was galloping at full speed. I had no idea what he was going to say.
“Angel,” he drawled. “I’m completely at your mercy.”
I cupped his cheek, savoring the feel of his scruff scraping against my palm. He leaned into my touch, and something warmed in my chest.
In the back of my mind, I questioned whether this was a good idea. But I pushed those doubts away. I closed the distance before I could talk myself out of it, feeling a little thrill as I brushed my lips against his.
I’d planned for a quick kiss—just a taste, really. But the moment our lips locked, Frasier took control, cupping my nape as he demolished every plan, every thought in my mind.
There were no more games. No more lies or pretend.
I parted my lips, granting him access as he claimed me. He tasted of coconut rum and pineapples, comfort and wicked promises. He’d always made me feel safe, and right now, I knew I was in big trouble.
Because with every graze and glide and nibble, I was falling deeper and harder. I clutched his shirt, desperate for this man. Because, holy fuck, could he kiss. And I wanted more.
I didn’t mean to, but I arched my hips against him. And that’s when I felt it—his hard-on. I gasped at the sensation, seeking that friction despite all the layers separating us. He groaned, deepening the kiss.
We kissed for what could’ve been seconds or hours, I was so lost to him. At least until someone bellowed, “Get a room!”
The sounds of hoots and hollers broke through the haze, and Frasier pulled back. His eyes were still locked on mine, tuning out everything and everyone else, just like he did on the ice. To be the center of his focus was…exhilarating.
I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to return to reality.
But it was unavoidable. And when I remembered that everyone was watching us, cheering for us, I buried my face in Frasier’s chest. His woodsy citrus scent was grounding, and he cupped the back of my head, cradling me protectively and with tenderness.
“You ready to get out of here?” His voice rumbled through me.
I nodded, anticipation coursing through my veins. My nipples were hard, grazing against his chest. I had no idea what came next, but my body was alive for the first time in almost two years.
“More than ready.” My voice was throaty, my pulse careening.
“Hang on tight,” he said to me. Then to the group, he added, “And on that note—” Before I could even process his words, he stood with me in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, enjoying the feeling of being weightless. Protected. Cared for. “We’re off to bed.”
That elicited another round of whoops, and I laughed even as my cheeks burned.
I buried my face in his neck as he scooped up my shoes from the sand, quickly pocketing our phones from Kit’s top hat.
Frasier and I might have agreed this was pretend, but it was all beginning to feel a little too real.
And as he carted me off to our room, carrying me in his arms, I found myself wishing it were true.