Chapter 13
Lisa
“What exactly did you used to do here?”
Dax’s question makes me giggle, or maybe it’s the way his hair tickles the underside of my breast as he kisses his way up my naked torso.
“Definitely not this,” I say, then gasp as he shifts his hips to rock deeper inside me. His movements are slow and deliberate, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to tease, or trying to avoid jostling the collection of antique frying pans on the wall above the log bed.
“I helped them stage exhibits,” I tell him, conscious of the breathiness in my voice. It’s not easy carrying on a conversation while having illicit sex in a replica of a cot slept on by members of the Corps of Discovery at Fort Clatsop in 1805. “That, and I gave tours for schoolchildren.”
“As a volunteer?”
“Yes,” I say, though it comes out more like a hiss. Good Lord, Dax knows how to move. Does he know how freaking good he is at this?
The smug look on his face tells me he does, and also that he plans to torture me for a good long while. He eases in deeper, smiling down into my eyes as he takes his time gliding back.
“And you were also a board member?” he asks like it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss my career history mid-coitus.
I nod and try to recall what he asked me. “Definitely not—bored. What?”
He laughs, and I close my eyes, wanting to contain the sensation of Dax driving into me. Then I open them again, because I really need to see this to get the full effect.
I reach up and tug the tail on his coonskin cap. “I promise this isn’t a priceless artifact. I bought it at a thrift store in the Pearl District when I helped stage this exhibit.”
“You’re so fucking smart,” he murmurs. “Why is that such a turn-on?”
“Beats me. But I’m glad it is.”
Dax shifts again, taking his time. He’s fucking me slowly and just thinking that word makes me shiver.
So does the way he keeps moving. It’s a delicious tease, though probably ill-advised since there are a hundred art connoisseurs milling around two floors below us.
The only reason I’m not freaking out is that I know this floor is closed to the public tonight.
“Oh,” I gasp as he flicks his tongue over my nipple again. “That’s nice.”
“Careful,” he warns as I grip the log bedpost. “If you knock that bearskin rug off the wall, I’ll have nightmares for years about being attacked by a grizzly.”
“It’s a black bear,” I murmur, gripping his shoulder instead of the bedpost. “One of a hundred and twenty-two animals catalogued during the Lewis and Clark Expedition between eighteen-oh-four and eighteen-oh-sex.”
“Sex?” He grins down at me as he moves his hips to hit something deep and delicious. I arch up, forgetting about bears and muskets and history and pretty much everything else but the way Dax feels inside me.
But he’s there to remind me. “Tell me more about Lewis and Clark.”
I open my eyes and study him. “Is this your idea of dirty talk?”
“Kind of.” He grins down at me as he slides out and back in again, deliciously hard and slick. “Let’s just say I’m developing a fetish for hot brainy babes.”
“Plural?” I give him a teasing, haughty look, but he breaks my concentration as he moves again. His mouth dips into the hollow between my ear and shoulder, and the warmth of his breath sends an army of goose bumps marching down my arm.
Or maybe that’s the wall of mounted animal heads on the wall across from us. I glance away and focus on answering Dax’s question. “The leaders of the expedition were Captain Meriwether Lewis and Second Lieutenant William Clark.” My voice sounds breathy and tight.
“Meriwether? I’ll bet his wife had a helluva time screaming that in bed.”
I giggle and arch up against him, a moan escaping my lips. “He wasn’t married, but Toussaint Charbonneau was. He was one of their interpreters, and his wife was Sacagawea.”
“Ah, Sacagawea. I’ve heard of her.”
“She taught the explorers about which berries and roots they could eat so they didn’t all die of scurvy.”
“Scurvy,” Dax murmurs, kissing my throat as he eases deeper, distracting me once more with delicious sensation. “Pretty sure that’s the first time anyone’s said scurvy to me during sex.”
“How about blunderbuss?”
That stops him short, which is a pity. I liked the way he was moving. Reading my mind, he starts again, driving up with aching deliberateness. “Blunderbuss?”
I stifle a giggle and a moan at the same time, which is damn hard to do. “It’s a kind of rifle the explorers carried. Named for the Dutch words ‘thunder gun.’ It had a heavy stock, short barrel, and wide-mouthed muzzle.”
“Mmm,” Dax says, brushing a kiss across my lips as he presses deeper into me. “Speaking of mouths, yours is delicious.”
My giggle turns into a moan as he tilts his pelvis just a little, hitting something really good.
Pulses of pleasure dance through my core, and I know I’m getting close.
There’s a delicious buzz building slowly in my body, and I struggle to form coherent thoughts.
“Did you know Lewis and Clark had a sextant on their journey?”
“Is that like a threesome, or a special teepee for fucking?”
“Neither,” I gasp, recognizing the first tingle of orgasm building to a crescendo. The rest of my explanation comes out in a tangled rush. “It’s a special instrument used to make astronomical observationstocalculatedistances.”
All the words run together, and I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I just said.
For that matter, neither do I. All I care about right now is that Dax keeps moving like that, hips thrusting to stir scrumptious friction at the place where we’re joined.
I arch up against him, so close I hear my pulse fluttering in my ears.
“Want to hear a Lewis and Clark joke?” he murmurs, his voice low and rumbly in my ear.
“Wha—what?” I think he said something about a joke, but for all I know he asked me to rub off my eyebrows with sandpaper. I’ll agree, as long as he keeps moving like this.
“A Lewis and Clark joke,” he repeats, his breath warm against my throat. “I learned it in grade school.”
“Yes!” I gasp and tighten my legs around Dax, wondering if he knows I’m right on the brink. That if he moves even a little, he’ll tip me right over the edge.
“What did Lewis and Clark say when they finally reached the Pacific Ocean?” he asks.
I’m so far gone I can’t form words, but I choke out something that sounds like “what?”
Or maybe “don’t stop fucking me,” I’m not sure. I bite my arm to keep from crying out as the first wave hits me.
“Long time, no sea.”
I burst out laughing, right as the orgasm grabs hold. The result is a dizzying combination of gasping and giggling and thrusting and breathless, giddy hysterics.
Holy mother of hell, who knew a laughing orgasm was a thing?
By the time I come down, I’m practically hyperventilating. Tears stream down my face and Dax reaches down to wipe one from my lashes. He grins down at me, a little breathless from his own release. “I knew that would come in handy someday.”
“Oh God,” I gasp, still struggling to catch my breath. “I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard in bed.”
“Most guys would take offense to that.”
But he isn’t most guys. In every way possible, in all the best ways, Dax Kensington is not most guys.
And somewhere deep down, I know it will kill me to say goodbye when The Test is done.
Later that week, my sisters come over for wine, gossip, and friendship salad.
“Please stop calling it that.” Cassie groans as she plunks down a limp-looking carrot, a head of broccoli, and something that looks suspiciously like a baggie of Cheetos. “Friendship salad makes it sound like we’re going to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ over a plate of arugula.”
“Well, we might if someone had thought to bring arugula,” Missy huffs as she eyes Cassie’s offerings with disdain before arranging herself on one of my leather barstools at the edge of my granite island.
“Luckily, I brought kohlrabi, shredded beets, green onion, and a half- pound of Brussel sprouts that I slow-roasted with pancetta and Medjool dates to lend a sweet-smoky favor.”
“Lucky us,” Cassie mutters, though she’s smiling as she reaches over and steals a piece of pancetta out of Missy’s Tupperware container. Missy smacks her hand, and Cassie yelps with indignation.
“Sorry I’m late!” Sarah Keating bursts through the front door, her long caramel hair flying behind her and a phallic object in her hand.
“Does anyone else feel self- conscious shopping for cucumbers? Like you’re standing there squeezing them and checking out the length and girth to make sure you get the best one, and you look over to see every creepy guy in the produce section is staring at you. ”
Cassie snort-laughs, while Missy tries—and fails—to look appalled. “That has never in a million years crossed my mind,” Missy says. “But that’s a very nice-looking cucumber. English, right?”
“Beats me.” Sarah arranges herself on the barstool next to Cassie, while Missy reaches over to pour her a glass of Pinot Noir.
“Where’s Junie?” Cassie asks.
Sarah is a case manager at the group home where Junie lives, which is how we all know her. In the year-and-a-half since Cassie and Simon met, we’ve become quite tight.
“Simon called and said they got stuck in traffic coming back from the Mariners game.” Sarah takes a sip of wine. “He’ll bring her straight here.”
“Poll time,” Cassie says, reaching out to pluck one of my smoked salmon canapes off the platter in front of Sarah. “Is the name ‘friendship salad’ the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard, or the second stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
Missy frowns. “What would the first be?”
Sarah rolls her eyes and grabs a canape of her own. “How about, ‘I think we’re better off as good friends, don’t you?’”
“Ouch.” Cassie grimaces and gives me a look I recognize as my cue to open another bottle of wine.
I hesitate, wanting to hear the rest of the story. “I take it that’s the big talk Keith wanted to have last night?”