A Match Made in Vegas

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Daphne

M edically speaking, masturbation is all upsides. The act strengthens the pelvic floor, reduces stress, improves libido, and releases positive neurotransmitters.

Unlike partnered sex, masturbation comes with no risk of pregnancy, STIs, or falling for unworthy men. There's no struggle to communicate needs or discuss preferences or draw boundaries.

I don't have to remind a guy to grab a condom.

I don't have to explain no, of course, I didn't come. Like most women, I need clitoral stimulation to orgasm.

I don't have to watch him wither from a simple suggestion, as if a request for more, less, harder, faster is a direct hit on his ego.

And I certainly don't have to worry if he's watched so much porn, he expects me to writhe with pleasure from all sorts of acts most women don't particularly enjoy.

It's not just men, of course. Most people don't understand basic biomechanics. As a future sex researcher, I see the breadth of the problem, and I intend to work to solve it.

In my professional life.

In my off time—

What was I saying about the benefits of masturbation? They're not just medical. They're emotional and mental too.

Sex is like anything, really. I can't count on anyone else to take care of me. I take care of myself.

Why did I ever think this would be any different?

Masturbation is the perfect solution to horniness. In theory. There's just one little, tiny issue.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I tell the issue to dissolve into my exhale. I focus on my surroundings. The low hum of the fan. The warm glow of the sun. The soft cotton sheets against my skin.

I try to stay present in the moment.

I fail.

Instead, I go straight to my happy place: Jackson Steele.

My best friend's brother. The gruff, protective, hard-working lawyer three years my senior. The guy who's been in my spank bank for so long he's worn a groove into my brain.

The oxytocin leads to self-love… and a deeper attraction.

And knowing he's off-limits?

There's a reason there's so much student-teacher porn out there. The things we see as attractive in puberty stay sexy. And taboo is always titillating.

People who claim they want an equal society without power imbalances are more likely to participate in BDSM.

People who preach family values are more likely to partner-swap.

And I, the strictly science, future medical researcher who professes sisters before misters every chance I get, fantasize about my bestie's brother.

I claim I do this for research—

No, I am doing this for research, but the deepening attraction to Jackson is both a wonderful benefit and a horrible consequence.

I pull out my lab book and jot a few notes. Day, time, setting, mood, level of attraction to Jackson.

Will taking the pressure off make it easier to see him in three hours? Or will I want him more?

Masters and Johnson didn't cover that. Kinsey either.

I have to take matters into my own, uh, hands.

But, hey, enough preamble. Time for the fun part.

I set my lab book on the bedside table, I slip under the hot pink sheets, I settle into the mattress.

It's a little too small, a little too firm, a little too obviously the bed in my childhood bedroom. The Matrix posters and the shelves of sci-fi don't help. They pull me toward stressful study sessions and crushes on guys who never looked my way.

Guys like Jackson.

And just like when I was a gawky teenager with braces, I still fail to register as an adult woman in his eyes. He still looks at me like a kid he needs to protect.

It's sweet, really. Or it would be if I didn't want to tear his clothes off.

The reality is painful.

But my fantasy?

It's perfect.

My eyes flutter closed. My world fades to a soft shade of white.

My thoughts drift to a familiar scenario.

A sleepover at my best friend's house.

It's early, so early, the sun is just peeking through the sky, casting a soft glow over the world.

I wake up in her room and slip into my swimsuit. The house is quiet. Dead quiet. It feels like I'm the only person in the universe, like the big, beautiful space belongs to me and me alone.

There's a freedom to it. A thrill. The independence of growing up and taking my own space.

I sneak to the backyard with light steps. Only I'm not alone here.

Jackson is awake too.

Despite the interruption to my solitude, I feel no disappointment. On the contrary, his presence thrills me. Fills me with the buzz of anticipation.

He's sitting on one of the lounge chairs next to the pool in his typical summer outfit, a button-up linen shirt and charcoal slacks, hands and eyes on the paperback book carefully positioned over his lap.

He looks like he walked out of a 1950s detective novel. Tall, but not too tall. Muscular, but not overly built. Handsome, but not in a conventional Chris Pine sort of way.

He has the light brown hair and the green eyes, but he's a little too sharp, a little too intense.

He doesn't quite fit into the beautiful, modern backyard, with its long, rectangular pool and its succulent garden.

He doesn't quite fit with me, even though I'm wearing one of his long, linen shirts over my swimsuit.

Jackson watches as I pull the sliding glass door open, step outside, move across the long, concrete path.

His eyes stay fixed on me as I undo the buttons of the shirt and drop the soft fabric on the sand lawn chair.

He looks me up and down slowly, noting every inch of exposed skin. The fuchsia bikini leaves little to the imagination.

It's not out of an old pulp novel. It's a modern thing. Thin straps. Bra cups. Barely any booty coverage.

We don't fit together. We're from different worlds. He's refined and mature—someone who knows about love and sex and wine and law—and I'm still a kid, at least in my head. New and inexperienced and eager to learn.

That isn't true now. It wasn't true then. But I surrender to the roles anyway.

I'm the student, and he's the teacher. My innocence is as sexy as his knowledge.

Only I'm not a helpless ingenue. I'm aware of the effect I have on him. I notice the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his body tunes to mine.

I sit next to him. I turn toward him, and with a tentative voice, I ask, "What do you think?" I want his approval. I want it too badly.

He notices. He soaks in my need, lighting up from the inside slowly, one lumen at a time. He looks at me, all tall and proud and wise, and he speaks in a tone I've never really heard on his tongue, one with the perfect mix of demand and softness. "Did you come out here to seduce me?"

"What if I did?"

Something in him changes. He shifts from the in-control man I know to the one he only is in my head. The man who ties you up then holds you all night.

The man who's strong for you.

His eyes fix on mine. "Stand up."

I do it without thinking.

He looks me up and down slowly, savoring every inch of my exposed skin. "Show me."

I hold his gaze as I undo the knot holding my top together.

The nylon falls to the ground.

His eyes dip to my lips, collarbones, breasts. "Show me everything."

I should be scared or nervous—I'm stripping for my best friend's brother—but I'm not. I'm perfectly in the moment. There's nothing between his request and my action.

I slip the bikini bottom off my hips and kick the fabric off my feet.

Jackson looks me up and down for a long moment, and then he pulls me onto his lap.

The book on his thighs falls to the ground.

My legs hook around his.

His lips find my lips. His hands find my chest. He kisses me patiently, teasing me again and again as I roll my hips against his.

Again and again—

Fuck.

I try to hold on to the fantasy. The image of his hand on my breast. The feeling of his cock hard between my legs.

But it isn't real. I don't have the sense memory. Only the poor substitution of ex-boyfriends.

The space slows me down, but not enough. I come fast. I always do with this one. It's too easy. A groove worn into my brain. A scene used too many times.

Especially with my last boyfriend.

But I push that thought aside for one more glorious moment. I soak in the sensations of my body.

The rhythmic contractions of the muscles in my core. The rush of blood and the release of neurotransmitters that fill me with pleasure and need.

That's all love is.

Neurotransmitters.

That's everything. Love, sex, knowledge, emotion, need, want, friendship, sadness, stress.

It's all hormones firing in our brain, telling us to slow or speed or cry or laugh.

And mine say the same thing they always do: I need him.

I'm not satisfied.

I want him more.

I'm more painfully aware of the state of my sex life.

That's why I use this scene so many times. Because my ex-boyfriend wasn't here.

He didn't want to tear my clothes off. He didn't even want me, really.

I know it's normal, medically speaking. Sure, on average, men have higher libidos than women, and men are more likely to experience spontaneous desire (they get horny for no reason at all), and women are more likely to experience responsive desire (they want sex only after someone else initiates). But people aren't averages.

And everyone responds to stress differently.

Of course, my boyfriend lost his sense of lust during the exhaustion of residency.

Of course, between his lack of exercise, poor diet, and phone addiction, he didn't crave the visceral experience of moving his body with mine.

I knew why he didn't initiate, why he rejected my advances, why he didn't really participate when we had sex—

But the knowledge did nothing to soothe my wounded ego or satisfy my raging hormones. I walked away from our relationship with a huge L on my forehead.

Daphne Webb, so unsexy she can't even seduce her long-term boyfriend.

Again.

It wasn't the first time my relationship ended because of bad sex. Or the second. Or third. Or eighth.

Men who put school and work ahead of everything understand why I can't give them a hundred percent. They just, well, put school and work ahead of sex.

Everyone thinks I'm direct and in control, and I am, but only when it counts. Only when I really want to invest in my relationship.

I didn't.

So, instead of forcing a conversation, I went to my happy place.

I told myself, again and again, that I wasn't worth a hard conversation. I didn't deserve a good sex life.

Sure, in my head, I said the opposite.

But my actions spoke volumes.

We can't lie to ourselves. No matter how hard we try.

And now—

This time, with this one particular dramatic life choice, I'm putting myself first, yes. But I'm putting Daphne Webb, future sex researcher, first. Not Daphne Webb, human being with sexual needs.

I open my eyes and let the sights and sounds of the room return to me. The bright light of afternoon. The hum of the fan. The warmth of the sun.

Where am I, on a scale of one to ten?

Physically, I feel good. Satisfied.

Mentally and emotionally, I want him more.

I didn't take the edge off.

I only made myself hornier.

It's not unusual. People who have more sex masturbate more, and vice versa.

But how the fuck am I supposed to deal with this?

I'm about to spend four hours in a car next to Jackson. Then, four days in Las Vegas with him.

With my best friend and my brother too, yes. A little family slash friend trip for our mutual friends' bachelor party.

Four days in Sin City with my crush.

Ugh.

See. Even if Jackson wasn't my best friend's brother, even if I didn't care touching him would make my relationships hopelessly complicated, even if he was some guy I knew, I wouldn't pursue anything—

I won't be here in three weeks.

That's the thing I haven't told anyone.

The dramatic reveal waiting for me.

In three weeks, I start my research residency on the other side of the country.

That means I have three little weeks to enjoy the company of my best friend and my brother before I tell them both I'm leaving. Which means I need to make the most of this trip to Las Vegas.

Bonding. Friendship. Shots at midnight.

Whatever people my age do to connect. I work too much to connect with anyone except Cassie.

Sure, it's not the ideal situation (I'd prefer a week on the beach in La Paz), but, hey, it's what I've got.

So, no, I am not sleeping with Jackson.

I am not touching Jackson.

I am not kissing Jackson.

I'm going to enjoy this trip as if everything is the same. Then I'll tell the truth.

I can't masturbate the crush away, so I need to do one better.

And what better place, really?

Four days in Vegas to find someone to fuck. Strictly for sex. Absolutely no strings. A chance to fill my needs. I owe that to myself.

It's been a while. I need to break my fast with someone worthy. Someone hot enough to clear Jackson from my mind.

There are hundreds of horny singles in Sin City. How hard can it be to find someone more appealing than Jackson Steele?